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“Just you? Not you and your friends?”
“I’m the one who made the bet,” she grumbles. “They take nothing to do with it.”
It’s kind of funny. Or it would be, if it didn’t sound like she made this bet with strangers.
“You’re not going to honor it, are you?” I ask.
“I kind of have to. They’re our next-door neighbors.”
“Um, what?”
“Captain Bishop and his team from Silver Valley Fire Department live right next door to us,” she says, not sounding too impressed. “They’re so boring, Saph. They told us off about the barbeque we had set up when we had that backyard party last year.”
“Wait, was that the barbeque that singed Karma’s bangs …”
“When she used it to light her cigarette, yeah. It was, and maybe they had a point about that one, but some of the other stuff they bug us about is just annoying. Like leaving our trash cans out on the street after they’ve been emptied. And now I have to go spend a week scrubbing their floors and whatever.”
“Whatever?”
“They’ll be around while I’m there. They made sure they scheduled their vacation time around it.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
“One or two of them don’t exactly trust me. They probably think I’m going to buy fish and hide them in their vents or something instead of cleaning.”
“Is that what you were thinking of doing?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Cleaning is so damn boring, and these guys are so meh, Saph. I thought fire fighters were supposed to be hot.”
“Considering you don’t find a guy hot unless he looks like he spent all night in a mosh pit …”
“Don’t yuck my yum,” she tells me, before she takes another sip of her drink.
“I wasn’t,” I protest. “I was just …”
“You were just telling me my neighbors are probably hot and I just can’t see it.”
“Well … Maybe.”
She laughs. “Maybe you should go clean their house for me.”
“What? No. You’re not roping me into that.”
“Please?” she pleads. “You know I’m allergic to cleaning.”
“You don’t like cleaning. You’re not allergic to it.”
“Same thing.” She sits back and sips at her drink, and when she puts it down empty, she has a sneaky smile on her red-painted lips.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she sings, as she reaches for the vodka.
If there’s a single word that’s more terrifying from my twin’s lips, I don’t know it.
That sing-song “Nothing” always means something.
“Top up?” she asks, offering me the bottle.
