Page 31 of The Twins

“Do you? For what?” Charles asks, sobering up from his private moment by the window.

Vegas runs a hand through his freshly washed hair, combing it back. It doesn’t stick because his hair is unruly like he is. He takes one final spoonful of his cereal, and then he brings the bowl to Charles. Wordlessly, he exits the open-plan kitchen. My hands are on my thighs, my nails digging into my skin.

Pearls of sweat roll down the skin of my back as I watch Vegas leave. He keeps his distance because he believes that I hate him. I could never hate him. I’m sick, ailing with love for three men that want what’s best for me in their own absurd ways.

“Grey? What does he mean?” Charles asks. He faces me with his arms crossed in front of his chest—a gesture that bulges his arms and the biceps he strains right now.

I shrug. “Nothing. I’m going to work now.”

* * *

We have an understanding.

I don’t drive, but I have an app on my phone for cars, and I know how to use it. The expenses are covered by my clients’ generous tips.

On certain days, the guys offer to pick me up from work.

Like today.

It’s a bad day for me.

Luckily, when I came to Bel Air today, Liz Jean was nowhere to be found.

Carey wordlessly opened the door for me. She led me to the living room, and we’ve been sitting there in silence. I clip and clean my nails while Carey plays around on her phone.

I’m aware that I should be professional, but I can’t stop this pain in the back of my throat. I’m unable to speak. I clench my teeth, and I ride through the day.

I present my ideas to a disinterested Carey Jean. She perks up when I mention darker colors and grunge designs, but I attempt not to give her a lot of hope. At the end of the day, her mom will give me the green light for what goes on her daughter’s nails.

Before my three hours in Bel Air come to an end, I send Remo a message to let him know about the time I’d be finished. He brought me here yesterday. He’ll be able to find his way back to pick me up.

I don’t check my messages because I’m busy with the teen’s nails.

“I hate it,” Carey blurts out when I finish with her pedicure.

I reply, “I should’ve placed a bet on it.”

“Why waste your time on me?” Carey asks, furrowing her eyebrows together.

“Your mom paid for it,” I tell her. And you’re quiet, for the most part. You’re easy to work with when you’re allowing me to paint your nails.

“Of course, she did,” the girl hisses.

I finish up with Carey, and I pack up my suitcase.

“Where are you going?” Carey asks, staring at my black shoes as we stand by the pretentious entrance door.

“Home?”

“Is it a big place?”

“Big enough for my family, yes,” I tell her.

Her eyes go wide. “So, you make lots of money with this? Painting people’s nails that hate your designs?”

I tilt my head to the side. “You have no idea.”

“Must be nice,” Carey sasses.

“I know.”

Once I’m outside of her so-called mansion, I look at my phone. No messages.

Without further ado, and because I’m pissed off, I leave Carey’s home on foot. I’m not in the mood for more sulky conversation. The walk to the gates takes me ten minutes, and I pray that Remo’s there, being held up by the guard.

When I arrive at the gates, I realize that Remo’s not there.

The security at the gates ignores me for the most part, but after thirty minutes of standing in the heat with my suitcase, he tells me to get going.

Since Remo doesn’t reply to my messages, and he’s nowhere to be found, I order another car, and I wait for it to come.

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