Bo sighed. “You can’t act in slasher movies for the rest of your life. And do you really want to be someone’s assistant forever?”
She pushed her hair behind her ears. No, she didn’t want to be someone’s assistant forever, and she knew better than anyone that she couldn’t be in slasher movies for the rest of her life. She was getting too old, but she had a plan. When she’d run from L.A., she really hadn’t had much of a plan. Other than getting out of town before she killed someone. Thanks to the Chinooks’ organization, she had one now.
“Don’t get all hurt and sad. All I’m saying is that maybe it’s time to grow up.”
“Why? You’re grown up enough for both of us,” she said, and managed to keep the hurt she felt inside from leaking into her voice.
“I’ve had to be. You were always the fun twin. The one that everyone wanted to be around.” Bo folded her arms beneath her breasts. “The one who threw parties when Mom and Dad went out of town, and I was the one who ran around with coasters so your friends’ beer cans wouldn’t leave rings on Mom’s coffee table. I’m the one who cleaned up afterward so you wouldn’t get into trouble.”
The pinch moved from her heart to the backs of her eyes. “You ran around with coasters because you always wanted everyone to think you were the good twin. The smart twin. The responsible twin.” She pointed across the room at her sister. “And you never had to clean up after me.”
“I’m still cleaning up after you.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I needed my sister.” Her hand fell to her stomach as if she’d just been punched, but she didn’t cry. She was a better actress than she’d ever been given credit for. “I was going to move out of your apartment after I got my first paycheck, but I don’t have to wait. I have enough money for first month’s rent plus a deposit.” She looked into her sister’s blue eyes. They were so different, yet so alike in more ways than just their looks, and they knew exactly what to say to hurt each other. “I know the rest of the family thinks I’m a fuckup, but I never knew you felt that way too.”
Bo dropped her arms. “Now you do.”
“Yeah.” Chelsea turned toward the spare bedroom. “Now I do.” She walked down the hall before her emotions over took her ability to control them. She quietly shut the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. Bo was the other half of her soul. The one person in the world who could truly hurt her.
C mowidth='helsea stretched out on the bed and stared at the wall. The only time she ever felt like a loser was around her own family. Her mother was a successful promoter in Vegas. Before his death three years ago, her father had been a cardiologist. Her brother was a lawyer in Maryland. Her older sister lived in Florida, and was a CPA who had a handful of clients and raked in millions. Bo worked in the promotional department for a Stanley Cup–winning hockey team. And Chelsea… was an out-of-work actress.
The only time she was unhappy about her life was when she was around her family. She’d love to please her family by being a household name and having the cachet that brought with it. She’d love to land major movie and TV roles. She’d kill to have more in her portfolio than slasher films, bit parts on TV, and television commercials. She certainly wished her resume wasn’t filled up with so much background work that it was kind of embarrassing. But that didn’t mean she was an unhappy person. She wasn’t. Sure, she’d gotten fed up with her life in Hollywood. She’d needed a break. Maybe her decision to leave was a little rash, but she was going to go back, and when she did, she’d be better than ever. Her body would be more in proportion. No more backaches. No more shoulder pain. No more slutty bimbo roles.
The door behind her opened, and she felt the weight of her sister on the bed. “I don’t want you to move out.”
Chelsea wiped the tears from her face. “I think it would be best.”
“No.” Bo spooned her like they were kids again and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I like having you here, and I want you to stay as long as you want. I’m sorry I said those things. I don’t think you’re a fuckup. I think you’re impulsive and I worry so much about you.”
Chelsea turned and looked into her sister’s blue eyes. “I know, but you shouldn’t. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. It might not be in the profession that you or Mom likes, but I’ve never starved.” Except for the few weeks in the beginning when she’d lived in her car, but her family didn’t know that.
“I’m sorry I got mad and said those things to you. I just want you to stay. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you and I’m sorry too.” Her sister was the yin to her yang. The dark to her light. One could not exist without the other. “I love you, Boo.”
“Love you too, Chels. Sorry I said that about your clothes. I know what you wear is important to you.” Bo gave her a little squeeze, and she could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “They’re not all that discordant.”
“Thanks. And your clothes aren’t all that boring.” Chelsea laughed. “At least we’ve never had to fight about clothes, like some sisters.”
“True. Or boys.”
Dating had always been tricky. For some reason, if either she or Bo turned a guy down, he’d ask out the other twin. But the sisters never fought over boys because they were attracted to opposite sorts of men. So it had never been a problem. “That’s because you’ve always dated geeky mama’s boys, and I’ve always dated smooth-talking losers. We should both start dating out of our type.”
Bo held up one hand in front of Chelsea and they high-fived. “I don’t want to think about you leaving. So let’s not talk about it for at least three months.”
“Okay.”
“What are you going to wear to work your first day?”
Chelsea thought of the man who’d insulted her intelligence and her clothes. “I have a Gaultier tunic that I wear with a belt and skinny jeans.” If Mark didn’t like Pucci, he was going to hate her feather-?print Gaultier.
“Take it easy on the poor guy, Chels,” Bo said through a big yawn. “He’s only been out of the rehab hospital for a month. I don’t know if his body can take the shock.”
Light from the sixty-inch television screen bounced and shifted across Mark’s bare chest. His right hand squeezed a stress ball as he watched highlights from last night’s game. He sat on a leather sofa in his master bedroom, a black outline in the darkness. The sports coverage changed from the Stanley Cup highlights to that morning’s interview inside the Key. He watched himself and wondered how he could look so normal, sound so normal. The accident that had broken his bones had ripped out his soul. He was empty inside, and into the void had leaked a black rage. It was something he couldn’t get over. Had never tried to get over. Without his anger he was hollow.
With his free hand, he lifted the remote and pointed at the TV. His thumb slid across the up arrow and he skimmed past reality shows and cable reruns. He paused on a porno on Cinemax. On the screen, two women went at it like cats, cleaning each other with their tongues. They had nice tits, shaved coochies, and stripper heels. Normally, it was the sort of high-class entertainment he would have enjoyed. One of the women stuck her face between the other’s legs, and Mark watched for a few moments… waiting.
Nothing lifted his boxer briefs and he hit the off button, plunging the room into darkness. He tossed the gel- filled ball on the couch beside him and pushed himself off the couch. He hadn’t had a decent erection since before the accident, he thought as he walked across the room to his bed. It was probably the drugs. Or perhaps his dick just didn’t work anymore. Surprising that it didn’t bother him as much as it should.
Given his sex life before, not getting it up should freak him out. He’d always been able to get it up. Day or night, didn’t matter. He’d always been ready to go. It had never taken much to get him in the mood. Now, not even hot lesbian porn interested him.
Mark shoved back the thick covers on his bed and crawled inside. He was just a shell of the man he’d been. So pathetic that he might have reached for the bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand and put an end to it all if that hadn’t been even more pathetic. If that wasn’t the chickenshit way out.
Mark had never taken the chickenshit way out of anything. He hated weakness, which was one of the reasons he hated having those home health care workers around, taking his pulse and checking his medication.
Within a few minutes, his Ambien kicked in and he slipped into a deep, restful sleep and dreamed the only dream he’d ever had for himself. He heard the roar of the crowd clashing with the slapv hwith th of graphite sticks on ice and the shh of razor-sharp blades. The smells of the arena filled his nose, sweat and leather, crisp ice, and the occasional waft of hot dogs and beer. He could taste adrenaline and exhaustion in his mouth as his heart and
