Page 7 of The Emerson Effect
Stripping out of my t-shirt and shorts, I stride into my bathroom and stare at my reflection. I turn my head from left to right to examine the thin layer of whiskers on my jaw. I prefer this look to clean-shaven, and I just cleaned up the edges yesterday, so I don’t need to do anything to it. Wetting my hands in the sink, I run them through my dark hair to dampen it before squirting some gel into one palm and rubbing it together withthe other. I run my hands through my hair again, taming it into a slick style that makes me look a bit like a scruffy-faced Clark Kent. Without the glasses, of course.
Heading back out into my bedroom, I dress in the tuxedo, then pop back into Ritchie’s room without knocking.
“Hey, man, can you tie this for me?”
He chuckles but doesn’t comment as he climbs off his bed and moves toward me. So, what? I don’t know how to tie a bowtie. Big deal. Most people don’t, right?
The tux I wore to my high school prom came with one of those pre-tied ones that just clips around your neck. And since I haven’t had any other occasion to wear this kind of formal getup, I’ve never needed to know how to learn.
It takes Ritchie a couple of tries to get it straight, then he steps back and looks me up and down. He hums critically, and I hold up my hands in question.
“Eh, I wore it better,” he says, and I turn to look at myself in his mirrored closet doors.
“No fucking way,” I say, striking a pose. “I make this lookgood.”
Without waiting for a reply, I perform a slick one-eighty spin and swagger from the room. Jogging down the stairs, I see Mason on the couch next to Stone, and they’re arguing about whether or not the female lead in the show they’re watching is hotter than some other actress, completely oblivious to my entrance. Ignoring them, I head back into the kitchen and grab the blender from a cabinet and set it up on the counter before filling the pitcher with ice.
The noise I’m making alerts the twins to my presence, and Stone pauses the show before they both stand and come over to climb onto the stools on the opposite side of the long counter.
“What are you doing?” Mason asks, making a show of looking me up and down with raised eyebrows.
“He’s making a BingBang,” Stone offers as I pour the margarita mix over the ice.
“What kind of video are you duoing that requires a tuxedo and a margarita?” Mason asks. “Wouldn’t champagne be more appropriate?”
In answer, I stare at him as I turn on the blender. This thing is ancient, and it sounds like a racecar is revving its engine in our kitchen. Mason rolls his eyes, then slumps his shoulders until I’m done blending the virgin frozen concoction.
“So?” he asks when I don’t answer his question the second I stop the racket.
“Not a duo,” I say, breaking the eye contact as I spin to search for a margarita glass in the jumbled mess that is our drinkware cabinet.
“A tack, then?” he asks, and I shake my head with my back still to him.
I grunt with victory when I finally find what I’m looking for, and as I pull it out and spin back around, I find the twins staring at me with identical arched brows. My head falls back as I sigh toward the ceiling, then I lower my head to stare at them with my shoulders set.
Setting the glass on the counter, I pull my phone from my pocket and call Ritchie. When he answers, I tell him to get down here for a house meeting. I know him. If I tell the twins without him, he’ll get all butt-hurt and give me the silent treatment for days.
Yeah, Ritchie’s real mature like that.
Once he slides onto the stool next to Stone, I meet each of their eyes in turn as I say, “This stays right here between us, and isnotto be repeated. Deal?”
I get three confused looks and three muttered agreements. I take a long breath and let it out slowly.
“Stone’s hijack of my splash duo with Twila Greene didn’t go unanswered.”
“What do you mean?” Stone asks, furrowing his brow.
“Twila got drunk last night and DM’d me.”
“She did?” Stone asks, his eyes wide.
“Oh, shit,” Mason adds.
“What did she say?” Ritchie asks, and I can’t stop the smile that splits my face.
“She said, and I quote,So glad the sight of me in a bikini made you wet, douchebag.”
Mason lifts a fist to his mouth and chortles as the other two burst into roaring laughter. I laugh with them, pleased that they find Twila’s response as delightful as I did. When their laughter dies out, I cross my arms over my chest and grow serious.
