He didn’t let me take a break; he straddled me, freeing his cock from his pants and stroking his erection just inches from my face. I licked my lips, desperate to touch him, but my arms were trapped beneath his body.
“Do you want it, Harley?” he asked, running his thumb over my bottom lip before the head of his cock followed. My tongue sneaked out to taste him—just a taste. “Do you think you can tell the difference in the taste? In the way we’ll swell inside your mouth and jerk against your tongue?”
I nodded. I was confident. I’d never been more confident in my life. Carter—both of them—were mine and I wouldn’t allow my mind to shield me from the truth again. I had fallen in love with twins. Rome’s tongue dived inside me as his fingers pinched my clit, and as I threw my head back to cry out, Jobe halted my breath with his thick smooth cock sliding between my lips. I choked, my eyes opening wide as he held the back of my head and thrust in and out slowly, allowing me to map out every vein and ridge along his delicious length. My body tightened, trembling under the mouth of Rome, the pressure from Jobe filling my mouth, and the reality that these boys owned me.
“That’s it, babe,” Jobe said, stroking my cheek as Rome groaned against my sensitive flesh. “Come for us.”
I would. I knew I would. It was overdue. I’d been pent up and frustrated for weeks as I battled my addiction and the chemical imbalance in my brain that told me I was fucking mental for doing this. But it was Carter—both of them—who were making me come now, rewriting everything I thought made me me. Would I go back, and undo the new coding they’d programmed into my soul?
Not a fucking chance.
“Oh, God,” I cried as my body built to a crescendo that had me writhing beneath my lovers and begging for something. Anything.
Rome growled against me, tipping me over the edge as Jobe stilled inside me and allowed me to feel him pulse against my tongue. The single drip of pre-cum that trickled down my throat was my undoing and I shattered, plummeting to Earth with a soul-shattering scream. Jobe pulled out and as I trembled and shuddered, I was vaguely aware of them switching places. My eyes widened when, for the first time, I noticed the difference between the two brothers. Rome’s bare chest was covered with marks – cigarette burns and welts that married with my own. Jobe, having straddled me not moments ago, had a smooth and unmarked chest.
My mouth was filled again, breaking me from my discovery, but my arms were free and I reached behind Rome to grip his ass. My ankles were raised off the bed and my legs wrapped around a lean body as Jobe nudged against me, flexing oh so gently until he slid past my barriers and sunk balls deep inside me.
“Ah!” I cried, a garbled moan of pleasure against Rome’s cock. He stilled and slipped both hands in my hair.
“Christ, Harley,” he murmured, squeezing until I felt the pressure on my skull, initiating a feeling of delirium no amount of Cloud could rival. “You suck cock like a pro.”
Spurred on by his compliment, I took hold of him, fisting him in one hand while I gripped his balls in the other. I shunted up the bed as Jobe picked up the pace, slamming into me until my eyes watered and my stomach tightened in preparation to explode.
I knew I should have felt degraded, and I did.
I knew I should have felt used, and I did.
I knew I should have felt out of control, dominated, and I did.
But I fucking loved it.
I was soon moaning with abandon, gasping around Rome’s cock as his salty pre-cum dripped onto my tongue and down my throat, and the wetness between my legs provided Jobe with everything he needed to take my body to impossible heights. I cried as the hint of another orgasm teased my core with every synchronised thrust from my twins, every animalistic grunt that left them providing a soundtrack for our unconventional grouping. It was relief. It was a tsunami of emotions after feeling nothing but numbness and hunger for weeks. It was a technical repair after years of being lost, floating along and waiting for someone to program me back to life.
The Carter twins had done that and I loved them for it.
I came with a scream, working Rome’s cock as I threw my head back and gasped for breath. I watched his stomach tighten and felt his thighs tense around me, as Jobe’s thrusts became uneven, rough, and frantic.
“That’s it, babe,” Rome said through gritted teeth. “Make me come.”
I would. God, I would. I squeezed my legs around Jobe, urging him to come for me while I made his brother explode. My arm ached and my wrist felt tight, but I didn’t stop, desperate to see him lost in bliss. He came with a loud cry, throwing his head back as his chest reddened, the vein in his neck pumped furiously, and he exploded into my waiting mouth. His cum jetted onto my tongue, over my lips and onto my chin, and I swallowed, licking my lips to catch every drop. He collapsed over me, resting his hands either side of my head as he eased back into my mouth, jerking with sensitivity. Jobe gripped my hips, falling forward to press his forehead between his brother’s shoulder blades as he grunted and I felt the first hot spurt of his cum fill me.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling out of me and laying on his back beside me.
“Fuck,” Rome breathed, falling to the other side of the me, on his stomach.
I looked at Jobe as sweat trickled from his temple, soaked his chest, and lined his top lip. I leaned forward and kissed him, catching the salty perspiration. I glanced at Rome as he drew delicate patterns on my stomach, keeping my attention on him and not the scars on my body that made me hideous. His hair was a sweat-matted mess, perspiration lining his eyebrows and I leaned closer to kiss him and taste it. I laid back, staring first at Jobe, and then at Rome, as both men looked at me for my reaction. I only had one thing to say.
“Fuck.”
Twenty-Seven
Mum was passed out again. I’d helped her, but only because I wanted to play video games and hide in the bedroom. She didn’t like me playing video games. When she was awake she needed attention. She needed a grown-up with her, and grown-ups—at least my mum’s friends—were dangerous. She’d asked for my belt and I’d taken it off and given it to her. She’d asked me to pull tight and I had, shoving my foot against the sofa so I could pull as tight as I could. She’d asked me to pass her the syringe, and I’d thought about handing her two. But then, when she woke up, she’d need to get another and…my bruises hadn’t healed from the last time she paid with my face. She hadn’t let me inject her, but she’d made me watch while she did it. I was supposed to be on guard, make sure she didn’t have a seizure or start vomiting everywhere. I wasn’t allowed to let her choke. She didn’t want to die—dead people couldn’t get high. I’d watched until her eyes rolled and she slumped back on the sofa…and then I went upstairs to leave her to her high.
“Hey,” I said, stepping in the room and sitting next to Jobe.
He had Mario set up and handed me the controller. We sat on the floor and took it in turns to complete a level. I’d given Jobe the watch I got for Christmas and he kept checking it, knowing we didn’t have long before she woke up. I managed to get us some crisps from the kitchen and glasses of water from the tap. It was a bit brown, definitely not healthy; a pipe had burst last week and Mum was too high to call the landlord and ask him to get it fixed. Tony, the landlord, doubled up as one of our mum’s dealers. He supplied her with the crack. Andrew sold her the meth. Ralph kept her topped up with heroine. It was only a matter of time before she died, and both Jobe and I were waiting for it. We didn’t know what we’d do or where we go, but at least we wouldn’t have to be the tourniquet fixers or spoon-gatherers anymore.
“Boys?”
We jumped when a booming voice wafted through the house. Jobe looked at me. I looked at him. Mario fell and we lost our last life. Damn it, that wasn’t a good sign.
I recognised the voice and knew what would come next. Verbal abuse for one twin. More bruises for the other. Andrew’s heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and we stared at the door. It smashed open, banging against the wal
l behind as Andrew filled the space with his arms folded, feet apart.
“Yes?” I asked, getting to my knees and sitting in front of Jobe.
He’d had it harder than I had. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but mental abuse ruined your soul.
“Mamma still high?” he asked. I nodded. “Oh good. I thought I’d take an advance payment while she’s out of it.”
I rolled my eyes and turned my head to see Jobe in my peripheral, frozen in fear and wondering what he’d hear this time.
“Go for it,” I said, deciding that if I was the little shit, he’d leave Jobe be.
“Shall we have a little chat?”
I shook my head. Chats meant his fists weren’t participating, which meant I was safe and my brother was in danger of another battering that would ruin him a little bit more. Andrew crossed the room and laid on my bed, shoving one hand behind his head as the other grabbed my tennis ball off the cabinet and he tossed it up in the air.
“Do you know why your mother named you what she did?” he asked.
I shook my head and turned to face him, noticing Jobe had blanched. He knew today’s story would have a bad ending for him.
“Let me tell you,” he said, glancing between us with a stupid smirk. I wanted to kill him, but I knew that wouldn’t help either of us. “Rome, your mother named you Rome because you’re strong and powerful. While your brother was failing in the womb, you thrived. Jobe, you were a pathetic little shit, even as an embryo.”
“Nothing to do with our mother’s habit, I suppose?” I said, quirking an eyebrow. “So I assume she can’t take the blame for risking her child’s life.”
Andrew shrugged. He didn’t really care about that part of the story. He had the tale planned and there was no room for deviation, for development beneath the narrative. Yeah, I listened in English class. I wanted to be clever so I could avoid turning out like our mother and her prick-head dealers.
“Jobe, your name is Hebrew for ‘persecuted’. Do you know what persecuted means, little shit?”
Jobe nodded. He’d been told his entire life why he was the neglected child, while I took all the golden showers in some sick representation of why I was the fucking favourite. Because of my name. Stupid, huh? My name was also the capital of Italy—where the mafia ruled the fucking country. I chose to follow that path; I’d kill all the fuckers who punished my brother because of his fucking name.
“It means abused, harassed…victimised. Do you feel victimised, boy?” When Jobe nodded, Andrew laughed, throwing his head back into my pillow and gripping his stomach in over-exaggeration. “No, no. You were named Jobe because you annoyed the shit out of your mother. She only wanted one child—a junkie with a kid gets all the sympathy her rotting little heart desires. When Rome came out, healthy and plump, she had what she needed. Then you, you little weed…you popped out next, but she already had her ticket to druggie-heaven. She didn’t need you and you became an annoyance, a punishment…you became her persecution so she named you appropriately.”
“You’re such a cunt,” I spat, throwing my shoe at his head.
Once upon a time, Jobe cried when he was faced with abuse. Now, he felt nothing. He felt worthless. He felt like an annoyance. My mother and all her stupid fuckheads had won. They’d beaten him and I’d made it my mission to repair him piece by beautiful piece. My brother was the clever one, the perceptive one, the one who took the abuse and decided he was to blame.
Me? I’d decided I’d grow up to be a hitman and murder every fucking prick who made someone suffer like my brother did.
“What did you say?” Andrew said, sitting up and rubbing the red spot on his head, imprinted with the sole of my shoe.
“I said you’re a cunt.”
Andrew seethed, almost foaming at the mouth like a rabies-infested dog. It was the kind of reaction I was supposed to look for when she got high.
“That’s a mighty word for a little prick,” he spat.
I shrugged one of my shoulders. “Not my fault it’s the truth.”
I knew what I was doing. He’d told his story; he knew he’d broken Jobe a little more inside. Our mother’s hope was that he would top himself, see his life as nothing worth living. It was my job to keep him alive, to fill him with hope for a future—for both of us. Andrew lunged at me, like I’d hoped he would, grabbing me by the throat, yanking me to my feet and slamming me against the wall. The first punch made my eye swell shut, but I saw Jobe out of my good eye. I heard him crying, wanting to beg Andrew to let me go, but we’d had a deal. I’d made him promise to let me take it, and patch me up afterwards.
“It amazes me that your mother hasn’t traded you both in to all the nonses for a fix.”
“She knows sick fucks like you get off on abusing kids. Way more rewarding.”
The next punch hit the side of my head, and my vision blurred. The third punch split my lip. The fourth sent my back teeth through my cheek. I laughed through the pain, through the agony swimming in my veins, and spat my blood at Andrew. The fifth and final punch brought the blackness to smother me.
“Rome?”
I woke up in my bed, the smell of Andrew’s cigarettes surrounding me as music played downstairs and I knew our mother was awake—entertaining.
“I’m here,” I answered, opening my eye as Jobe shook me awake. “All good.”
I was not all good. I hurt like a bitch. I knew I’d taken kicks to the ribs, a stamp to the back and…my chest stung. God, it felt like fire.
“He burned you,” Jobe said, a single tear falling from his eye.
“Ahh…” I smiled, like I’d figured it out, but Jesus, I felt like I had no skin left on my chest. I. Was. In. Agony. But I reminded myself, as I assessed my brother and sighed in relief when I noticed he was pain free—physically, at least. He was okay. I’d won another day. “I’m alright.”
“I counted,” he said, gripping my elbow to help me sit up. “Fifteen burns. He went through fifteen cigarettes one after the other while you were passed out.”
“Did he touch you?” Jobe shook his head and looked down at his knotted fingers. “Then we win.”
“I was thinking…”
He stopped, doubting himself. Convinced his idea was bullshit before he’d even shared it.
“Go on.”
“What if we stopped being twins.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I snapped. “You go, I go.”
“That’s what I mean. What if we both go?”
“Like a fucking suicide pact?” I sat up quickly, searching for a weapon he’d collected, or drugs he’d stolen from our mother. “Dude, we’ve got shit to do when we grow up.”
“I know.” He laughed. It was the crazy laugh I’d begun to notice in him. He was a little bit insane—a product of being made to feel worthless. “I mean…what if Jobe and Rome were no longer two people.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think we should become one. We can’t let anyone play us off against each other again…”
“You ever think we’d be here?” Jobe asked, pulling me from the past as he leaned back on the sofa and took an almighty pull on his joint. He laughed. “I mean, after Mum and Charlotte.”
I laughed, taking the spliff from him and snagging a drag. “Did I ever think our combined identities would come back to bite us?” I shook my head. “Nah.”
“We’re not going to hurt her, are we?”
I shook my head again. “We can’t. We don’t shy away from responsibility. We did this, we have to fix it.”
Jobe nodded, retrieving his joint and nodding at me to refill our glasses with whisky. I complied. We’d fucked up, of course we had. We were never supposed to fall in love again—not after Charlotte played us off against each other and broke our hearts. We had then, you see. We weren’t unfeeling psychopaths; we just decided, at a young age, that the only way to protect ourselves was to hide behind each other, behind our surname, Carter. If we lived as one, played as one, existed as
one, we couldn’t be hurt again. But that was before Harley fucking Davids. She wasn’t just a master hacker behind a computer. She’d hacked into our identity and separated it back into two. And then she’d made both of them fall in love with her. We were fucked, and yet, this was the most whole we’d felt in twenty years of combined existence.
“Any news on Michael?” I asked, throwing my arms to the back of the sofa.
“Nothing yet. The cunt has disappeared.”
“She won’t move on until he’s dead. We’re all stuck in limbo, dude.”
“We’ll find him,” Jobe reassured. “We’ve called in every one of our favours. He’ll slip up and when he does, we’ll get him.”
I nodded, marginally reassured. The bedroom door clicked open and both Jobe and I turned to look towards the bedroom. Harley emerged, dressed in my t-shirt and Jobe’s boxers. She was as torn as the both of us. She wouldn’t choose between the two of us because both of us had played with her, coerced her into being irrevocably tied to the two of us. Jobe and I never fought—we never would, so the only answer was to share Harley and hope she wouldn’t turn on us and become another Charlotte. It was a risk, but we’d played it safe for years and it was time to lay it all on the table. She was too strong to let us break her, and we were too devoted to her to even try.
“Hey,” she said, joining us on the sofa and glancing at the joint in Jobe’s hand. He shook his head and leaned forward to stub it out. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
Good. Because we weren’t going to let her. We’d let her in, told her who we really were, but there was still one vital, life-altering secret we were keeping from her.
“What was her name?” she asked. Jobe and I looked at each other, without a clue what she was talking about. “The girl who broke you.”
“What makes you think there was a chick?” I asked.
“Come on.” She laughed and reached for the whisky. I snatched it away from her. “I’m not stupid. The only reason to share women to such the extent you do is because a woman pushed you to it.”
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