Page 87 of Good Girl Gone Badd

I mean, those girls are fuckin’ fine as fuck, man. And cool, funny, sophisticated, and a little crazy. Canaan and I, obviously, are somewhat less than normal, too, being tattooed, bona fide rock stars by sixteen, rarely actuallyatschool. popping in for a week or two here and there. It’s a match made in heaven. Right?

Wrong.

It just never happened. Damned if I know why, and damned if Cane knows why, seeing as we’ve discussed this ad nauseam.Why haven’t we hooked up with Tate and Aerie?One of us would ask, and the other would answer withdamn if I know, bro,and we’d start in on how cool the girls are, how hot they are, or we’d talk about the various projects the girls had worked on, the girls being crazy creative themselves. Photography, painting, performance art, graffiti, weird avant-garde music, you name it, the girls had tried it. And every damn thing they did was fucking amazing:Brilliant, stunning, a tour de force, as the critics might say.

They never tried to monetize it into a career, though, and seemed weirdly content to go along with their nutty-as-a-fruitcake mother’s plan to turn them into New York socialites, paragons of virtue and sophistication.

Those girls are a lot of shit, but paragons of virtue, they ain’t. We know this, and we know it for a fact, from their own mouths, having discussed—as mentioned—in detail, the various sexual arts we’d all gotten up to.

Wait, you’re confused.

They moved to New York, I’d said.

See, we always just connected, and on a personal level. We got each other in a way no one else did. Twins understand twins, and artists understand artists. But to have twins who are artists? Finding that? That’s a one in a trillion to the third power kind of rarity. So when Rachel The Fruit Loop moved the girls to New York, we stayed in touch. We emailed in giant CC chains, and texted in a constantly-buzzing group text thread, we FaceTimed and Skyped, and we even wrote actual, stupid, wrist-cramping letters, and we chilled for old time’s sake whenever all four of us happened to be in Ketchikan in the summers—anything to retain that mystical, golden connection to the only pair of people on the goddamn planet who understood us.

It got harder as Cane and I got bigger in the music world, and as Tate and Aerie got bigger in the hoity-toity world of upper crust New York City. We kept in contact, but it got nearly impossible to keep the connection as strong as it had once been, especially when we started touring overseas and they did semesters in Paris and London and Rome.

Then, we got the call that Dad had died—the awful, unthinkable horror.

We kicked free of the tour, which had sucked mightily, since we’d been touring with bands we’d grown up idolizing, but our fucking dad had just died so obviously we had to go, and may the consequences get fucked like a cheap hooker.

The connection almost snapped, then.

We got sucked into the whirlwind that was eight Badd brothers all grown up and in one place, each of us with wild hairs up our asses, and the girls were just everywhere at once doing I don’t even know fucking what, posting on Insta from Rome and then Tahiti and then New York, and then Dubai, all within a month.

Now, they were back in Ketchikan, indefinitely.

Or, sort of. They weregoingto be back. I’d kind of lied to Bax: the girls weren’t actuallyinKetchikan yet, but we’d had a group video chat in which the girls informed us that they’d decided they needed an indefinite break from being world famous social media darlings—their words—and in which I’d learned, via Aerie’s babblesome rambling, about the announcement that Eva was marrying Thomas, a wedding which had been speculated about for years but had never quite materialized. Aerie had said, blah blah blah, an off again on again relationship blah blah blah, all the rumor mills were that Thomas was a horrible sot and a philandering womanizer and just a real jerk blah blah blah.

That long rambling train of thought? That’s what it’s like to talk to the girls. So yeah, buckle up, ya’ll.

This here gon’ befuuun.

The girls are back in town; the boys are back in town…

And though Cane and I haven’t outright discussed it, we’ve decided we want to figure out once and for all why we haven’t hooked up with those fine-ass Kingsley twins, and do something about it.

Tate for Cane, Aerie for me.

Right?

Ehhhh…it might be a little more complicated than that, methinks.

This is two sets of identical twins we’re talking about here, and ain’t not a one of us any kind of normal, ya’ll.

Meaning—translating myCorin is a crazy lunaticnonsense—

I have no idea what that means, actually.

Just that whatever happens, it probably won’t be like any of us are expecting.

See…when we had the group video chat, the girls were whispering a lot to each other in little private asides, which was normal. What wasn’t normal was the weird gleam in their eyes, or the way the camera angles had somehow worked in our favor, meaning we were getting “accidental” down-blouse looks at their fine-ass titties.

Them’s just might be into us, Brother Cane, I’d said to him.

Yessir, they rather do seem to be, Brother Corin, he’d replied.

Heh. We’re so funny.

You ever tie a sparkler to a cat’s tail, and then try to hold on to it?

That’s kind of like the Kingsley twins.

Like I said…this here is gonna be fun.

Crazy, but fun.

I hope.