Page 62 of The Twins

Grey

Los Angeles - NOW

Liz Jean invitedme over to Bel Air for a brainstorming session, but she’s nowhere to be found.

Again.

In the past month, I’ve come to Bel Air twice every week.

I’m a nail artist. I come in, and I paint your nails. My designs stick. The products I use are sublime.

Since I’m not a hairstylist or a make-up artist, there’s no need to keep me around as much. Hair needs to be styled daily, as does make-up. Nails? They can stay for a while. It irks me that Liz keeps inviting me over, but you won’t see me complain. I cash in my checks, and I keep quiet.

I keep quiet because my men have asked me this one favor. I’m not supposed to react if suspicious things were to happen. A coward is what I’ve been tasked to become.

Not that it’s far from the truth.

When I was Martí’s fake wife, I never spoke up for myself…

That’s beside the point.

I’m in Liz Jean’s mansion, but there’s nobody home but Carey and me. Not even the staff. It’s the first time they’ve had some time off ever since I’ve been coming over.

I observe Carey as she walks over to the table, placing two glasses of water on the surface. She sits down, and she takes a deep breath. Her outfit today is more like her. It’s all black everything, from her leather shoes to the leather jacket. The blue bandana on her head is the only color in her pitch-black leather outfit.

The A/C is on, and for once, I don’t urge anyone to turn it off.

I’m working on my problems.

We’re in position. I sit across from Carey, and she offers me her hands without hesitation.

“You like Aaliyah?” I ask Carey. Everything about her look today screams Aaliyah. I didn’t grow up on this music, but ever since I moved to Los Angeles, Vegas has been romancing me with the songs of his teen years.

He promised me that he never romanced any other girl like he romances me, but… Vegas is a certified liar. My jealous streak has no reason to extend that far back into his life, doesn’t it?

Before I can rant about the endless list of women one of my men has fucked, I focus on Carey Jean. It’s a pity to waste this outfit on pink and glittery nails.

“I see your Tik Tok videos,” Carey Jean tells me as I massage her fingers. “You used one of her songs in the last one. The slowed-down version.”

“Didn’t think you found me cool enough to research,” I tell her. Liz Jean isn’t here. Since I’ll be back here by the end of the week, I can make one mistake, can’t I? I reach into my suitcase, and I let my fingers drift over the darker shades.

“Nobody says ‘cool’ anymore,” Carey replies, the sass written all over her privileged face. “Don’t even try it with ‘lit.’ That’s old, too. Just… Don’t say anything. I was trying to give you a compliment!”

“You know what those are?” I ask with a smirk. Out of my suitcase, I take out my darkest color, a leathery black that ends on a matt touch.

“What is this!” Carey squeaks, pointing at the tiny bottle of nail polish. It’s expensive as fuck, and I won’t let her touch it. This is my business, and I’m about to make one of my clients very happy.

“It’s what you’ve wanted all month,” I say, and she nods, staring at the bottle like it’s a Grammy or whatever popstars aspire to achieve.

“You… What? Will you paint my nails black? No? You’re kidding, right!” Carey squirms and freaks out like the kid that she is. Beneath all the darkness, she carries responsibility when she leaves the house to shoot episodes for the Avra kids’ channel…

Carey Jean is a kid that’s just finding herself.

All month, Carey has been a quiet mouse, talking back only once I’ve finished painting her nails the way her mom directed me to.

Today, she opens up, and she lets it all out while I paint her nails black.

“When you come over, it’s my day off. On my days off, I don’t rest. I’m not supposed to eat, and I’m told to stay quiet until my singing instructor—”

---