Page 30 of The Twins

Grey

Los Angeles

I haven’t sleptat all.

The kitchen is too loud. The sunlight coming in through the wide windows is too vibrant. I squint my eyes as I gaze at the marble counter of the kitchen island. Tara gifted me four miniature aloe plants, and they’ve decorated the counter ever since. I’m responsible for them, how much light they take in and how much water they need.

“Charles and Remo can find more clues as to what’s going on in the Jean family another way. Are you sure you want to go to Bel Air today?” Vegas asks, stirring his crunchy cereal. His voice is crispy today because he spent the entire night explaining his actions and his… Lies. At the end of the day, he lied.

I’m glad he did what he did, but he lied.

It’s the one thing I’ve always feared from Vegas—his ability to lie. Once his cover was blown back in San Ricardo, we were all made aware of his talents and secret career. One almost expects him to lie since he’s so good at it, but thus far, he never has—not about current events.

To answer Vegas’s question, I nod. “They’re an important client. I can’t ditch them, and I can’t send one of the girls either. I impressed the client’s mom, and she specifically said she wanted me there. We’ll brainstorm today. It’s perfect for our cause. She trusts me.”

“You’ve only met her once,” Vegas reminds me. “That’s hardly a strong relationship. I told you, Grey. Be careful.”

“I am. I took everything you taught me to heart. No funny business with the crazy mom,” I assure him. “She wants me there, so I’ll go.”

I don’t mention how quiet my actual client was and how much I relished working in silence.

“I want you, too, sugar puff, but I’m not getting you all the time, aren’t I? You need rest,” Vegas moans. I can’t hold a grudge against him because, underneath his nasty and overtly sexual remarks, he cares. He grabs a spoonful of his cereal, and I watch his sculpted face eat with refinement, but at the same time, he can’t hide the frivolous shade to his movements. The guys may claim that they hate LA, but they’re drama queens.

Usually, it amuses me.

Today, I shift in my seat by the kitchen island like I can’t find a moment of peace. My periods are heavy, but I don’t feel a drop of that this time around. It’s been months since I scratched myself. I count every day like it’s an achievement, and everyone around me claims that it is, but it doesn’t feel like it on some days.

The truth is now that Vegas told me his version of what happened on the night I left Quito, I don’t have a clearer image in my head. My recollection of what happened has blurred even further. I don’t know whether I’m better off not knowing the details.

Seeing that I’m aching for something to take this uncertainty away, being oblivious benefits me for now. I can handle the truth, but I need time.

What happened last night has set me back months.

“He’s right,” Charles says, placing a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. He settles next to me. He sits closer than Vegas, who’s on the other end of the table like he’s punishing himself for something. “Let’s eat and relax for the day.”

I shake my head. “I’ll feel better at work.”

And once I get rid of my nails. The thought makes me shiver inside. Kamila saw something in these nails last night. They’re my life now, the key to my survival. I cut, and I decorate them to fit my moods. Currently, I want to go back to my bare nails. I don’t feel like having butterflies on my nails right now.

If I scratch myself, the butterflies will be tainted by my blood. They don’t deserve that, do they?

“Where’s Remo?” I ask after I’ve finished my breakfast. Since Charles takes a day off after intense task force nights, he’ll take care of my plate. I’ve made sure that there’s nothing left on it. Charles doesn’t force me to eat. None of the guys do.

I’ve been gradually adjusting over the years, and my appetite comes and goes. I didn’t want to eat today, but I have a workday ahead of me. I can’t risk fainting on strangers.

“He’s at the department. He didn’t want to leave last night,” Charles explains. He’s finished with his food at the same time as me, and he had triple the food to consume. “Remo promised me that he’ll pick you up from work, though. That got him to finally let it go.”

This back and forth has been a common occurrence since they arrived in LA. When Charles ran the San Ricardo department, he had the upper hand. Now, he has multiple people above him that put a stop to major steps he wants to take.

The men don’t talk about their actual job at home or in the car—any place that can have ears. They’re undercover in their task force, scanning for corrupt members that let pedophiles get what they want without consequences. That’s their task from above. The feds want intel on the shady business going down within the ranks of LA’s finest.

Charles grabs our plates, and he takes them to the sink. He’s in better shape than he has ever been. The task force keeps him on his toes, and working in the city is more strenuous, more hectic, than small-town life. The guys have a private gym installed, and they use it often to calm down after work.

Charles’ hands grip the counter by the sink, and he gazes out of the window. He doesn’t see much besides our fenced garden and the pool, but he needs the moment to himself.

I turn my attention to Vegas, who has vigilantly observed my interaction with Charles. It should unnerve me, but it’s one of the things that give me a high these days, catching him stare at us like we’re a book he can’t quite wrap his head around. I don’t know what he sees that’s so stimulating.

“You hate me,” Vegas says. I remain quiet.

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