Fake Halo

by Piper Lennox

  The violent sound in question is from a video I posted this afternoon. It’s an unfinished song, which I almost never let see the light of day, but I knew I’d taken it as far as I could. Might as well throw it out there and see what it does.

  Kawaii43 left another comment.

  Ugh. Waste of perfectly good lyrics.

  Huh. At least they like the words.

  I’m not stupid: it’s obviously Clara. First, there’s the username. Unfortunately, I’ve seen enough of the Hurleys’ videos to know not only what kawaii is, but that she and her sister are freaking obsessed with it. If you ever want to vomit from pastel overload, glitter-and-rhinestone everything, and faces on crap that shouldn’t have faces—check out their posts from the summer they went to Tokyo. Call me when you finally recover.

  And second: all this trolling started exactly one week after the masquerade party. Seven days after that night in the cabana.

  Six days after she saw my mask fall out of my luggage at the check-in desk.

  “I’m disgusted with myself for doing that.” She sure wasn’t disgusted with herself when my cock was halfway down her throat, but whatever.

  “I can’t stop dreaming about it.”

  I bet.

  I drag my cursor to the comment and ready to delete it. My eyes get caught on that “good lyrics” bit, though.

  That email to her therapist was a lot like her comments on my videos, actually—hateful, but with a backhanded compliment somewhere in the mix.

  Back when I treated benzos like breath mints, I caught this interview where some B-lister said it was “a damn shame Wes Durham took such a similar path to his mother, because he had truly remarkable talent.”

  For days, I latched onto those last three words. Totally missed “damn shame” and “similar path to his mother.”

  Completely ignored “had.”

  Point is, there’s got to be something seriously fucked in my head that makes me focus on any quasi-positive thing people have to say about me, because instead of deleting her comment…I leave it.

  Let her be pissed. Let her have her petty little fun.

  First thing tomorrow, I’m certainly going to have mine.

  “Can’t we do this tomorrow? I’m exhausted.” My body wilts when Georgia hefts the box onto the giant acrylic desk we use for filming.

  “We’re two videos behind schedule.” Rearranging the lights, she asks me to check the cameras. We operate with three these days, four if you count the small close-up one for things like nail art, detail shots...or unboxings. Like this.

  “I’ve never even heard of this company.” My fingers trace the logo on the box. Apparently, it’s from a subscription service called “Katt Aye.”

  Whether that’s an intentionally misspelled cosmetics brand or a new fashion dropshipper, I can’t tell. As long as it’s not eye shadow, hair dye, or lip stain, Rue Royale can’t legally stop us from reviewing it for the time being. But that doesn’t mean I want to.

  “Never heard of it either,” Georgia admits, smiling as she retouches her eyeliner in the mirror. “But Catherine vouched for them, so. Guess we’ll find out.”

  “Guess so.” I sigh in my throat and hit Record on the computer program. All four cameras start their capture. “Test the mic.”

  “Test,” she spits into the boom overhead. “Yellow leather, red leather. Basic bitches bake blueberry biscuits.”

  Despite my exhaustion, I smile. Making videos with Georgia is always fun, and feels like the only aspect of our careers that’s remained the same. It’s the one part that didn’t explode overnight, suddenly unrecognizable.

  When we started five years ago, this was just a hobby. Something fun. TwinsceneMakeupTuts didn’t look like much, in the early days, but we loved every second.

  As the subscribers went up and monetization came into play, the changes were small: better equipment and bigger companies reaching out, instead of us cold-emailing every place we could.

  We learned from our mistakes quickly. First, the name: fine for a hobbyist channel, but way too clunky for a brand. Which, according to Georgia, is what we were creating.

  I’d been tempted to ask when that happened, since until then she’d maintained this was all “just for fun.” But I didn’t. I told myself things changed.

  It’s kind of like how our original plan was to get an RV and travel while we blogged, before Rue Royale wined and dined us and had my sister falling in love. She talked about New York like we’d never had any other plans, and I tried to do the same.

  Fans liked our fantasy hair colors best, so we made sure one of us always had a pop of pink or blue or neon green in our hair, if not our entire head. It was usually me, since Georgia preferred our natural brunette shade with simple highlights.

  We knew K-pop was exploding here in the States, so we invested in the rights to use some music in our videos. We revamped our graphics, our editing…and ourselves.

  If we had a “big break,” that would definitely be Edge Crossers. It was a post-apocalyptic teen movie based on this mega-selling YA series, wherein a group of kids travel to an absurdly lavish and wealthy parallel universe created by their corrupt government. They encounter their alter-selves, battles ensue, victories are won, loves are triangled...you get the gist.

  We were originally hired to help with makeup, but got cast as the heroes’ allies, during a scene where the main group put on full-face fantasy makeup before a huge ball. I played a girl from the original universe; Georgia, her wealthy-universe alter. Our characters were posing as twins to help take down the government from both sides.

  Confused? So was I, for most of filming. But audiences loved it.

  The makeup scene went viral, and soon copycat looks were the hottest trend. It timed well with Halloween that year, too. We saw at least four teenagers dressed in Edge Crossers looks in our neighborhood alone, and were tagged in hundreds of costume posts online.

  After that...nothing was the same.

  With more subscribers and ad revenue and product offers than we knew what to do with, Georgia was savvy enough to find us an agent. Eventually, Catherine found us Rue Royale.

  According to Georgia, that’s just the beginning. As always, she wants more.

  More movies. More interviews. Hurley Twins products on every shelf of every store, and our name on everyone’s lips.

  What do I want? Good question.

  Being that no one’s ever really asked me…I don’t have an answer yet.

  “Okay, guys,” Georgia says suddenly, snapping me into my role, “let’s get started and see what we’ve got.”

  I kind of hate unboxing. It was fun, the first few times we did it, but that was back when we got to pick what we opened because we bought so much of it ourselves, or reached out to companies individually. Now we get sent so much free stuff with the condition we open or review it on film, we don’t have time to seek out the stuff we really want.

  “Oh.” Georgia reels when she opens the lid. “It’s a fitness box. What the fuck.”

  I laugh. Our editing team will seamlessly cut out the confusion on my sister’s face—and her blue language—so I let myself react naturally as I peer over her shoulder. “Horrible name.”

  “Horrible targeting,” she adds. “We never review fitness stuff unless it’s, like...really cute water bottles.”

  “First time for everything.” I sift through some of the items. “Well, look, it’s not like we don’t go to the gym or run sometimes, right? And most of it’s accessories.”

  Skeptically, Georgia pulls out a thick fitness band and shoots it straight over our heads. It lands on the close-up cam.

  It takes an hour to remove each item from the box, inspect them with the camera, demonstrate how they work or look, and give our thoughts in a way that won’t piss off Katt Aye (Apparently) Fitness, while managing to not also sound like complete crap.

  “You,” Georgia declares, when we’re shutting down our equipment, “did a much better job than I did.
”

  “You were fine.”

  “I sounded fake. I felt fake. I was fake. How can I get excited about an ab cruncher that makes me feel like I’m dying?” She sends the footage to the team with the subject “Do Whatever,” then sighs as she shuts the computer to follow me to our bathroom. “You know what it is? You’re always looking on the bright side of shit.”

  “Maybe stop thinking of everything as shit,” I laugh around my toothbrush. She elbows me, then gets serious when we’re both staring into the mirror.

  “How’s it growing in?” she asks quietly. “Even?”

  I lift my hat and show her. “Kinda.”

  “Maybe you could do a side-shave. You know? Just take that entire side down to the same length? It would look great on you.”

  “Maybe.”

  Shame flares in my stomach. I hate talking about this at all, with anyone—though Georgia is easier than our mother, or even my cache of therapists.

  But I’m also embarrassed to admit that shaving any part of my head wouldn’t help. Anything shorter than a half-inch is too tempting.

  “The hair dye line isn’t until fall,” she says, mouth filled with foam. After spitting, she glances at my reflection and adds, “You’ve got time.”

  I nod without actually agreeing.

  Time isn’t my issue. Control is.

  “You start with Dr. Dune in...two days?” Georgia taps her toothbrush on the edge of the sink and drops it in the holder with a flourish. We both did ballet and modern dance for years, but she’s the only one of us who constantly moves like she still does. Right now, as she rinses, gargles, and then leans down to spit, she does it in a plié before putting the toothpaste back in the cabinet in an arabesque.

  Again, I nod...ignoring the tightness in my chest as I remember that I start with Durham in about eight hours.

  “Let’s get breakfast at Alula,” Georgia yawns in the hallway. We always do this: chatting in our bedroom doorways for a good five minutes before we go to sleep.

  Until we moved here, we shared a room. Always. But this was one change I actually liked, even if I miss our lights-out conversations until one of us drifts.

  “Can’t. I’ve…got plans.” Not plans I want to have, but still.

  “Benedict House? Again?” When I give silence instead of an answer, she grabs the edges of her doorframe, leans back dramatically, and groans. “You’re always there!”

  “They need extra help.” This isn’t a lie: the homeless shelter where I volunteer is always short-staffed. Dodging the truth with her still brings some brutal guilt, though. I never hide things from Georgia.

  Well. I never used to.

  Next to her, my contempt for Wes Durham looks like friendship. She can’t stand him down to the last skin cell. And if she knew what he was doing to me right now, she’d have a lawsuit crammed down his throat and a Fendi boot up his ass.

  And if she knew what he did to me a year ago....

  “Just a couple hours,” I tell her, booping the scar where her dermal anchor used to be. She pokes the diamond still resting in my skin.

  “Lunch, then,” she counters, and pirouettes into her bedroom before I can answer. “And don’t forget we’ve got that meeting at two.”

  “I won’t. Goodnight.”

  “‘Night.”

  My bedroom is simpler than Georgia’s, since I prefer bright colors and flash to be on my person, but a serene, neutral place to sleep and relax. My sister, the polar opposite on both counts, finds my plain pine furniture boring, and the crisp white paint on my walls downright depressing. Compared to the lemon-yellow, neon pink, and coal-black color scheme of her bedroom, I guess it is.

  I strip down to my underwear and pause in front of my mirror, pajamas bunched in my hands.

  My shoulders look and feel completely normal, whatever marks Wes inadvertently left now vanished. But I still feel the straps of my backpack digging in, and the rush of wind when that truck screamed past.

  Every now and then, my heart jumps back into my throat when I remember his arm locking across me.

  I climb in bed and shut my eyes on the memory.

  “You’re okay.”

  Big deal: so he saved me from becoming roadkill. All that proves is that he’s got a single shred of humanity in that sculpted chest cavity. He’s still an asshole.

  And tomorrow morning, bright and early, I have to find out just how much of one he can be.

  Five

  “Good morning, sunshine. Ready to work?”

  Wordlessly, Clara pushes past me into the apartment. “Let’s get this over with. Tell me what I’m doing so I can go. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon.”

  “La-dee-damn-da. Look at you, Miss Business.” I throw the door shut and decide to meet that scowl with one of my own. “What, no coffee?”

  Clara grates her molars. “Would you like me to go get you some coffee?”

  “Well, not with that attitude.” I reach past her head; instantly, she goes rigid. It’s not until I grab the leash off the wall, bring it around to show her, and drop it into her hands that she relaxes. “First assignment.”

  At the sound of the leash clip rattling, my dog takes a running leap from his spot of sunshine in the kitchen to the back of the couch in front of us. Startled, Clara gasps before laughing and scrubbing his ears.

  “Lassie!”

  “Ew, don’t call him that. He hates it.”

  She eyes me. “He hates it? Or you do?”

  “We hate it, because his name is Bowie. Besides, he’s only part collie. There’s some lab and beagle thrown in.” I motion to his paws, perfectly aligned on the back of the sofa with impeccable balance. “And some mountain goat.”

  Clara swallows down her laugh and clips the leash onto his collar. “Where do I take him?”

  “The dog park at McCarren. He needs to run around for about thirty minutes. And don’t let him latch onto your leg or things will get messy fast.”

  “Oh.” Quickly, she yanks her hand away from his head.

  “Hurley.” I wait until she looks at me. “I was joking. He’s the most well-behaved dog on this planet.”

  Nodding at my sofa, which is painted in dog hair, she asks, “Furniture-climbing aside?”

  “Pretty much.” Yawning—that’s what I get for staying up until five-thirty, knowing damn well she’d be here at seven—I hold the door for them. “Seriously, though: coffee. I’m going back to bed. Wake me when you’re done walking him and I’ll give you the rest of the list.”

  For a few fleeting seconds, she was actually smiling. She looked like she didn’t want to peel her own skin off more than she wanted to be in my apartment.

  Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever.

  “Right.” The word snaps off in her mouth. “Enjoy your nap.”

  “I will.” I pet Bowie as they leave, watching Clara drag her feet all the way to the elevator.

  Actually, I watch her ass. It shifts in those painted-on white jeans and instantly gets me hard, even if I wish it didn’t.

  All right, I don’t wish it that much. Nice views are nice views, no matter how annoying the details might get. Even Hollywood managed to take my breath away, when the lighting was just right.

  I fall back into bed and push my sweats down past my hips. My thoughts default to her ass, and then the memory of her deep-throating me in that cabana so hard I lost my balance.

  My thumb and forefinger grip tighter. I slow my strokes and feel my cock twitch as I remember how fucking good it felt having my head in the vice of her thighs.

  Exhaustion wins, though. I fall asleep before I can finish.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  My eyes open to find Clara staring at the ceiling, a cup of coffee in one hand and Bowie’s leash in the other.

  In my hands are the band of my sweatpants, and my dick.

  “Coffee,” she snaps, shoving the cup at me without looking.

  I pull my pants up and take it. “Nothing you haven’t seen
before.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Her head falls forward and her eyes lock on mine. “I told you, no sexual shit.”

  “Relax, princess. That wasn’t for your benefit.” I pop the lid off my cup and drink. “Enjoy the dog park?”

  “Yes, actually.” She unclips the leash, looking smug when Bowie leaps into bed with me and not only sloshes coffee down my shirt, but also steps directly on my crotch.

  “Ow, fuck. Bowie—down.” I snap my fingers. Oblivious, he settles against the headboard and pants happily. Note to self: rescind that “best behaved dog on the planet” compliment.

  While I get up and change, Clara pivots away and messes with the bottle caps in a dish on my dresser.

  “You drink a lot of soda.”

  “One a day. Had to start limiting it when I got fat.”

  While I dig through the clean but wrinkled laundry on my armchair, I feel her eyes burn down my chest. As soon as I look up, she tears them away again.

  “Still can’t believe you were ever overweight,” she says, then blushes. “I mean...it seems like you take pretty good care of yourself, now.”

  “I do. Worst thing about rehab was when I climbed one flight of stairs and got so winded I had to lie down at the top.” I pull on my favorite shirt, its Lamb of God logo cracked and softened. “It wasn’t being overweight that bothered me, just being so out of shape.”

  When I change my pants, she turns away again. The back of her neck turns bright pink.

  “So,” she says, crossing her arms, “what’s next? Dry cleaning?”

  “Not ready yet.” I nod at the armchair. “Fold these. Retail-style. I like to see the front so I know which shirt is which.”

  As soon as she hears my belt buckle jingle, signaling that my pants are up, she spins back to face me. “This is so messed up.”

  “This,” I laugh, fastening the belt, “isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, sweetie. I’m going easy on you because it’s your first day.”

  “You’re such an asshole. I would never do this to someone.”

  “Then you’re a better person than I am.” My arm brushes hers as I pass. She yanks it away like it burns. “Put them in the drawers when you’re finished.”