His Assistant - Alexa Land Page 0,49
you were fine. You were cussin’ a blue streak, so I obviously hadn’t killed you. Meanwhile, we’d only had our licenses about a month, and I was sure Dad and Mom would take mine away if I’d accidentally broken your leg or something.”
I stared at him and said flatly, “So, the only example I could think of for a time you cared about me turned out to be a story about something that was totally my fault, while you were perfectly innocent and actually didn’t care at all. Awesome.”
“Damn it, Phoenix. Why are you always such a martyr?”
My voice rose, and I asked, “How am I being a martyr? You know what, never mind. Don’t answer that. Just go to your party and enjoy day drinking with a bunch of spoiled, rich assholes who have as much depth as a petri dish.”
I started walking again, and the Porsche started rolling as Dallas said, “You know what’s so annoying about you?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“The fact that you think there’s this nobility that comes with being poor. Anyone who makes more money than you is automatically a shallow douchebag, while you’re so much better than us because you haven’t been corrupted by the almighty dollar.”
“I don’t even sort of think that,” I muttered.
“Sure you do. Did you even talk to anyone at that party to determine if they were, in fact, a shallow douchebag, or did you reach that conclusion because you’re prejudiced?”
“Prejudiced against rich people? Hell, maybe I am. That’s not just random, though. I got to that point after working in Hollywood for years and being treated like shit by almost every rich person I met. There are some exceptions, like Harper, but they’re few and far between.”
Dallas sighed and said, “I don’t understand why you keep working as an assistant if you have contempt for almost everyone you come in contact with.”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown accustomed to luxuries like keeping a roof over my head and eating food.”
“Were you always this sarcastic?”
“Absolutely.”
My twin didn’t say anything for a few moments, but the car kept rolling along in reverse, keeping pace with me. Finally, he said, “Come and have a drink with me.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you could really use one.”
“I could, actually,” I admitted, “but if you and I try to spend time together, we’ll just fight.”
“Let’s break that cycle, Phoenix. Have a drink with me. I wanted to do that when I ran into you in New York, but you shot me down. Now here we are. I feel like the universe is giving us another chance to patch things up.”
I stopped walking and rubbed my forehead while Loco squirmed in the crook of my arm. After a pause, I said, “Fine. One drink somewhere that isn’t super pretentious.”
“I don’t think we have a lot of choices,” he said, as I climbed into the passenger seat. “Most places aren’t going to let you in with livestock, so let’s just go to my hotel. It’s not far from here.”
I partly buttoned my flannel shirt and tucked the front of it into my jeans, and then I slipped Loco into the shirt before putting on my seatbelt. Meanwhile, Dallas flipped the car around in a tight U-turn. Then he glanced at me and sighed as the chicken stuck her head out above the fastened buttons. “For a minute there, I thought you were actually fixing yourself up in anticipation of going somewhere nice,” he said. “But no. You were just making a chicken pocket.”
I glanced at him and frowned. “You’re one to talk about appearances. Nice highlights, Dal. I don’t think there’s anything about you that’s natural anymore, from that fake-ass tan to those tinted contacts.”
“I’m not wearing tinted contacts.”
“Come on. Our eyes aren’t that color.”
He asked, “How are you this clueless at thirty? Seriously. I’m wearing a dark green T-shirt, and that color brings out the green and gold in our hazel eyes. The tan’s not fake, either. I spent part of last month in Bali, while you look like you’ve been hiding in a cave. How can anyone be that pale?”
He held his tanned arm next to mine, and I rolled down my sleeve and said, “Fine. So, the tan’s real. Apparently you missed the memo that sunbathing is terrible for you, but whatever. And congratulations on knowing which colors to wear. That’s quite the accomplishment.”
“At least I’m trying. Not like you, in that baggy, gray T-shirt and tired-ass flannel.