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Being a twin isn’t as exciting as most would like to believe. We don’t have telepathy or share any other inhuman communication skills aside from a bond forged at birth. And before losing one-third of our triplet triangle, that bond was damn near unbreakable.
But now, all that’s left between me and Mortie is a whole lot of baggage.
He sits in my recliner by the bay window of my Seattle home with an IV pole, a bag of fluids, and a line running into his arm beside him. “Where are Mom and Dad?”
“Out,” he says without further explanation, and I grind my teeth. They’re not supposed to be leaving him unsupervised.
Other than when Mom initially called for help with this whole mess, the only contact I’ve received from my parents was to tell me Mortie’s agent set up an anonymous exchange for a photo of me—posing as him—at Pearl Beach.
This whole thing should have been another classic twin swap. Something we’ve done plenty of times in our lives. Only, it’s not funny like it was when we used to prank our friends, cousins, and teachers.
“I didn’t ask for this, you know,” he says somberly.
It’s strange seeing him this way. Haunted, instead of full of life like he used to be. But then again, we don’t usually speak unless we have to. Like the last time he pulled this shit and I had to work on set for him or the time before that, when he drank himself into a four day depression and I had to attend the SAG awards on his behalf.
“Are you saying getting shit-faced drunk and high on coke, then crashing your Lambo was an accident?”
“Look, I understand you’ve disowned me, Marcus. But I want you to know that Mom asking you to get involved wasn’t my call.” He shifts in the chair. “I was going to go for real this time.”
Wasbeing the keyword.
I still remember the day we picked him up from the hospital. I hid in the back of the limousine, nauseated at the sight of my brother beaten and bruised from the crash, while photographers swarmed him.
Even after all of that, it took one week for him to relapse, and that’s how I ended up taking his place. But Dad was supposed to call once Mortie recovered. The deal was, one way or another,he would get him out of the court-ordered rehab agreement, and get me back home as soon as possible.
“It doesn’t matter if you asked for this or not; this is what I do, right? I step in as you whenyoucan’t be.”
I take a good, hard look at his hallowed cheeks and the circles under his eyes. He looks just like Leah did when she was sick, and the sight makes bile rise in my throat. “What’s going on with you? You look like hell.”
“Withdrawals,” he admits, and for a moment, all I can do is stare in disbelief. “Fucking feels like I’m dying. Hell, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
I hold my breath for three counts before slowly releasing it. “Why did you call, Mort?”
“We have a problem.” He pans the camera to the computer in his lap with a still shot of a man who looks an awful lot like me—well, him. “Look familiar?”
My heart jolts at the sight of Heather flexing up on her tippy-toes to kiss me. Her hat perfectly covers my face through the next few images, just as she hoped.
That woman’s too smart for her own good, but I guess whoever snapped that picture decided to sell it anyway.
“Can’t keep your dick dry for more than a week before you pull this,” Mortie says.
I clench a fist to keep from lashing out at him. He doesn’t deserve my anger. He doesn’t deserve the name I’ve allowed him to use. He doesn’t even deserve my help after what he’s put our family through.
“Mom said the debt collectors have resorted to making threats for payments, and that photographer was going to split his earnings with us after selling it to a tabloid. I was just trying to help.” I scoot up to rest against the headboard. “That picture is weeks’ old anyway, so what does it matter? Let the tabloids speculate. There’s no actual proof that it’s you.”
He scoffs. “Somehow, the studio is just catching wind of it, and they’ve contacted my manager, wanting to know if I violated the rehab orders.”
Mortie pulls away from the screen, falling into a wretching fit that has him clutching his side, and I lean forward to… what, offer him a shoulder to lean on? A hug or loving pat on the back, perhaps? It’s been too long since we had a relationship like that, and given he can’t put his family first when their lives depend on it, I’ve long since given up hope he’d ever make an effort to get it back.
I shift on the bed uncomfortably. “What did they say?”
“Gregorio made his stance on my sobriety explicitly clear. He’s keeping me on the show with strict conditions that I attend rehab for the ordered six weeks, or I’m done. Starting Monday, he wants weekly reports of my progress at the facility. Proof that I’m really sticking to it this time.”
Six weeks.
We’ve known the verdict since the day he received it. But Dad always pulls through with his connections to get him off the hook. I didn’t think this time would be any different.
“No one bothered to tell me your career was on the line.” My frown deepens at my parents keeping me in the dark.
