Page 63 of The Twins

The doorbell rings and Carey grows quiet as I process her daily schedule. I’ve heard worse from adult celebrities that get mismanaged by their management for profit, but Carey Jean is a child, barely a teen.

Her hopeful green eyes turn sour when the doorbell rings again. Our private time together comes to an end abruptly, and I sigh in frustration. I’ve only painted three of her nails.

“I have to get that,” Carey says, her face a frown she shouldn’t wear at her age. Visitors are rare to nonexistent in the Jean household, but perhaps Liz sent someone over to watch Carey while she’s out.

Carey gets up from her chair. She straightens her spine, and she clears her throat. She lifts her hand to her head, taking off the bandana.

I close the lid of the nail polish, and I hide it inside my suitcase.

Her mom wouldn’t ring the bell, wouldn’t she?

“Hello, my dear!” It’s a man, a British one. He sounds older than Charles, and there’s a mean twinge to his tone that makes me gag.

“Hi, Mr. Abbott,” Carey welcomes the man, her voice five pitches higher than I’m used to from the emo teen.

“Where’s Mommy?” Mr. Abbott asks.

“She’s not here, as per usual,” Carey explains. Their voices become louder, and I see them at the edge of the living room. Carey’s head is bowed while Mr. Abbott glares at her outfit. “My nail artist’s here, though.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” Mr. Abbott says. His hair is too white for him to be standing this close to a teenage girl. Perhaps that’s my paranoia. Fuck. My stomach flips, and I fear that a word from my mouth will result in me throwing up my stomach’s contents.

“I wasn’t?” I ask Carey, raising my voice so that they hear me clearly from where they stand. I don’t bother being polite. Vegas has fucked that out of me. Fuck being a coward, even if it is for my safety. My men have taught me to stand up for people, to be active.

I sit where Carey left me, distrusting my legs to carry me.

Mr. Abbott and Carey join me at the table. Carey blushes. “There must have been a mix-up.”

I say, “But I called, and you said tomorrow’s canceled and that your mom—”

“You’re mistaken,” Carey insists. Her pale cheeks tell me to leave it the hell alone.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about a thing,” Mr. Abbott says. His smile makes me uncomfortable. I take deep breaths, and I make fists.

I’m careful not to squeeze too hard.

My men will see if I hurt my palms.

“I’m Hugh Abbott. I’m Liz Jean’s friend. I advise her when she’s on the lookout for property investments,” Hugh introduces himself, offering me a handshake. He doesn’t appreciate my rudeness. Sitting down in his holy presence is defiance he must not be used to.

He wears clothes that would make any other man sweat. The layers of fabric on this man are endless. His suit is crafted especially for him, and the leather on his feet is immaculate—in his eyes.

These days, I drool over Jordans and vintage Hip Hop shirts.

I tilt my head in his direction. I offer my hand back to Hugh, but it takes everything I’ve got not to puke all over the table. “My name’s Grey. I’m a nail artist.”

Widow of a rapist. Girlfriend of three gorgeous men that might kill you for checking out my well-covered tits.

“She’s THE nail artist. Everyone in LA is buzzing about her! She’s got three million followers on her socials! She’s always booked,” Carey gushes about me, and I bite my tongue. Numbers don’t matter much to me.

I care about my men and my business running smoothly.

That’s why I come to places like Bel Air. I sit through insolent brats talking back at me, disinterested soccer moms, cougars… Occasionally, I’ll sit across a woman that’s not a misogynistic stereotype, but that’s a rarity in my line of work.

There’s no need to mention how rude this man is for staring at our bodies this openly. No, there isn’t. Vegas taught me self-defense. Charles showed me how to sucker punch another man. Yes, I don’t work out, but with three men in my bedroom… I don’t need to work out. Sex with them is exercise enough.

But… It’s not enough exercise to take on a filthy old British man who’s got strength in cruelty.

I just want to do my job in peace. I have my routine, and the Abbotts of the world shouldn’t mess with it.

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