Page 11 of The Twins

Vegas

Los Angeles - now

“Window Shopper”by 50 Cent blasts in my car, and I cringe.

My sugar puff is by my side, her hand brushing over my knee. She gives me the chills, but she’s unaware of it.

I take us down Santa Monica Boulevard. The sky is pink, blushing like my sugar puff. It’s a busy Friday night, the traffic is more tedious than usual, but we’re right on time for our reservation. We’ve learned to schedule enough time for car rides.

“You know that we’re in LA now, don’t you?” I remind her, and she nods, but something tells me she’s bobbing her head to 50 Cent rather than my clever and cringe remarks.

I want to reach out and touch her, but I refrain from doing so. I’m under strict orders not to fondle our woman while we’re on the road. I picked her up from work earlier, and if we were back in San Ricardo, we’d be finished with our dinner already. I’d touch and tease my sugar puff in the privacy of our home. Since LA traffic is a disaster, we’re still stuck in traffic. I must do whatever I can to keep us safe.

“I’m painfully aware of our location,” Grey comments, pursing her lips while nodding along to the song. Her eyes wander from me, taking in the neighboring cars and the shops we pass by.

She’s beautiful.

Every day with her is a blessing I want to chain to my being.

Today, she used a new perfume with hints of magnolia and sandalwood. It’s heavier than her usual fruity tone. I prefer her naked, stripped from any exterior essence that messes with her perfection.

But Grey’s kind of a minor nail tech celebrity now, getting freebie gifts delivered to our house every other day. She donates most of the stuff her clients send her, but occasionally she keeps some goodies like this perfume.

One time, she showed up at my door in cherry lingerie with her breasts spilling out of her top…

“Vegas?” she asks. I don’t have much time to jerk off with my object of affection being around me 24/7, but when I do, I remember that night and how she squeezed my dick between her tits. It was pure heaven.

“Sorry, sugar puff. I was thinking about your tits,” I tell her, and she giggles as 50 Cent finishes his song. Her hand remains on my thigh, rubbing it back and forth.

“My tits? I thought you preferred my backside,” she says. She’s on my phone, skipping the next song and putting on one of my favorite ballads.

“Don’t you know?”

She shakes her head.

“I love every part of you. Don’t ever make me choose.” I don’t fight my grin while I pull the car into the side street where our favorite fancy restaurant is located.

“Oh, now, you’re stealing my lines.”

Grey fiddles with the spaghetti straps of her raven neck holder dress. To this day, she doesn’t respond well to our compliments.

We take it one step at a time.

She manages to go out in public without hiding her scars. It’s not that we crowd her to keep her from self-harming. We don’t. The doctors say to respect her privacy. We don’t always follow the guidelines, but we make sure to hide our sneaky interventions from her.

Grey doesn’t need to suffer a lack of confidence because we’re obsessive pricks.

We know every detail of her life, every success, and every failure.

Ultimately, we’re glad that she’s gradually moving on from hurting herself.

That’s a major improvement.

Everybody in our household is a little fucked up in the head.

“I hate cheesy pop ballads, but I love this song,” Grey reveals, turning up the volume to one of my favorite Whitney Houston songs ever.

“Don’t you dare call this song a cheesy pop ballad!” I reprimand her, grinning from ear to ear. We tease each other about our musical tastes frequently. Grey’s loyal to her reggaeton roots. Hip Hop speaks to her soul ever since she moved to LA for some strange reason. Remo is a rock type of guy, flipping subgenres by his mood. Charles… He doesn’t like music. We force him to listen to it with us.

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