Page 4 of Tangled Like Us

“No, fortunately.” He threads his arms over his chest. “This is just the kind of pain associated with me being a dumbass.” His eyes flash to me. “I think I threw my back out.”

I’m rigid, and concern grips my muscles. “When?” I pass him a packet of ibuprofen behind my back, as covertly as possible.

Without looking at me, he slips the medicine in his back pocket. Banks doesn’t like the team knowing he’s dealing with any kind of pain.

“Earlier today,” he answers. “During the whole celebration.” He cocks his head back to the sea. Referring to when Omega was horsing around. Shoving and tackling guys in the water. Because Farrow Keene was reinstated to the security team.

My eyes drill into pinpoints, just thinking about Farrow.

Again, shouldn’t have punched him.

Can’t shake that fucking truth.

I take a constricting breath, my nostrils flaring.

Banks notices, and he opens his mouth to speak—we both suddenly look to our eleven. At the sand dunes.

Three temp bodyguards are gawking directly at us. They’re fresh blood. Newly-hired, just for this vacation.

Which is why their eyeballs are popping out of their faces. Staring at us like we’re six-foot-seven woolly mammoths. It’s not because we’re tall or attractive or unshaven—or an extinct prehistoric fucking species.

It’s because we’re identical.

We glare head-on until they divert their gazes.

“Another day, another shitbag stares away,” Banks says, sounding indifferent.

After twenty-eight years, we’re both used to it.

Most of the time I forget that Banks and I look identical until someone eagle-eyes us to death, and then I remember I’m a twin.

Same DNA.

Same imposing height, large hands and feet. We’ve kept our hair the same for most of our time in security. Thick brown strands reach our necks, pieces tucked behind our ears. Same scruff along our jaws, same hard brown eyes.

Sturdy builds, intimidating demeanors—we sharea lotin common, more than just physical features. We have the same interests. It’s why we’re both here.

But our personalities arevastlydifferent. It just takes people actual effort to see that, and for some reason, most people would rather be told who’s the “quiet one” and the “loud one” and the “funny one” instead of taking time to get to know us.

I don’t go up to people I first meet and ask, “Are you funny?”

So after a while, I just stopped listing out our personalities, but now that we’re older, we’ve become easier to tell apart from our features.

Banks has a fraction less muscle mass because I lift more, and my jaw is subtly more square to his narrow.

On the beach, I look at my brother, and I’m less tense. He’s familiarity and comfort during rough days. No matter how bad I fuck it, he’ll always be here.

I check over my shoulder, a routine sweep. “Which men need to rack out?” I ask him.

The past few days have been long and drawn out for the team with little to no sleep. Bodyguards will attempt to stay with their clients past exhaustion.

“Epsilon should be good,” Banks says. “For SFO, Oscar is probably pushing twenty-hours. Farrow could be going into thirty.”

Gut reaction, I glance down the shoreline and spot the bleach-white haired bodyguard, covered in skull and dagger tattoos. Farrow Redford Keene looks between a swashbuckling pirate and a fucking guitarist in a rock band.

He’s neither.

In actuality, he’s adoctor.Now a bodyguard again. Assigned to both the med team and security team, and he’s out of earshot while talking to Akara. The Omega lead is catching Farrow up on what he’s missed in security.