A/N: I know, this isn't the most original idea in the world, but I can only hope I do it well enough for it to become so. Ill warn you now, some of the information (mainly the things in upcoming chapters) might be faulty, but it's only a story, so I'm not too worried

I wold love if you reviewed and told me what you think.

As always, thanks for reading.

...

It was a hot day. My bare legs were sticking to the leather in Mark's car, meaning I had to peel them off every time I changed position. I could feel sweat gather in a pool in my bra. I could feel it slowly dripping down my back. I felt like I was boiling in a stew, never mind the fact I was in shorts and a tank top.

I wish Mark would hurry up. The engine had only been turned off for ten minutes, but already the cool air had been overtaken by the heat of summer. The hot air leaked through the windows, suffocating both of us.

I decided I would add this to The List. Another reason why I didn't want to be here: the heat. It never got cold in Las Vegas. At least, it never got cold enough.

Mark finally opens the driver side door and pulls himself into the SUV as I'm digging for my journal in my bag. My hand brushes against a hard cover, and I pull it out. It's a pale blue diary with one of those cheap locks that anyone could snap open with a toothpick. My breath catches. This wasn't my journal. When did I pack this?

"Ready to go?" Mark asks, starting the engine.

I shove the book back into my bag. I don't have the patience for that right now. I just nod curtly as we pull out of the gas station.

Mark fiddles with the radio, unfamiliar with the stations offered here. I watch him through the corner of my eye. He's in his full lawyer garb – a tailored three-piece suit with a tie that doesn't match but still manages to look professional. His hair is parted the way my mom liked it.

It has to be hot under all those layers of cloths, but there's not a trace of sweat on his brow. There must be a course that's required to take in law school. How to keep an eerily calm poker face would be a good name. I can't imagine it's good business for a lawyer to lose his cool in the middle of a trial.

He lands on some station that's playing some pop music with bouncing beats and a chorus that's repeated fifty-six times before the song finally ends. Just because I'm a teenage girl, he assumes I like this sort of crap. I don't, but I'm not in the mood to put up a fuss. Besides, the fact that he's trying to make me happy (regardless of whether or not it's working) means something. He hates this music just as much as I do.

I lean over and turn on the AC full blast. Why the hell is it so hot here? I hate the heat. I wish we could have gone somewhere where it's snowing. Cold air is so much easier to breath. Which reminds me; I still need to add this atrocity to The List.

"– don't know what you plan on doing, but just remember," Had he been talking this whole time? "This isn't a friendly town for a pretty sixteen year-old."

"Seventeen," I correct.

"Not until November. That's still a long way off."

"Whatever. Doesn't really matter, anyway."

He sighs. He tries to keep his patience with me. God help me, how he tries.

"I know you didn't want to come, Chrys. But your mother specifically asked for us to at least try." He looks over at me. "You would have regretted not knowing."

I roll my eyes, not wanting to admit that he's probably right.

"I know this is the first you've heard about him, but it's all the more reason to grab this bull by the horn, so to speak."

Mark thought that just because Mom didn't like to talk about my father, I was ignorant about the whole subject. I wasn't. I knew Mom loved him more than anything, that she liked to believe that he loved her, and I knew that she never stopped loving him, even after marrying Mark. I knew his name too, or at least, the name she gave me all those years ago when I was first getting curious about where I came from. Nicholas Stokes.

Mom was convinced I came from his loins, but I wasn't so sure. After Mom died, Mark decided to make completely sure (she had it in her will that I was to stop everything and track him down) and so here we were, in Sin City, looking for the man who shared a matching pair of DNA.

"He works the night-shift," Mark says, still trying to get a conversation going.

"All the more reason not to live with him."

My stepfather sighs. I wonder if he'll be glad to get rid of me.

...