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“Rex,” Mac calls out to me, the water becoming frigid. “I don’t smell any fucking soap, you turd. Tell mom hi!”
Fucking fuck.
“Alright!” I shout back, reaching up to snag a bottle of something from the ledge and squirting some into my trembling palm.
Shit, that’s conditioner.
I smear the shit into my hair anyways to help with the tangles and feel for another bottle. Landing on soap this time, I use my hands to lather my pits, my chest and work my way down my body.
The eagle, spread wide across my chest and pecs, taunts me first when I lean to wash one of my tattooed feet.
I shake my head at the symbolism behind the ink and lean over to wash the other foot.
Sliding back under the spray again, letting the freezing water rejuvenate me, the conditioner making the tile slippery under my thighs. I feel around for the shampoo, squeeze out way more than a dime-sized amount and push the shit around in my hair until white foam covers the shower. Reaching up, I adjust the temp to force more warmth through the pipes, grateful when the water responds and goes lukewarm again.
Rinsing the lather, I replace it with more conditioner. A knee up to my chest, I prop an arm there while I wait for the oil to soak in, and read the lyrics scripted in the crook of my forearm.
The font faces me so that it can easily be read in moments like this, a soft reminder to myself.
A smile pulls at the corner of my lips, the action tense with unused muscles. I breathe in for what feels like the first time ina long time, my chest expanding with the scent of coconut from the hair shit.
Mac’s right.
It reminds me of her, my muse, and I rinse my body with a renewed sense of energy.
The contract was up the moment we got home.
I have a job to do, emotions to express.
I have an out.
A weight feels like it has lifted from my chest when I wrap the towel around my waist and exit the bathroom in search of my twin.
“Macaroni!”
I find my brother sitting on the kitchen counter when I come around the corner, a steaming pot held under his chin as he shovels fresh mac and cheese into his mouth with a serving spoon.
“Don’t judge me,” he starts, pointing at me from across the room with a growing grin.
“And I won’t judge you.” I finish, our twin thing a reminder that as long as we have each other, we’ll never be alone in this world. We promised each other from the moment we could conceptualize loyalty that we’d have each other’s back, no matter how stupid or crazy.
It’s gotten us pretty fucking far already.
“I have some ridiculous shit I need to do.” I hop up on the counter next to him and steal the spoon to shovel a bite into my own mouth. “You got me?”
He grins and holds out a fist for me to bump.
“Fuckin’ always, bro.” I meet his watering gaze. “Glad to have you back, Rex.”
17
REX
“My boy!” Cigar smoke fills the room as if it hasn’t left the mob scene since the 70s, from the occupant more than filling out the leather high back chair situated at the head of the obnoxious desk. Ornate fixtures adorn the large pillars filling out the space, faint lights illuminating only every other one, the surfaces collecting enough dust to start their own fire if you breathed on it wrong.
What used to be dark green colored panels between the pillars are now a brown shade of puke, thanks to the years of nicotine buildup. Only three of them are filled in with handmade wooden frames.
And all three frames belong to As Above.
