Maceo (Filthy Rich Alphas)

Cora called them succulent meat heads. Maria simply swooned, which made me dry heave each time. Denice pretended to ignore them altogether, but we all knew she desired the twins most of all. I didn’t get the big deal.

When I saw them, the muscles, chocolate skin, dimples, and apparently gorgeous faces never flashed before me. To me they were Thing One and Thing Two. I nicknamed the twins that after my first reading of The Cat in the Hat. They must’ve begged me to read that freaking book every night.

I was older by three years. My toddler phase blurred by with their poop and destruction of all my dolls. The messes they caused had my single father screaming at the top of his lungs every evening when he relieved our babysitter. The twins flew kites through the house, broke eighty percent of the furniture, tracked mud on rainy days, then covered the floor with sand on the summer ones, and monthly they wrote on everything with anything, including poop.

For our entire childhood, I found myself cleaning up all of their messes, just to not tire my already exhausted father out. He kept three jobs and took care of us on his off time. He didn’t need to mop during the moments he should be asleep.

Poor Dad.

The few times he brought dates around us, I admit, we may have tortured a few unsuspecting females when Dad wasn’t looking. Poor guy didn’t have a love life until our hormones rushed in and we started high school. Now he’d moved to Hawaii with a Philippine woman and couldn’t stop raving about how happy he was.

Stopping right in front of my brothers, I shielded my eyes from the sun.

What do these two want?

“Hey sis.” Dylan high fived me. “What’s up, baby girl?”

“You really look beautiful today.” Douglas tucked a few of my curls behind my ear.

I tensed. “What do you both want?”

Dylan raised his hands in defeat. “We can’t greet our favorite sis at the door?”

“I’m not your favorite. I’m your only one.” I turned to Douglas, the one who couldn’t lie to save his life. “What’s up?”

“Nada.” Dylan circled me. “What do you have on, by the way? Black jogging pants and a St. Patrick’s Day T-shirt? You know, St. Paddy’s isn’t for another two months.”

Ignoring Dylan, I eyed Douglas. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Beads of sweat sprouted on Douglas’s forehead.

I smiled.

You’re just bursting at the seams to let the secret out, aren’t you?

Whenever we concocted a plan to break one of our father’s rules, Dylan and I never told Douglas. The less he knew the better we got away with it.

Douglas wiped his forehead. “So—”

“Maybe you should change your clothes,” Dylan suggested.

“No.” I continued to glare at Douglas. If I could crack him, then I wouldn’t need to deal with Dylan. “I’m not changing.”

Dylan grabbed the bottom of my shirt and shook it. “It’s not even St. Patrick’s Day. Come on, sis. Usually, you’re here looking fly.”

“I’m fly now.”

“You have sneakers on,” Dylan countered.

“Can a woman not look good in sneakers?”

Douglas shook his head. “Not if that woman wants us to save money on our plumbing bill.”

“What the fuck?” I asked.

“Dude!” Dylan hit Douglas’s back, wrinkling that expensive shirt. “I said we don’t tell her until right before she goes on the roof.”

Roof? Why would I go on the freaking roof?

Douglas frowned. “But I didn’t say anything about Maceo or the picnic.”

Jesus.

“Picnic?” Rage rose inside of me. “What picnic and my suggestion is to cover your balls because I may be punching someone.”

Douglas backed up.

Unfazed, Dylan rolled his eyes. “Look. You okay-ed the pipe replacement. Do you have any idea how much that is going to cost us?”

“Yes,” I said. “We have the money. Now explain the picnic.”

“Naw, sis.” Dylan held up his finger. Some ugly gold ring adorned it. I’d bet money a woman had given it to him. “We don’t have the money. You may be over the accounting part of this business, but I check our funds weekly. The cash isn’t there.”

“I was going to use the new air conditioning money.”

“Unacceptable,” Douglas said.

“Hell to the fucking no,” Dylan chimed in. “Miami is hot during the summer.”

“Really?” My words dripped with sarcasm. “It gets hot in Miami? No way. Is that why the basketball team is named Miami Heat? All this time that I’ve been born and raised here, I never quite understood the whole temperature stereotype.”

“Well news flash,” Dylan clapped his hands hard, “Miami is hotter than a video chick at an NBA All Star game. Hot weather makes the club muggy and no one is walking into a place that is worse than an oven.”

“We’ll pay this and save up again. Stop worrying. We’ll have time to get a new system for the summer,” I countered.