Page 8 of The Twins

Ever.

“I’m proud of you,” I say to him. I’ve learned that affirmations and compliments are good for one’s psyche. It treats me well to tell them how much I appreciate them and what they do, not just for me, but for the people they help.

Remo does the same for me. He reminds me of the positive.

“What’s this new client about?” Remo asks, diverting the subject. Classic.

“She’s a teen, working for one of the kid’s channels Americans are so obsessed with,” I explain, sighing. I have no interest in working with her, but the guys have asked me to do it as a favor.

“You’ve never worked with kids before, though? Is that a new venture?” He asks the questions I would face in case anyone caught me.

Caught me doing what, though?

My job?

I take a deep breath.

I’m momentarily mesmerized by how tender his finger is against the top of my hand.

I swallow. “Carey Jean is the next big thing, and she’s undergoing a makeover. She just graduated from high school early to go full-time on the Avra channel. Her mom, who’s also her manager, booked our appointment. She insisted that I be the one to help with the nails department.”

“She sounds like a lot of work,” Remo comments, and I agree with him, nodding.

The mom hired me, but I served my services on a silver platter for her to notice me. My social media channels are fun to curate, but I had to pull extraordinary numbers for the woman to finally pay attention to me.

“The money’s good, and it might open up doors for me in the studio that owns the channel. You know, get my name out there for good,” I say, repeating what I’ve learned by heart. I don’t give a shit about the Avra channel and its questionable portrayal of teenage kids.

I must leave those thoughts behind if I intend to lie today. Vegas tells me to fully incorporate my role. Believe in every lie I dish out. I’m not him, though.

I’ve been to Bel Air before, but as Remo slows down upon our arrival at my new client’s gated community, I understand that I’ve never been here before.

At the gates, they require to see our identification. There’s nobody here but us and the guard. The cameras above us stare down at us. The community seems deserted, but I know that it isn’t.

I researched it on the internet like any other employee would. Nothing suspicious there, right? The living costs of this neighborhood give me headaches. The old me would’ve loved to be a permanent resident of this hell hole overlooking LA, but that’s not me anymore.

It’s the first time that a security guard asks to see the contents of my suitcase. I hand my suitcase over, and he rummages through my work tools, disregarding the order I apply to my brushes, powders, top coats, base coats…

Remo fumes in the driver’s seat, but I urge him to keep calm.

By the time I’m done sorting my things by the gate, cramps make an appearance, and I hug myself, wishing them away. After cramps, my back usually starts to hurt. And then it happens all over again.

This is my first time with this client. I can’t make a bad impression.

They can’t find out that my men have sent me to spy on a minor.

“I can always take you home,” Remo says. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know, but that’s not what I do,” I reply, straightening my spine. “I will manage just fine. I asked to be involved.”

Remo doesn’t comment, but I can feel that he leaves something unsaid.

We arrive at the family’s three-story house. The mom’s already outside and waiting for me. Remo doesn’t jump out of the car to introduce himself as my boyfriend. He barely even touches me as we say goodbye for the day. He knows that appearances mean everything in my profession, and I can’t be seen making out with one of my three boyfriends.

I squeeze his hand.

That’s all, and it’s less than what I wanted, but work calls. I grab my stuff from the trunk, and I head over to the client’s mom. She waves at me. “Come on in! You’re right on time.”

She refuses to shake my hand until I’ve washed my hands. That’s understandable.

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