Page 47 of The Twins

Vegas

LOS ANGELES - NOW

My useless fuckingbrother left my sugar puff stranded in Bel fucking Air. I fume as I make my way to the police department. I drive too fast like I’m drunk, and Tupac’s “Hit ‘Em Up” blasts through my system with the top down. Unfortunately, no Pac’s playing this afternoon.

That’s it.

I’ll bury the bitch if he thinks he can pull this type of shit off. I don’t care how many pedo pervs he thinks he’s catching. When we make a promise to sugar puff, we keep it. She needs the affirmation, the love, the trust. If he breaks his fucking promises by making her feel unheard, he eases her road into relapse.

We don’t want that.

Charles is back home, taking a bath with our woman for us. He is better at staying calm around her, so he volunteered to keep our woman company. His job tonight is to keep it as calm as possible.

There’s no need to alert Grey.

Let her think that Remo got caught up at work. Let her believe he never received her messages. Let her think it was a fucking accident.

I know my brother.

This wasn’t an accident. It’s one of the things he never talks about. Each year around the same damn time, he has a bad week or two. On bad years–each year without Grey was horrible, for example–it took my brother over a month to get over his blues.

Is it his past job? I have no fucking idea. He’s my brother, and I can’t read him like I read other people.

The truth is that I haven’t always been close to my brother.

Our relationship has reached highs and lows multiple times throughout our interconnected lives. I had the best relationship with my brother after his near-death experience on active duty overseas. For numerous months at the time, we looked after each other. If you ask him, he babysat me, but, it went both ways.

After the pricks at his old job, don’t even get me started, left him to die… I’m convinced they staged the shitshow that happened to my brother. They attempted to murder him, but he’s my brother, and he doesn’t die without my permission.

He had issues during his recovery time. He was bed-ridden for most of it, refusing to step outside of the house. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I bet a stack that my brother had ghosts to keep him company in his time of need.

After Grey, our relationship has been rocky.

But that doesn’t mean that it’s Grey’s fault. We caused the issue, not her. She encouraged our troubles to swim to the surface.

I park the car in front of the police department, disrespectfully so. I give zero fucks who I annoy with my actions. My family spills blood for this department, and I’m not about to take it easy on them.

“Sir, you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I murmur in the innocent bystander’s direction. I’ve attracted a crowd with my shenanigans. They don’t know it, but they’re hyping me up.

I pound my chest once, twice.

I take the car’s keys, and I slam the door shut behind me.

The faces I pass by are bland, an inconvenience I wish I could erase from my memory. Some greet me with excitement, others with disdain.

Like I said, my family works hard for these cunts.

Remo isn’t obligated to die in this fucking office for nobody.

He lives because I need him. My sugar puff loves him. Fuck it. I love my brother, too. Even Charles can’t resist his nerdy ways.

Navigating through men in blue, I stomp down the hallway to the Pedo Perv Task Force’s main quarters. I kick the door open, and I find my brother in front of five screens.

The air in the room has gone bad, and I smell pizza, an old one at that.

My brother’s in the same jeans and blue shirt he left the house in, but now the clothes are stinky and crinkled. He looks pale while he sits in front of the five screens. His eyes are red and baggy, exhaustion making itself known.

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