“I bet I’ll get Rusty Johnson in my pants by the end of summer,” Atlas challenges me, throwing the basketball for my shot. My twin brother, with his lavender eyes and asshole persona, smirks at me. We glare at each other, the heated energy always confusing my feelings. These were the repugns that hurt me more than they made me happy. Seeing him with guys just to thwart me always nauseated me for some reason. Throwing it toward the basket, it hits the rim and he jumps at the rebound, catching my ball and storming to the opposite hoop.
“I bet he’ll get in mine instead.” It’s almost a promise. It causes him to misstep, traveling the ball. He knows the rules. His eyes meet mine, and he’s fucking tortured. I can see it, the anger, hatred, and maybe some envy too. He tosses the ball to me as we face off once again.
My brother and I have money, power… anything we could possibly want. Which means people generally bow down to having us, begging for attention, love, a quick blowjob in the parking lot. We’ve both had our fair share of that. It gets harder every time we talk about these moments though. They’re an unspoken rule: don’t discuss getting your dick off.
It’s not usual for two twins to be gay, but here we are. Two and the same, yet two very different men. He’s evil incarnate and wants to teach me the way. I’m a sucker for his charm, a puppet to his strings, a pet to my owner.
“End of summer,” he confirms, curling his lip in an emotion I don’t understand. He shoots, it circles the rim for a second, then falls in, like it’s teasing us both, promising this next bet will be one to destroy us both.
“What’s the wager?” I ask, not really wanting to know what it’ll cost me. We change positions, making my back sweat, blocking his pushiness for the shot.
“You sucking my dick,” he jokes, his voice near my ear, giving me pause. Or at least, I think it’s a joke. He’s my brother. There’s no way… Maybe he’s trying to throw me off from blocking. His chest heaves, his body hitting mine as the silence drones on.
“Fine,” I agree, shaking my head on a laugh. He can’t be serious though, right? Atlas uses my momentary acceptance and shock to ram his elbow into my cheek and lip, twisting around, making another basket. Fuck. I spit, rubbing my jaw. Blood sweats my skin like my perspiration; the taste seeps through my pores and touches my tongue. It’s always bloodshed between us. Fistfights, chicken (instead of cars, it’s knives), and edging. Never said we were normal twins or siblings for that matter.
“And yours?” His arm grips our ball as he stares intently at my face. His eyes roam me meticulously, a smile breaking free at the crimson paint job he did. Hucking the ball toward the blood, I barely block it before it hits me.
“You get a tattoo on your body of my name,” I taunt, acting like his asshole tendencies don’t bother me in every way. My stakes are evil. Imagine him fucking his future boyfriend with my name on his body. His chest, even. Right where the fucker has to see as Atlas takes his ass. Tell me that wouldn’t turn you off at all? I chuckle at the darkness in his expression, watching as he chews his gum as if it offended him. He takes the basketball from me and shoots a hoop, turning with a sadistic grin.
“Deal. But it’ll be your mouth on my dick come the end of summer, KJ. Just you watch.”
Then I guess he can’t win.
By the end of summer, Rusty picked me. We fucked and my brother walked in on it. Changing us forever.
A month later, Atlas comes to me with words that are more surprising than his last bet.
“Double down?” he questions, his face haunted. Since me and Rusty were caught together, he’s had this dark expression. His face is paler, the bags under his eyes darker, and his anger seems to be more constant. His bet comes out of nowhere—we don’t do bets that are big unless it’s our birthday. This is out of character for Atlas. He’s never off course; he’s true north, guiding the way. But right now, he’s gnawing on his lip and moving from foot to foot, almost frantic. He’s lost like a compass out of balance, veering off course.
“Sure, as long as I get something good out of it,” I toss out there, hoping he’s not about to throw something absolutely nuts at me. He doesn’t chuckle though; he grips my shoulders and heaves a large sigh. When they drop from me, it’s as if something flickers in him. It should scare me. But it doesn’t.
“The bet is to kill Rusty Johnson with this knife,” he explains, pulling out the engraved stiletto blade I got him for our sixteenth. It’s in a wooden casing with Grim encircled by vines etched into it, one of my favorite things I’ve gifted to him. A way for him to know he’s my best friend ‘til the end of time. His words may have been precise and thrown out there with insensitivity, but this contest seems different. Something in my brother’s expression betrays his true intentions.
Anger.
Resentment.
Jealousy.
It’s callously mirrored in his eyes, those lavender ones that match mine like a snap dragon field in Silvercrest. We are deadly. And like the good little twin I am, I accept his bet.
“Wager?” I request, not scared of his bets anymore. They don’t faze me, surprise me, or even make me stop to think. It is what it is, and my brother is no longer my keeper. He’ll lose, bow down to me, and I’ll reap every fucking benefit.
It’s nearly been a year. I’ve made no move, but it’s because the stakes. The bet. Risk. Whatever you want to call it, it’ll tear us both up. Neither of us can win without consequence. We’ll both bend or snap; no one will quite come out on top, and I’m not sure why it has me stalled.
Before, I felt fearless. Like nothing and no one could stop me. In many ways, yes. It’s true. In others? My brother, like the basketball his opponent dribbles bravely, he handles me, blocking me from succeeding this shot. We both know it’s because this win means I’m his. Both of us know how real that is. What that changes. It’ll be the biggest game of our lives. One we may not be able to get away with. Even if we want it, even if we’re part of the Society, even if losing means I’ll have to admit what this game has turned into.
Our yearly bet challenges me like nothing else. This time, it might actually defeat me.
We’re turning eighteen soon, it’s our senior year, and the masquerade ball all in two weeks. Which means my bet has to be fulfilled. Or I automatically lose.
Game on, brother.
Chapter Two
Atlas
Past
Finishing my last layup on the court, I meander the short distance home. It’s humid, the clouds overcast, while the heat seems cranked by the sun. It smells like flowers and salt, a scent you could only find on a coastal city like Silvercrest. Driving seems pointless when it’s less than a mile away, especially when the gray sky invites me to enjoy its bitterness that mirrors mine on a good day. It calms my heart rate anyway, to not be in an air-conditioned box where my body won’t properly cool down.
Whenever the ball is in my hands, my head is elsewhere. Either stuck on stripes, orange, and a netted basket or on the plays for the next game. Nothing matters but my goal. Concentration grounds me, keeps me sane, stops me from acting on disapproving urges. Ones the Society has brought out of me, begging me to crave vengeance, blood, and death. The impurity should freak me the fuck out, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. My morals and conscience are long lost, and there’s no intention of searching for them. My focus is draining by the end, but worth every satisfactory hoop I hit while at games. We’re further with the team as a result of my diligence. At least Coach appreciates it, even if the other players think I’m insane. They’re not wrong, but caring about what you’re doing should matter most.
No one understands the tenacity necessary to accomplish life goals. No one. Makes for hard situations when I’d rather work at the courts for extra hours than date losers. Don’t get me wrong, parties are my favorite way to release tension, smoking weed even helps me relax before playing, but basketball comes first. Even before the Society jobs and the duties I owe for being a Grim. I’ll protect KJ from the same destruction
as long as I can—it’s why I’m dark and he’s light, and he’ll hopefully never be tarnished from this life.
Disarming our house from my cell, I unlock the door and head inside. Our parents don’t spare an expense when coming to security. Between the rooms KJ and I can’t get into to the twenty-four hour surveillance, we’re like Fort-fucking-Knox here. Our parents are pretty high in the Society, not that we know much about how they rose. It’s probably the last name; from what I’ve learned since being objectified into their bloodshed, our name holds the most power in Silvercrest. We’re practically untouchable. KJ knows even less, other than the shit we can get away with. The rooms, though, as far as Kenji and I are concerned, they’re locking their secrets in this house and those who seek them outside.
Smelling myself as the air from the house hits me, I scrunch my face in disgust. It wafts with the fan blowing at me. Fuck, I smell rank. Lifting off my shirt, I carry it with me to my room. The central air in the house is already cranked, and it’s cold as shit in here. KJ must be home. He likes it arctic in here.
Loud music plays downstairs, Hollywood Undead, of course. My brother’s taste in music is shit, for sure. It blares as I get closer to his room. Jesus. Does he listen to anything better? Instead of knocking, I turn the knob. Annoyance builds in me as their voices and beats rape my eardrums. Opening the door, his room seems stagnant. The air is almost undisturbed as I take in the emptiness. Why the fuck would he play this garbage if he’s not even in here?
Kenji likes to piss me off.
It’s his own personal type of amusement.
Shitty music, crappy friends, and dates who make my eyes bleed.
His carpet isn’t visible beneath the behemoth disaster scattered about, but my eyes wander anyway. My brother may be the smarter of us two, but he’s messy. He calls it a purposeful disaster, something that has order in his mind while looking like a pigsty. His life is full of contented dirtiness, but if you asked anyone who thinks they know him, they’d say he’s as clean-cut as it gets. They’d be wrong, but it’s how well he appears on the outside.
Clothes litter his room, ranging from gym clothes to random ones that he’d worn last week. He doesn’t take advantage of our housekeeper, letting her clean his shit. It’s a waste, if you ask me, but he has his own secrets he’s unwilling to unveil by cleanliness.
On the center of his bed, homework is scattered everywhere. Books upon books are open, lying about. It’s nothing like his normal routine. Homework to him is sacred. My brother doesn’t leave it out in the open. “Psalms” starts playing, my least favorite Hollywood Undead album. It grates on my nerves. The familiar tune beats at my head, hammering it in. It’s not even the lyrics that are horrible… you know what, yes it is. All of it is bad. With a shake of my head, I start hunting for his stupid Bose speaker. It sits on the desk in his walk-in closet. Breaking it like I do 90 percent of his stuff would be appealing, but I bought him this. Instead, my fingers tug on the cord, unplugging it. His phone isn’t nearby, which means he has to be close. He must be using Bluetooth, but why leave his room alone?
Where are you?
Maybe he’s practicing. Kenji can lie all he wants, but he hates basketball. While my talent is natural, his is learned. He’s always tried bettering his footwork and skill. As much as he says it’s out of love of the sport, it’s me. It’s the one thing that connects us on a level other than being twins. We don’t have that connection like others. Not in a healthy or sane way. Basketball keeps us grounded to something, gives us a hobby to share together. Even if it’s all a lie.
My anger rises as I leave his room, getting aggravated with each breath that passes my lips. Our hallways are covered in photos from generations. There are only two of me and my brother. It’s as if we’re the missing part of this entire fucking place. We may be a part of the Society, but we’re far from being a part of the Grim family.
When I get closer to my side of the house, the one with the connected indoor basketball court and gym—all mine—I hear it. The low hiss of grunting and a loud satisfactory buildup of fucking. I’d know, I’ve been on the giving end of that several times. Nothing serious, but enough to get the edge off. Wanting your brother in a way that’s not only frowned upon by society, but also bad in every sense of the way, makes me find my peace in other guys. They tend to be visually similar to both of us.
I can’t help my desires.
My craving for blood.
The screams that cleanse me of my yearning for Kenji.
But this. The slap of flesh… it’s not what I ever wanted to fucking hear.
Not in my room.
Never in my fucking room.
I don’t even bring my own hookups here.
He did this on purpose.
“Harder, Kenji. Fuck!” Rusty’s annoying voice begs, and when the door flies open, smacking the wall beside me, his eyes meet mine. Fear. The sweet lick of emotion that rides my dick harder than every gay kid at Silvercrest wants to.
Kenji plows into him, facing me. Rusty’s on all fours on my bed while my twin pistons into his ass like it’s his right. His expression is one I’ve never witnessed before. Hatred. It’s as callous as his grip on the guy beneath him.
“Stop!” Rusty yells on a moan. KJ smiles, baring his teeth at me.
“Why? My brother doesn’t mind sharing or watching. Do you, Atlas?” Rusty groans as Kenjington fucks him harder. Fury burns in me, and instead of cowering or leaving like KJ expects me to do, I stalk toward him with confidence, deciding to stand and watch up close, even while bile churns inside me.
His dick slides into Rusty, but already I can tell there’s an issue. He’s not even fully hard. It’s that hardness that you fake when someone hot wants to fuck, but you’re not into it like you should be. Poor Kenji. Never knows when a bet is too much.
“Pretty disappointed, brother. Always imagined you as a bottom,” I callously taunt, making sure to point out his semi. He grunts haughtily, turning his head at me. Rage paints his features, more obvious than his halfway soft dick. He can’t even pull out entirely because of the lack of stiffness. It’s short swift thrusts, anything to keep him solid enough to penetrate.
“Fuck off,” he hisses, his jaw tense with the words. We can deny something over and over again, but when we end up binging from the lack of control, we have no right to complain. We could have easily weaned off, tested some theories, indulged in the taboo, cleansed the palate before succumbing to our ravenous nature.
It’s a choice. Every fucking thing is up to us.
I pinch his nipple angrily, pressing too hard but not giving a single fuck. He growls, his head bending backward with pleasure. I watch as his dick seems to get bigger in Rusty’s ass, his hips getting jerkier, and his body slicker with condensation.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I whisper, leaning into his ear, licking it slowly. Rusty starts to look back, and my brother smacks his ass unnecessarily hard.
“Don’t fucking look at me,” he grouches. Indifference. It makes sense. He doesn’t want to see the bastard’s face, so he decided to bend him over. Does this mean no one has spread his legs in the way only I could satisfy him?
The bed dips as his pace exceeds what it has since he and Rusty came in this room. My room. Taking his ear in my mouth, I tongue it, biting it harshly as he leans into me. The fire that spreads through my body as my brother groans has my dick hardening with acknowledgment.
I did that.
Made him moan.
“Now cum in his ass like you want me to be doing in yours,” I command. He does. Boy does he fucking explode, all while little pussy Johnson over there mewls like a bitch in heat. “You may have won the bet, Rischio. But I still own you.” Biting KJ’s cheek for good measure, I smack Rusty’s ass and head to my shower.
He will not see me fall.
Chapter Three
Atlas
Present
Our birthday is in less than a week. He’s out of time. Tick. Tock.
Time’s up.
It’s nearing a year since I bet my brother to kill Rusty. A goddamn year. If he doesn’t do it soon, I will. The depraved, overwhelming anger I have for that kid exhausts me. He shows up whenever Kenji shoots hoops at the park and even as we have group hangs. He. Is. Always. There.
At the Masquerade, if he’s still breathing, I’ll end it all.
My brother must’ve given it to him good if Rusty hasn’t left his side. My anger intensifies, remembering walking in on that shitstorm. My brother only got off because of me. Not that loser whose ass didn’t even look that great, but me. I run ladders in my indoor gym, never leaving Kenji home alone after that fucking experience. I had to burn my bed, sheets, my favorite comforter, and all my pillows. He knew what he was doing when he decided to use my room and bed. It was his mental game of chicken. For once, it worked. He won. It unnerved me for months. I slept in the spare room, unable to be in there without knowing what he’d done, or rather who.
It’s why this bet even came to fruition. Rusty can’t live after having my brother in my presence. Until he died, he’d haunt me. Being a Grim has perks. We’re the Reapers in the Society, we clean up, make people disappear. It’s my duty to uphold the job, since my parents are never around and it protects my brother from this life.
When KJ won, he went with me to get his name on my chest. Even picked the exact spot on my chest. Fucker. In response, I’d done him one better. From left to right, across my torso, his name resides in massive gothic letters.
My legs flex as I bend to touch the imaginary line of the ladder, shooting in the opposite direction to continue the pace. My heart beats more rapidly, but I’m sure it has more to do with my intense desire to kill Johnson than it does with the exertion. Aches dance along my hips, sweat paints even inch of me, but I don’t stop. The only noises in my gym are my heavy breathing, the random fuck I hiss, and my feet squeaking as the rubber marks the floor.
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