Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(65)

She stepped out, wearing a pair of tight jeans and heels. Her gray blouse was wrinkled, like she’d slept in it or been wearing it since dawn.

I stayed back as she leaned on the car, crossing her arms. “Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie to you.” Unless. Shit. The yearbook photo. Had Bryce figured out that Mom and Amina had been best friends?

“There’s another one right there.” She rolled her eyes. “Drop the act.”

“Woman, what are you on?”

“She looks like you. It took me a minute to figure it out, but you have the same hair and the same nose.”

“Who?” How many drinks had Paul given me? Because she wasn’t making any sense. Was she talking about Mom? I didn’t have Mom’s hair. I had Dad’s. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your sister.”

My sister? “I don’t have a sister.”

“This is a waste of time.” She spun away from the car, going for the handle. “All I’m going to get are more lies.”

With a burst of speed, I ran to her side, trapping her against the car before she could open the door. Any buzz I’d had inside was gone. The truth in her voice sobered me right up.

What the hell had she found?

“I don’t have a sister,” I repeated.

She twisted and I let her have enough room to turn. Her face was hard, pure stone one second. Then the anger disappeared. It fell away as her eyes got wide and a hand came up to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You didn’t know.”

“Know what?” I demanded. “What did you do?”

She gulped. “I went to see Amina’s daughter in Denver. I flew out this morning and just got back. I talked to her for hours. About her mom and her childhood. And . . .”

“Keep going,” I growled when she paused.

“I asked about her father, but she didn’t know anything about him. All Amina had told her was that he was called Prez. I think . . . I’m fairly certain that Draven is her father. She’s your sister.”

No. I staggered away, shaking my head. “No. It’s not possible.”

“Maybe that was why Amina came here to meet with Draven. To discuss their daughter. It makes sense.”

“No way. If I had a sister, I’d know.” I balled my hands into fists, pacing in front of her. Could I have a sister? Dad had been a different man after Mom had died. Maybe he’d gotten Amina knocked up sometime after the funeral.

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-six.”

All the air escaped my lungs and I couldn’t breathe. Dropping my hands to my knees, I struggled to stay off the ground. Mom had died when I was twelve. I’d been a middle-school kid riding home in my older brother’s car to find my mother dead. To find her blood soaking the front sidewalk next to a plastic tray of yellow flowers.

If this sister was twenty-six, then she was nine years younger than me. Three years old when my mother had been ripped away from us. Three.

“No. Impossible.” Mom and Dad were hopelessly in love. Always. I couldn’t remember a time that they’d fought. I couldn’t remember a night when Dad had slept on the couch because he’d pissed her off.

“Dash, she could—”

“No!” I roared. “Dad wouldn’t have cheated on Mom. It’s. Fucking. Impossible.”

Bryce kept her mouth shut, but there was judgment in her eyes. She was sure Dad was a murdering cheat. And I’d defend him to the end.

“Get in the car.” I walked around the front of her car, ripping the passenger door open. When Bryce didn’t move, I bellowed across the roof, “Get in the car!”

Her body jerked into action. She spun around, getting in and strapping on her seat belt. I climbed in too, not bothering with a belt.

“Drive.”

She nodded, putting the car in gear. But before she let off the brake, she looked at me. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“There’s nothing to know.” I stared out the window, my hands gripping my thighs. Every ounce of my willpower went to not putting my fist through the glass.

Bryce’s hand stretched across the console. “Dash—”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Her hand snapped back to the wheel.

I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want the smooth heat of her skin on mine. I didn’t want to believe a word that had come out of her mouth.

She was wrong. She was dead wrong. And I’d prove it to her. Tonight.

“Drive,” I ordered again.

“Where?”

“Right.”

Bryce silently followed my one-word directions through town until we turned onto the quiet street of my childhood. I pointed to the curb in front of Dad’s house and she pulled over. Without a word, we got out of the car and she trailed behind me to the side door.

Five punishing knocks and a light flipped on inside.

Dad made his way to the door to unlock it. “Dash?”

I pushed past him inside, marching into the kitchen.

Mom’s kitchen.

The one where she’d cooked us meals every day. Where she’d packed our lunches into aluminum boxes with cartoons on the front and filled our thermoses with chocolate milk. Where she’d kissed Dad every evening and asked him about his day.