by Megyn Ward
Four
Keaton
What the fuck do I care if my uppity princess of a neighbor has a boyfriend? I don’t even know the chick, haven’t heard more than a handful of words come out of her mouth, but I can tell you she’s a high-maintenance pain in the ass.
But that mouth though…
Pain in the ass or not, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since my spectacular display of bad behavior. I kept hoping I’d run into her, so I could apologize. Explain.
You practically shoved her hand down your pants. How you gonna explain that one, Chief?
It took me a few days to realize she’s been actively avoiding me which, I’ll admit—another first. When I move into a place, I sign the shortest lease possible because inevitably, I come home from a shift at the club to find some kinda crazy camped out on my doorstep and then it doesn’t matter how great the building’s security is or how much time you’ve been spending thinking about what it would’ve felt like to watch your cute new neighbor sink to her knees and—
Anyway, she’s been avoiding me, and she confirmed it about five minutes ago when those elevator doors slid open and she practically swallowed her tongue at the sight of me.
Not gonna lie.
Her reaction to seeing me stung.
Which must account for why I didn’t apologize to her for my ridiculous behavior the other day.
Why I double downed and made shit worse by being a raging asshole on the elevator.
Also probably why I’m currently dumping all my clean clothes out of my dresser drawers and into an empty laundry basket and stomping my way through my apartment. On impulse, I stop by the fridge. Grabbing a couple of beers, I stick them in my basket on my way out the door.
I hear her before I see her. Laughing and talking to someone on her phone. I can’t hear who she’s Facetiming with. She must have earbuds plugged into her phone, I’m guessing in an attempt to keep her conversation at least partially private.
The laundry room is a huge glass box, perched on top of the roof, next to the pool. Rows of brand new, high-dollar washing machines. A wall stacked with dryers that probably do everything but fold your clothes for you. A bank of lockers where I’m assuming smart tenants keep their laundry supplies.
Tucked into the corner, behind the wall of dryers, is the kind of lounge you’d find in a hipster coffee bar. A pair of plush couches, flanked by matching chairs. What my mama would’ve called a sideboard, topped with a fancy coffee machine. Urns of flavored ice water. Packaged snacks.
That’s where she is, probably sipping cucumber water while she talks to her boyfriend and waits for her wash cycle to end. I imagine the guy on the other end. A college guy—Ivy League. Good-looking. A little soft. Not a tattoo in sight. Country club summers and sports car birthdays.
Whoever he is, I hate his fucking guts.
The laughter stops, and the conversation takes a turn. She lowers the tone of her voice like she knows I’m listening to her.
“I miss you too. I’ll come visit…I don’t know when. You could always come visit me, you know.”
Jamming my folded shirts and socks into an empty washer, I realize I don’t have laundry soap. I take my clothes to a place by the club that washes by the pound. Pricey but worth it to avoid the hassle of communal laundry rooms.
“Please don’t be mad at me…yes you are. You’ve been mad for three years…believe it or not, this is hard for me too.”
Deciding I don’t really need it because my clothes are already clean, I forget the soap, slam the lid closed. Swiping my tenant card to activate the machine, I start stabbing enough buttons to launch the space shuttle.
“I don’t want to fight… I know. I’m sorry too. I love you… bye.”
Finally the washer gives up and lets out a loud beep, followed by a faint, working hum. Tossing my empty basket on top of it, I take a step back, feeling like I actually did just launch a space shuttle.
Alright. You got what you came for, you nosy fuck. Now get the hell out of here before she sees you and calls security on your stalker ass.
Snagging the pair of beers I set aside, I walk down the row of washers toward the door, but instead of cutting left, I cut right and round the corner.
She’s tucked herself into the corner of one of the couches, knees drawn up to her chest. Forehead pressed against their caps. Shoulders trembling. Arms wrapped around her shins like her grip is the only thing holding her together.
Christ, she’s crying.
I’m a big guy. Bigger than most, but nothing lays me lower or makes me feel smaller than a woman with tears in her eyes. My dad was the same way. Whenever my mom cried, he’d move heaven and earth to make her smile.
Right now, I don’t want to make her smile.
I want to find the asshole that made her cry and snap his neck.
Sure that’s all you want to do, Chief?
“What’s his name?”
Her head snaps up at the sound of my voice. As soon as she realizes it’s me doing the asking, she sighs. “Jesus, what do you want now?”
Ignoring the sting her words and tone inflict, I stand my ground. “I want to know the name of the prick you’re crying over.”
“Claire.” She pulls a hand free and takes an angry swipe at her tear-stained face. “Her name is Claire.”
Oh.
“Huh.” I nod my head, shifting my grip on the long-necks in my hand. “That does complicate things, doesn’t it?”
It also explains a hell of a lot—and complication is an understatement.
Like she can read my mind she shakes her head, letting out a bark of exasperated laughter. “Claire is my sister.”
Something loosens in my chest and I feel my shoulders go slack.
No boyfriend.
No girlfriend either.
Stepping around the back of the chair I’ve been using as a shield, I take a seat on the couch next to her and offer one of the beers in my hand. “Which are you?” If there’s anything I get it’s how hard the weight of family responsibility can be to carry. “Older or younger?”
She hesitates, but only for a moment. “Older,” she says, taking the bottle I’m holding out to her. I expect her to ask me to open it for her because she’s afraid she’ll chip a nail. Call me an uncultured swine for not bringing her a glass to go with it. She doesn’t do either. “By eight minutes.” She twists the cap off and takes a drink, straight from the bottle.
I laugh.
Twins.
Of course there’s two of her running around.
Makes perfect sense.
“Mine’s five years younger.” I take a pull from my bottle and nod. “Being the oldest is a tough gig.”
We sit there in companionable silence for a few moments before I make up my mind. “I’m Keats.”
I stick my hand in her face like she did to me that day by the pool. “Keats Carver. I just moved into 8J.”
She narrows her eyes at me—a smoky sort of blue, caught somewhere between blue and gray—while the corner of her thoroughly kissable mouth quirks. She knows what I’m doing. I’m asking to start over and she’s not sure she wants to let me off the hook as easily as that.
I don’t blame her.
“Look…” Lowering my hand, I feel my face fall into a frown. “I’m sorry about the other day.” I wince, thinking about my string of bad behavior. “And earlier, in the elevator. I was, am—”
“Tired.” She snags her bottom lip between her teeth and chews for a second before she lets it go. “Tired then and tired now—and in no kind of mood to deal with my extra ass.”
Something about the way she says it tightens around the back of my throat. Like she cares. Like the way I feel matters to her. It’s been a long time since someone cared about how I feel. What I want. “That obvious, huh?”
She shrugs. “My father is a heart surgeon. He used to come home looking just like that. Cranky. Quiet. Just wants to be left alone.”
Heart surgeon. T
he comparison has me swallowing a laugh. “I’ve never been compared to a heart surgeon before.”
“Tired is tired.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry too. Sometimes I can come on a little too strong.” She sticks out her hand and smiles at me. The force of it would’ve knocked me on my ass if not for the fact that I’m already sitting. “Briana St. James. I live in 6C. Welcome to the building.”
Five
Briana
2018
I’m the perfect twin.
The popular one.
The Cheerleader.
Our Father’s favorite.
The one everyone envies.
The one everyone wants.
Perfect fiancé. Perfect job. Perfect life.
By I have a secret.
A truth no one knows but me, not even my sister.
My life—not perfect.
Not perfect at all.
Exhibit A: two weeks ago, I came home early from my perfect job as junior editor at an up-and-coming-fashion magazine to find Kyle, my perfect fiancé, fucking a random stranger in our living room.
As I stood there, shell-shocked, watching as she gathered her clothes and sputtered about how she had no idea he had a girlfriend, I curbed the urge to point out that there is no less than a dozen framed photographs of us scattered around the apartment, one of them being an 8x10 of us in Cozumel last summer. It’s on the sofa table behind the couch. It was three inches from her face while, Kyle, my perfect fiancé, was fucking her from behind.
As soon as she’s mostly dressed, she bolts out the door.
What did Perfect Kyle have to say for himself.
You’re not usually home before nine.
Which really is the perfect response.
He went on to blame pressure at work.
Pre-wedding jitters.
And me.
He blamed me too.
“You’re never home, Bri,” he said, shaking his head while he buttoned his pants. “That damn magazine is more important to you than I am. We haven’t had sex in months.” He shoots me an accusatory look, like I’m the one who brought Random McSlutface into our home and gave him the cond—
“Wait,” I say, staring at the front of his pants like I can already see the STDs brewing inside them. “Did you even wear a condom?” When I look up at his face, his expression is caught somewhere between smug satisfaction and abject shame.
And that was my answer.
He followed me into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed while I packed a bag. Throwing clothes in my suitcase, I had a sudden flash of memory.
My mother doing this exact same thing.
My father sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window, stone-faced, as his wife and the mother of his children prepared to leave him.
My sister, Claire, just as stoic, watching her move from closet to bed with the same sort of emotional reaction that you’d have watching paint dry.
Me, sobbing uncontrollably. Begging her not to go.
Not to leave us.
And that’s when I caved.
“I’m going to my dad’s until the wedding,” I tell him while I zip up my suitcase. “We both need some time to cool off.”
“We’re still getting married?” Kyle looks up at me, an odd expression on his face. “I thought—”
“We’re still getting married,” I interrupt him, hefting my suitcase off the bed, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A roiling mess that tells me I’m making a mistake. That there shouldn’t be a wedding. That I should cut my losses because if he did it once, he’ll do it again.
That if I loved him—really loved him—I’d have some sort of emotional reaction to catching him cheating on me beyond mild disgust because I bought that couch with my first paycheck from the magazine and now I’ll have to burn it.
“I love you, Bri.” Kyle looks up at me with puppy dog eyes. The same eyes that prompted me to say yes to him the first time he asked me out, even though it felt like the worst kind of betrayal. Even though everything inside me was telling me it was wrong. Screaming no, don’t do it.
I know what he wants me to say. I love you too. I forgive you. It’s going to be okay.
But I can’t say any of that. Not without feeling like a liar. “I’ll call you when I get to my dad’s,” I say and walk my suitcase out the door.
Flash forward two weeks. I’ve just sent my twin sister, Claire, after the guy she’s been in love with since we were kids, telling her she’ll regret it if she doesn’t go after him. That they both deserve a second chance to find happiness.
What about you? When do you get to be happy?
Behind me, I can hear the remainder of my bachelorette party whispering and gossiping about my sister and the limo driver. I want to tell them to shut the hell up. Then I want to run away.
Instead, I give my hair a quick fluff and adjust my dress before spinning in my heels to survey the long line of hopefuls waiting to get into the club. The line extends down the length of the building before disappearing around the corner. Easily a few hundred people waiting to get into the hottest, dirtiest nightclub in Chicago.
Grind.
Two weeks ago, I reserved a VIP table with Kyle’s credit card on impulse, telling myself he deserved it. That it was payback for ruining my couch.
The first floor offers the hottest nightclub in Chicago.
The second floor is for VIPs. Celebrities and Celebutants who want to party without the hassle of press and fans.
The third floor is a private club, reserved for members only.
It’s more than just a nightclub. It’s a three-story circus that has just about everything you’d ever need to make a night full of decisions bad enough to last a lifetime.
Anything you want.
Everything you need.
For me, that’s Keaton Carver.
Six
Keaton
When I saw the charge on Kyle’s credit card statement, I thought it was weird. He never reserves anything. He just rolls in here with his buddies and demands a private room.
I mean, why bother. I own the club and I pay his credit card bill.
Then I saw her name on the VIP roster.
Soon to be Briana Carver.
That’s right, asshole. She’s marrying your brother.
Your.
Brother.
Per usual, the thought of it makes me feel like someone’s stabbing me in the gut with something hot and sharp. How I’m going to put on a suit and hand over our mother’s ring, let alone watch him put it on her finger without completely losing my shit, is a mystery.
You’ll do it the same way you’ve done everything else. You’ll do it because it’s for Kyle. You’ll do it because it’s your job.
Because you owe him.
But there’s doing my job and there’s stepping in front of a speeding train.
That’s what Briana is to me.
The St. James Express.
Total devastation.
Absolute destruction.
Blonde annihilation, waltzing around on four-inch stripper heels.
Canceling her reservation would’ve been the smart thing to do. A dick move, yes—but I never claimed to be a nice guy.
And I never claimed to be smart either.
I’m in my office, watching the mass of tightly-packed bodies surge and undulate to unheard music under pulsing lights. I don’t see people. Individuals. I see a singular organism. A single entity, moving as one. Working together to find what they came here for.
Complete and utter abandon.
There’s a knock on my office door a few seconds before it’s opened, breaking the barrier between me and the deafening cacophony outside.
Loud, thumping music.
People shouting.
The occasional sound of glass breaking.
Someone throwing-up somewhere close by.
Women laughing.
I’ve spent the last ten years surrounded by those sounds.
&nb
sp; The sounds of money being made.
I’m thirty-years-old and would give it all away for one day of complete silence.
I turn away from the wall of floor to ceiling windows I’m standing at, just in time to watch my assistant standing in the crack, clipboard in hand and headset plugged into her ear.
“Mr. Carver?”
“Yes, Ophelia?” She hates it when I call her that, but I hate it when she calls me Mr. Carver so, I’m less inclined to care.
Her mouth goes tight for a moment before she manages to smooth it out. “Miss St. James and her party have arrived.”
“Okay.” I shrug, doing my damnedest to pretend that my heart didn’t just jump up and smack into my tonsils. “So, give her a table on level 2 and make sure she gets anything she wants—just like we talked about.”
I slide into my desk chair and use the mouse on my computer to flip through camera angles until I find her.
Blonde hair, expertly curled and tousled around her face.
Black, barely there dress designed to showcase her considerable assets.
Beautiful face aimed right at the camera, dark eyes narrowed at its lens like she knows I’m watching her.
She looks pissed.
“Keats?”
I look up from the monitor to find Ophelia still standing in the doorway. She looks frustrated. Like she’s been talking to me this entire time, only to realize I haven’t been listening.
“Yes?”
“She’s being…” Ophelia sighs, fiddling with the pen clipped to her board. “difficult.”
I almost laugh out loud. There’s difficult and then there’s what Briana is when she sets her mind to it. “I pay you an obscene amount of money to deal with difficult clients, O,” I say, deliberately clicking my mouse to exit out of the monitor framing Briana’s face. “I’m sure you can handle one vapid blonde and her merry band of bridesmaids.”
Briana is about as vapid as O and she seems to know it because she laughs at me like I just said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “She’s demanding to see you.” Ophelia shakes her head like I have no idea what I’m talking about. “Says she didn’t book Level 2 and she doesn’t want it. When I told her you upgraded her personally she told me to tell you to shove your upgrade up your tattooed ass and that she isn’t budging until you come down and talk to her.”