The Twins & Me

The Rules

Oliver's already got his keys in one hand, phone in the other, when we emerge from the bedroom, squeaky clean. "No wonder it took you almost two months to fuck—you guys are slow as hell just getting ready," he says, heading straight for the door.

Arlo glances at me, and I feel my face go red, but we follow Oliver just the same.

Down in the parking garage in the basement of their apartment building I notice an identical black Wrangler is parked next to Arlo's—he and Oliver have the same car.

"Wren's up front," Oliver says, unlocking the doors.

Arlo opens the passenger door for me with an apologetic look on his face. I take a deep breath before sliding in. It's hard to look Oliver in the face, considering not even an hour's past since he had his hands all over me, telling me to make his brother cum.

"I'm feeling burgers," Oliver says, pushing the button to start the car; the Jeep roars to life with a growl. I hastily buckle my seatbelt.

"You always want burgers," Arlo comments from the back.

I decide not to have an opinion; for one, I don't want Oliver's attention turned toward me, and two, I don't think I could eat right now if I'd been deprived of food for days.

Ignoring his brother, Oliver puts down all the windows and cranks up the music before peeling out of his parking spot with a squeal.

He takes the corner out of the parking garage too sharp and I get thrown against the passenger side door. I suppress a grunt and grip onto a safety handle on the door for dear life. The storm's in full swing; rain assaults the car and I pray he's got good traction.

We drive a few blocks—thankfully it's nearing rush hour so there's traffic to slow Oliver down—and finally pull up to an incredibly expensive-looking St. Regis Hotel.

He parks behind a sleek Rolls Royce, and valets open our doors for us. I feel very underdressed and very overwhelmed taking in the people climbing in and out of their cars, making their way to the automatic rotating glass doors at the entrance of the hotel. Even the valets are groomed nicely and wearing sharp purple suits.

Oliver leads the way, passing his keys to the valet with hardly a glance.

Arlo takes my hand and leans down to whisper, "Don't worry—this is just Ollie's favorite restaurant. He's showing off."

This doesn't really put me at ease, but with his hand in mine I feel a little calmer.

We make our way through the lobby, which is covered in marble. The ceiling is high, featuring a dome of windows and crystal chandeliers. There is lush seating, a long check-in desk, and a double staircase covered in velvet carpet leading up to the second floor.

I try to take everything in; the women in evening dresses, men in suits, even their posh children running around in polos. Golden luggage carts are being pushed by striking bagboys and a pianist plays a grand piano on the far side of the room.

Arlo gives my hand a tug when I slow to stare at the ornate design set into the floor, and I even earn a smug laugh from Oliver. He leads us past the curving staircases to a pair of intricate wooden doors.

The atmosphere of the steak restaurant instantly changes from the hustle of the lobby: sound is muffled by gleaming paneled walls, thick leather furniture and the soft clink of glasses by diners. The large dining area is lit by candlelight from tables and sconces on the walls. The bar on the far wall spreads its length and features hundreds of uniquely shaped bottles.

My mouth almost drops when the attractive hostess greats Oliver and Arlo with a warm smile. "Welcome back, boys. Beginning to think you'd lost your appetite."