Page 85 of The Emerson Effect
“Talent?” she asks, looking toward me for clarification.
“They all work at The Peppermint Hippo,” I say, and her eyebrows pull down with confusion.
“Am I supposed to know what that is?” she asks, and the twins laugh outright.
“Most women do,” Stone says.
Twila looks at him, and her head tilts slightly to one side. “Mostwomen?”
He nods as Mason adds, “Most women in L.A., anyway.”
Her eyes widen comically as she looks from the twins to Ritchie. “Wait. Are you saying you’re a stripper?”
“He prefers the term ‘exotic dancer,’” Mason answers with a snicker.
“I’m a male revue performer,” Ritchie says, reaching over to smack Mason on the back of his head.
“And you guys don’t dance?” she asks, looking between Stone and Mason.
“Nah,” Stone says. “We make more in tips behind the bar. And besides, it would be really weird, getting mostly naked with my brother on stage.”
She nods, accepting his explanation, then looks back to me. “So, how did you end up living with them? Did you work at the bar at some point? Please tell me you danced.”
She clasps her hands as if in prayer and bats her eyelashes, making a laugh rocket out of me. I shake my head as I place a palm over my heart.
“Alas, I cannot grant your wish,” I say in my best impersonation of a knight in shining armor. “I answered the ad these three put online, looking for a roommate.”
The conversation moves on to other things, and we all share an easy rapport. Twila fits right in with zero friction, something I wouldn’t have guessed could happen in a million years after that fateful first message she sent to me on BingBang. And God, am I glad she did.
After lunch, we head back to the house. The second we’re inside, Ritchie pulls out his phone and wiggles it in the air.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he says. “This damn thing has been going off nonstop since Twila posted the video.”
He taps at the screen, and his eyes turn to saucers behind his glasses before he looks up from the phone.
“What is it?” I ask, a knowing smile curving my lips.
“I have over two thousand followers,” he says. “I had less than twohundredthis morning.”
“Yay!” Twila cheers, clapping her hands. “Two-K in about four hours? Not bad. Check yours.”
Stone and Mason do as she asks, looking as wide-eyed as Ritchie. Their new account––The Sullivan Brothers––had exactlythreefollowers this morning. Twila, Ritchie, and me. Mason turns his phone around so we can see the numbers beneath their profile picture.
“Twenty-four-oh-six,” Twila says with a smile. “Excellent start.”
She opens her own account, and I step up behind her and rest my chin on her shoulder so I can see, too. After she navigates to this morning’s video, I feel her smile stretch wide against my cheek.
“Forty-thousand views and a bevy of comments asking if you’re looking for any female roommates,” she says with a laugh. “You’re famous, fellas.”
She offers to shoot content with them for their own pages, if they want to. The guys promise to think about it and scatter to their rooms. I move around in front of Twila so I can see her face.
“What?” she asks when she notices my star-struck expression.
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
She grins and teases, “Of course, I do.”
I shake my head. “I mean it, Twila. You are fucking perfect in every way.”
