Page 63 of The Boys Next Door

How many times had the twins woken up in the bed of some random girl — apart or together? Had the twins been in this bed before? Had they planned the whole orgy?

She’d been determined to handle herself, keep up with them both — Jesus, surpass them. But she’d sensed she was in over her head with the twins, and she was right.

Brendan stirred behind her and put a hand on her back. “It’s okay, Di,” he murmured groggily.

“No, I really need to go.”

Ian was rubbing his eyes, trying to sit up, reaching for her, while the redhead looked from Diana to the twins, her face lit with curious interest like she was watching a show. Diana wanted to hand her some popcorn and tell her to pull up a chair.

“Can everyone please just shut up and go back to sleep?” the brunette groused into the sheets. “I don’t do drama before coffee.”

“Di,” More urgency in Brendan’s voice, and less sleep. “Di, you’re coming down. It hits some people hard. Don’t go anywhere.”

But she was already grabbing her crumpled red dress from the floor, pulling it on every which way over her sweaty curves, slinging her high heels over her shoulder and stumbling barefoot out of the apartment though her whole body told her to stay in bed with the twins.

What happened next was a merciful blur: Ian, running out of the building shirtless, zipping up his pants, his hair mussed in all directions, trying to make sure she was okay while she managed, brilliantly, to call him a slut; Brendan, jogging out a few minutes later, fully dressed and much more together than his brother, trying to calm her down too; her pathetic attempt to stalk away from both of them with what was left of her dignity and catch the next bus home, when in fact they’d stopped running for the night.

“Diana, what happened in there—“ Ian began. He was holding her arm. Both her arms. Tightly. Brendan’s hand was on her back. The two of them were probably the only thing keeping her upright.

“It’s not a big deal.” She glared at the sidewalk, too embarrassed and upset to even look Ian in the eye. “Forget I said anything. I don’t care.”

Somehow, they talked her into getting in the Jeep and riding home with them: Brendan in the front, driving carefully at half the speed Ian had used to bring them there; Diana in the back with her aching head in Ian’s lap, the place she most and least wanted to be right now.

Silence filled the car. The clock she’d wanted so badly beamed a steady green glow from the dashboard: 4:19 am. Ian’s hand was rubbing the back of her head, and it was soothing her headache and making her angry all over again at the same time, because she didn’t want him to ever stop.

“Di, we thought this would be good for you,” Brendan began. “We thought it would help you.”

“Shut up, Brendan.” Ian’s morose voice made it through Diana’s head slowly, but she looked up soon enough to see Brendan’s stunned expression in the rearview mirror. The twins never fought. They’d made an agreement, they’d kept it since they were seven, and the two of them arguing was suddenly the most wrong thing about this night.

“Don’t yell at Brendan,” she snapped, and instantly regretted it because the effort made her head throb more.

“Diana, you don’t even—“ Ian broke off. She felt the soft thud of the seat as he banged his head against it. “The club was your idea,” he said in a lower voice, clearly aimed at his brother. “This fucking threesome was your idea. It’s Brendan’s idea. It’s always Brendan’s idea.”

“You have lots of ideas.” Brendan’s tone was mild. “It wasn’t my idea for you to climb in Diana’s window alone and make her guess who you were.” Crazily, he didn’t seem bothered, more like he was trying to support his brother — but Diana couldn’t bear to hear anymore.

“Let’s just forget that happened,” she blurted out.

Silence. Ian’s leg stiffened against her cheek. After a second, his hand left her hair. Without thinking, she grabbed his palm and pulled it back. He sighed and began to rub her head again.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he said softly. And he was just making it messier, his warm fingers buried against her scalp and rubbing her neck. His other hand found the open back of her dress — half-buttoned, in her rush. Slowly, he began doing the buttons up.

“Yeah, well, you sound like shit warmed over,” she mumbled into his leg. His jeans smelled like smoke and beer. “Both of you.” Though it was really only true for Ian. “And you look like it too.”

A brief half-laugh. Streetlights streaked by through the window. The Jeep rolled through one intersection after another, the only car on the deserted streets.

After a few minutes, Brendan turned on the radio, keeping the volume low. Diana was about to tell him to turn it off, but when she saw his arm crooked out the open driver’s window, his head leaning to the side, his solid body looking exhausted, she kept her mouth shut. Better for the driver to stay awake. And dammit, the song on the radio was mellow and warm, all sunlight and happiness and a long lazy summer ahead.

“Sorry, man,” Ian said in a low voice.

He was apologizing, Diana thought. Not to her. To his brother.

“No, I’m sorry,” Brendan said after a minute.

“Thanks.”

“That’s it right there, isn’t it?” Diana told herself to just stop talking, that at least the twins were making up, but her mouth wasn’t paying attention. “That’s the only apology that matters to either of you. At the end of the day, you don’t really care about anyone else. You only care about each other.”

There was a very long silence. Too long. Or maybe it just felt that way because her head was drumming five rhythms at once against Ian’s leg, and his hand had stopped rubbing her scalp and just cupped it, holding still.

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