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Lita’s identical twin sister slides into the room looking like she’s dressed for Halloween a few weeks early, her costume a match for a vampire temptress or perhaps Morticia Addams.
But Haven is neither.
This is just her style now; a skintight black dress with a neckline two inches above her bare nipples, hair dyed an unnatural red, makeup fierce. A one-hundred-and-eighty-degree swing from her polo-shirted volleyball days at West Emerald Prep.
“Shove over.” She plops down on the futon.
I scurry to the opposite corner. “I wondered why I didn’t see you around today.”
“Just ran out for lunch.” She leans forward to check her sister, then sinks back into the cushion.
Haven and Lita, opposites in personality, used to fight often.
No, that makes it sound like they squabbled over whose plaid skirt was in the dryer.
Lita and Haven were like Superman and Lex Luthor. Godzilla and Mothra. Obi-Wan and Vader.
I’ve seen them destroy entire rooms of furniture during their knock down brawls while they shrieked appalling obscenities at each other.
Then came the devastation of Lita’s coma.
I’ve never seen Haven cry over her twin, not once. But her agony is undeniable. She monitors Lita’s care and visits every weekend without fail.
Haven Marchenko isn’t easy to describe. With her beloved sister adrift in a permanent twilight sleep, Haven turned to the unseemly world of her father’s east side crime empire. She wasn’t the most pleasant person in high school. Now she’s this semi-terrifying version of a modern mafia madam.
These days I have no difficulty picturing Haven circling some guy’s head with piano wire and smiling as he gags out his last breath. She would scare the shit out of me if she didn’t seem to tolerate my company more than she tolerates most people.
I gnaw my lip before making a plea. “I beg you not to repeat anything you have just heard.”
She scoffs. “As if I can’t wait to dial up all the members of your fucking Scooby gang to spill the gossip.”
Haven despises Dani for reasons that only make sense in Haven’s weird brain. Or at least she used to. More recently, she and Dani are on polite terms, although I would never call them friends.
I’m unsure if the word ‘friend’ even exists in Haven’s vocabulary.
Anyway, Dani isn’t Haven’s primary issue with my inner circle. Way back in the hormonal bowels of high school, Haven had a huge crush on Conner. Conner, infinitely flirtatious and always willing to get naked with a pretty girl, casually hooked up with her at a party, perhaps not understanding just how crazy she was about him. Typical teen drama ensued. Conner tried to make things right with her. Haven decided she’d rather hate him instead.
For all I know, she still hates him. I’m not going to ask.
I curl my knees under me. “It was a heat of the moment kind of a thing. You’ve seen Micah. Can you blame me?”
Haven examines her long nails, filed to a point, painted glossy black. “Micah’s prime real estate for sure but I tend to avoid dick that comes with complications.”
“Good to know.”
She lowers her nails and studies me instead. “Sometimes he takes security shifts for me at the club.”
“You mean your strip club?”
She cracks a smile. “I smell judgment.”
“No, not judging.”
“Yes, the strip club. As for Micah, he’s reliable and quick to knock pests to the pavement. And because I like you, Tess, I’ll add that he’s not easily sidetracked by eye candy. I don’t keep men on the payroll unless I know they aren’t animals. Micah can be trusted to never touch the girls.” Haven leans in. “Even when theybeghim to. Which they do. Often.”
Hearing the news of Micah’s chastity pleases me more than it should. I would have guessed the opposite to be true. “I have no right to be worried either way. Micah and I aren’t together.”
Uttering these words is somehow unpleasant. I feel an inexplicable twinge of regret.
