#theclermonttwinsff

“What are yo-...why is your mouth so fuckin’ reckless? Like, what’s good with you?”

“So you- okay.” She quickly did an About Face headed for the crosswalk, leaving Kaden dumbfounded momentarily until he eventually stepped out his truck hitting his alarm and followed.

“Yo! Jordan, man!”

“Nigga you either catch the fuck up, or I’ll see you later!”

He didn’t do shit like this, and technically he couldn’t. Gaining notoriety and recognition from his blessing of being a second year Wide Receiver in the NFL came with its perks, and downfalls. People actually noticed him now. And not in the pedestrian way either. He signed his third autograph this week for a five year old, who told him he was his biggest fan, and that one day he wanted to be just like him. Fans. He winced at the poor little boy wanting to be like the critically acclaim asshole, with a horrific track record to match. He shook the apprehension off seeing the subway entrance come to view in which Jordan speedily descended. He didn't take the subway. I don't have to. He never explained himself to anyone aside from the very few he held in high regards. There's no reason to. And certainly he never chased after a female especially in the physical sense because he never felt the urge to. This is just...

His eyes scattered about the congested space, in search for some breathing room and a bright orange jacket with the signature Nike emblem. Shoving her way through a boisterous crowd of prep school students he could see was Jordan stepping onto the train. He shoved his way through and searched for a space to squish in. Conveniently it was close to her, as they stood side by side latching on the standee seething. The abrupt smell of funk, and her antics he had just about enough of. Kaden didn't understand how or when the dynamics of whatever relation one would call this, got so conflicting. How he couldn't stand her so intensely. They were way past grade school spats, or any juvenile issues that any guy had with their best friend’s little sister. But as easy as it was to provoke, and get a rise out of her it was hard to deny the real reason why. They silently stared at each other, until she eventually sucked her teeth looking off.

“You so damn hollywood. What? You afraid the act of the common folk will rub off? Hm?” As Kaden grimaced feeling a sweaty arm collide on his skin for the fourth time, he looked down at her beyond annoyed. Blame it on hypochondria and slight claustrophobia, he couldn’t endure for too long even if it was the latter.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you’re full of shit...I know that. I know whatever it is you have to say would be utter bullshit too, so you shouldn’t even waste me or your time.” She shoved him off as they continued bumping into each other with each sway the subway was causing.

“You got a stick so far up your ass, nobody can get through to you.”

“Good. I like it that way.”

“Where the fuck you got me goin’ Jo?”

“Got you goin’!?” She hissed, attempting to whisper but failing miserably. “ Nigga you hopped your happy ass on here, I didn't force you to follow me!” A lady in earshot, Kaden could spot in his peripheral, shifted in her seat following the clear of her throat as she continued looking ahead. Damn. We're really doing this...in public.

“It's that hard though!? For you to just open your fuckin’ mouth and spit it ou-” More eyes shifted in their direction, causing Kaden to grit his teeth as Jordan maneuvered to the exit to get off finally as they came to a stop. She jetted up the stairs and walked up 135 street. For several blocks they dwelled in silence. Him attempting to keep up with her swift steps and glares with an occasional reminder that he didn’t have to follow her. But he wasn’t budging. I came this damn far anyway. They reached the Harlem Hospital Center, and immediately Kaden grew confused and concerned. Slowly turning his way, Jordan folded her lips in. Her eyes closing before bringing her hands clasp in a prayer motion to her lips.

“Don’t say shit you hear me? Just stay...stay your ass in the background.” They entered as she went towards the front desk greeted by a nurse. “Hi uh...I-I’m here to visit one of your patients.”

LONDON

“Ouch, Milan! Shit!”

“Keep your damn head still, then. Big ass head.”

It's worth it. The woven lines of strings crisscrossed and zigzagged through her masterpiece of a braided beehive, truly was. London didn't trust her brother to be her landline if she secured a spot on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Or have the expectation from him that he will ever arrive at any place on time. But Miles ‘Milan’ Pierre if not anything knows hair. Even to much of their father’s dismay, having a secured hairstylist for every recital, every fashion show, and event was much of a blessing and for him a curse.

The moment his son traded a football for a hot comb, the soured hope of doom courtesy of Monty Pierre was placed. Where he shunned Miles total existence, only acknowledging his presence when it suited him, and was forced to at any social gathering. As Milan would put it: “Some just can't take the fabulousness even if the DNA is shared.”

So it was important to affirm through every tug, rip, and yank that the flawless honey blonde tresses of virgin Malaysian hair was worth it. Milan allowed the flat irons and comb glide through the tresses, before fluffing out the ends. Silky.

“Don't trim shit either. l want all 28’’ inches of lush down to the crack of my ass.”

“Yeah, I know...cause you're extra. And you bitches think I'm about to be doing the same hair twice every two weeks too, huh? Ha! Think again. Call Brooklyne and tell her little ass she has an hour to get here. And I wants my bag.” The rat tail comb was directed towards her nose. His eyes squinting looking down at her. 

“Alright mighty mouth Milan, sheesh.” She pushed the comb away, while typing a text to Brooklyne. Like always his false promises went in one of London’s ears where a princess cut stone from Cartier could be found and out the other as she typed away, and hissed at another yank of the sewing string.

“So...Kiersten. Heard from her?”

“Yup.”

“Really, now? How long ago was this?”

“Two days ago.” Short, clipped, and sweet. He ain’t slick. London wasn't too fond of Kiersten recent choices, in fact she despised them. With her association of Imani’s brother being one of them, and her recent disappearing acts being a close second. It didn't take Einstein to figure he had to be the one occupying her time if it wasn't herself, and Brooklyne especially with her keeping it short with them both. But the secrecy was Kiersten’s way of ducking and diving from London’s typical interrogations.

“You know London Bridge…” Here we go. “As your favorite brother on this dreading universe…”

“Nigga you're my only brother.”

“Shit as far as we know.” London sneered up in his direction watching him through the mirror. “...I know you wouldn't, of course, keep secrets from me would you? Like, you shouldn't...it would totally go against sibling code.”

“There's nothing to tell, Milan.”

“Hmph. So riddle me this…”

Milan held a picture in her direction posted on E! news. There in a grainy picture was a snapshot of Messiah and Kiersten leaving Rime sneaker boutique in Brooklyn. The caption identifying them as the daughter of Supermodel legend with an unidentifiable specimen of a hottie. Oh, heavens...

“...yeah, hoe. And you were sayin’?”

-----------

“This incognito...ass...bitch.”

Brooklyne spat while gawking at Kiersten crossing the street heading in their direction. Huddled as a duo at the signature rustic tables, London hoped that a frappe courtesy of Maman Coffee, would aid in settling the trauma ahead. She reckoned Kiersten even looked the part of a person not wanting to be seen or acknowledged. Frames concealing the majority upper region of her face, so big twice they were pushed up at the nose bridge. A huge scarf to shield the cold, and from what London could also see, provide some form of warmth to make up for Kierstens icy demeanor. She finally took a seat setting her huge crimson Celine duffle on the adjacent seat.

“Hey.”

“Kiersten where have you-” Brooklyn raised her hand halting London as she interjected.

“What’s up mama, how’re you? Where you comin’ from?”

“Just left my only class for the day. But I’m fine...why? What’s so urgent?” She typed away on her cellular device ever so casually. London raised a brow, and dipped forward fighting away a scowl.

“Listen, Ki. I want you to know that not only do we love you, we're here for you through any, and everything. You do know that right?”

“Why wouldn’t I Brooklyne?”

“Well, jee Kiersten maybe your absenteeism could be a clue?” Even the huge shaded lenses couldn’t shake London’s stare she could see Kiersten fidget under. It’s truly never her intentions to ever come off condescending...well half of the time admittedly so, but London just couldn’t help herself. Kiersten could just be so...dense.

“London!”

“What, Brooklyne!?”

“As I was saying...we love you. So you shutting us out makes no sense. Like what’s really the matter?”

When they scheduled the mock “conference”, intervention in the words of London, a “simple girl talk to get to the bottom of the issue” to Brooklyne, they didn’t expect for it to go like this. Especially foodless with a flat frappe she reckoned to add insult to injury. Why was she being so defensive? For the life of her London couldn’t figure it out. Cute shades or not.

“Can you tell your sister not to bore holes into me like I’m some nutcase, or freakshow.”

“Brooklyne can you tell your friend that she should acknowledge me cause I am sitting right the fuck here, and maybe I’m staring at her cause she's avoiding eye contact?!

“You bitches are going to drive me to drink. And it’s only 11a-fuckin’-m! Please, alright? Kiersten real shit, though? Take the damn glasses off! I don’t know what kind of super duper spy shit you got goin’ on, and London pipe it the fuck down cause you’re doing a lot at a smooth eight, bring it down to like a three. I know it’s finals, and the end of the semester is approaching but, damn!”

“She’s just so judgy! I get enough of that from Fiona, from my professors, from everyone. The one person I don’t need it from is the person I should be confiding in the most; my best friend! And then when I find someone that doesn’t do those things...that respects me, and my opinions, acknowledge my efforts, and furthermore doesn’t treat me like a child? That’s a problem too!”

Silence. For a lengthy two minutes that followed a sniffle, and finally the removal of those big ass frames that presented liquid duds pouring in droplets of two. Brooklyn immediately reached over and wiped her face, causing London to feel slightly shitty.

“I just worry about you Ki, and want what’s bes-”

“Want what’s best for me. Yes, I’m always hearing that you, but your opposition to my wants, doesn’t warrant judgement. Cause you’re not always right.” An obnoxious sound of intense suction came from Brooklyn’s straw, as she sipped her iced tea and divided her gaze amongst the two.

“Hmph. Well isn’t this tea just lovely?” She muttered. London, cut her eyes at her before refocusing them back on Kiersten.

“Okay, so this is about Messiah? Alright, fine. If you like it? Then I love it...so be it then Ki.”

“No, London...Messiah is just the half. I need you and everyone else? To realize that I’m grown. So the next time my mother or your father goes around looking for me, tell them just that.” She pushed her seat back grabbing her shades, and bag.

She was never fond of pet names. Terms of endearment made for coddling, or pacifying sometimes expressed in a  condescending manner that made her blood boil. Well pet names from her. She placed her phone down after shooting a few texts out, and deleting the majority of voice messages.

Amongst the seven, three voicemails belonged to the woman that birthed her that bordered hysteria, even at the calmest level of her tone. She could picture Fiona Whitaker swallowed in the high priced mansion where the walls were caving in with her stricken with loneliness. Where she was accompanied solely by a wine bottle, Marlboro cigarettes and a broken heart. Coping methods to perpetuate the sickness that will certainly take more than medical assistance to cure. She was sweetie in a drunken slur on most nights, honey when anger was on the surface of aggravation, and love when on the brink of being dismissed for what her mother deemed as a trivial manner.

Kiersten grimaced, setting down the chiffon material meant for sewing, that she couldn’t even attempt to make happen. She wished the internal battles didn’t always make her the common casualty from her mother’s assaults.  So much so, the name coddling was salt poured onto more opened wounds. I’m not a child. Slightly started, she felt the calloused hands caress her shoulders that trailed to her wrist, and finally her hands, spreading them out beneath his large ones.

But when he called her baby? Mmm. Spoken in that gruff bravado was enough to make her knees buckle. The warm  fuzzy feeling of contentment growing fonder these past months as she inhaled his distinctive scent of wood and spice.

“What you in here stressin’ about? I can feel that shit all the way from the other room.” Was her transparency that evident? Kiersten smiled smally as his lips reached her temple causing her to get further cocooned.

“I’m not stressing.” What a lie, Kiersten. Do better.

“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Messiah’s eyes boring through her as she attempted at pulling away. The makeshift desk on her vanity made up of her sewing machine, and kit only providing but so much room for her to find an escape out of her gratefully enormous walk in closet. Or as Messiah would put it: ‘Your couture bedroom’. His pronunciation of couture (CAH - tour) always causing to giggle like an idiot.

“Yeahhh.”

“Nah, stay your little ass in place.”

“Come on‘ Si, I’m working. No interruptions when we’re in our zones remember?”

“Na. I ain’t tryna hear all that baby girl. You been in here too quiet, for too long…” She felt the scruffiness of his beard nestle close to her face as they both looked into the vanity mirror, cheeks pressed together. “Damn you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that soooo much. Now, move. I wasn’t quiet but moreso focused.” She pointed down to the mop of materials to sew in front of her. “As you can see.”

“Come on mami. Come take a break.”

“Nooo, Messiah I have a deadline. You’ve been distracting me enough!” She was becoming accustomed to this… routine of there’s for lack of better words. Conforming to the ways of a hermit, Kiersten for the past month shielded away the outside world as she remained ducked and hidden in her condo. With only the exception of classes, work, and random trips to Mood fabric store, she limited herself of any social interaction. Her excuses being senior projects, creative assistant duties, and lastly the silent emergence of depression coasting that she couldn’t get a hold of. So like usual she figured solitude the best remedy. But not to London, and Brooklyne who have boarded stalking by the definition. And she couldn’t blame them. The only form of communication she was accepting was rushed over phone convos, scarce FaceTime calls, and texting at best. But a particular gentleman, a Brooklyn specimen, who wasn’t accepting the limits Kiersten was dishing out, wanted all in.

So from random pop ups, to persistent contact of the physical kind, he was the only one she was really allowing access.

But having a man of Messiah’s caliber coexist in her presence, and actually wanting to be there, was still mind boggling. Wanting to provide an ear, offer consolement to even something so trivial as a missing earring. Where, as if it was second nature or a necessity for the completion of his day, having to know the condition of her well being, and being in close proximity to receive it. Not to mention he always wanted to touch her. Always.

She inhaled a soft breath feeling herself being lifted and pulled to his steel chest, where a pinch to her ass cheek was then given, causing her to squeal.

“Eeeeee! Messiah, stop! Wha- for one I’m entirely too heavy for this, what are you-?”

“Shut that shit up, it look like I’m having a hard time holding you?”

“I didn’t say that, Messiah. I just…okay. I can spare an hour then I have to get right back to work. You’re so impossible, like seriously.” Wedged between the rock solid arms of him, was Kiersten escorted to the confines of her kitchen and sat down on the cool surface of the countertop, causing her to tug at her shorts. Exasperation was displayed as she watched him pull out various items from her cabinets and freezer. So much for that hour break.

“You know what you need, Keeks?” It wasn’t a guess that the question was posed rhetorically, but she now found herself contemplating heavily. What do I need? Her feet swung back and forth waiting, while allowing her eyes to latch onto the define muscles of his back as he maneuvered around the kitchen preparing a meal she had yet to identify.

“Besides these cute fuchsia Manolo pumps I seen, today?”

“…To get out this house…a peace of mind.” They were face to face now. Him coming towards her with a bowl filled with mixed vegetables, and a neutral expression that bordered him examining. Kiersten figeted reaching for the bowl to occupy her hands that she nervously toiled together looking back at him. But he dodged it out of her reach, and locked her in between his hands that framed her, setting the bowl by them. “How long you gon’ be hidin’, usin’ work as a scapegoat?”

“That’s not what I’m doing. So don’t…don’t try and psychoanalyze me, ‘kay?”

“That’s what you think I’m doin’? ‘Psychoanalyzin’ you like you some nutcase, or I’m a shrink?”

“Messi-”

“Nah, fuck that. So I’m not ‘spose to ask these questions? Like I’m not hip to what you doin’. You’re buying time, and shit to avoid what? Tell me why I’m here, if it’s not to be concerned but your damn well being Ki?”  

“Listen, okay? I just need you to be…” Here. For as long as I need you to be. With me not having to feel like the other shoe is bound to fall any day now.She felt the emergence of tears, and gritted her teeth, now pushing him back lowering her head.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ coward. We not doin’ that shit. I told you that. Talk to me. Finish what you was about to say, and look at me. You need me to what? Be here? Hold you? Feed you? What? Pacify you? Keep you locked in and throw away the key? What, Kiersten?”

“Just be present!” From that tiny place engulfed in her stomach where the grueling feeling of turmoil resided, was the shout’s source. Messiah remained unmoved and focused, waiting for her to continue. “…like now. Messiah, just continue to make me feel like I’m not going crazy, and by myself. Please.”

He nodded. She exhaled. He cooked. She watched, and the night continued as was.

BROOKLYNE

97…98…99-

“Sorry to disturb you baby girl, but you got a minute?”

Benjamin Pierre’s presence, just like his coffee, was served strong. Like the emergence of the rigid taste of the straight black caffeinated beverage on one’s tongue, as expected it was, it still took you aback. The distinction being that stern. Her father’s deep brown melanin seemingly glowed under any light that further highlighted his strikingly handsome features; the eyes that matched her own stared at her for moments of intensity, with urgency in the midst of. She placed a halt in her morning exercise of 100 plies, and barre work giving him her full attention.

“For my favorite old man, of course. What’s up, pops?”

“Fiona contacted me…” Aw, shit. “What’s this I hear about Kiersten’s blatant refusal to go home?”

“That’s what she told you?”

“Yes, so much more. But that’s just the half.” In Brooklyne’s bedroom at an early 9:43am was a stare off. Meddling in normalcy, but she was sure wasn’t to last much longer as that thick bushy brow of his rose. Following the cross of his arms, and the tilt of his head. But Brooklyne wasn’t London. She didn’t crack under pressure easily or allowed any of Benjamin Pierre’s typical courtroom intimidating tactics to shake her the least bit. After all, I am my father’s child.

“Hm, not sure daddy…that’s strange. Last I spoke to her things were fine. And she was definitely home. FaceTimed her and everything seeing she was right in her bedroom.” Yeah, to pack the last box I was to swing by and pick up to finish decorating.

“Is that right? So when was this?”

“A…couple days ago? Yeah, Tuesday.”

“Hm. Interesting. Look, Brooklyne…two things I need you to understand if you haven’t by now…” Through a sip of her chilled bottle of Fiji water, Brooklyne concealed a gulp of concern. It’s one thing for her father to intimidate for answers, it’s another when he already knew them, she supposed, and was behind the fire of checking. “I find out everything. No matter the time of delay it maybe. No matter the circumstance, I…do. It’s what I get paid for, as you know.”

“Dad-”

“So, if and when you hear from Kiersten again and she turns out to actually be “fine” like you say she is? Tell her to call her mother. Thanks, babygirl.”

Brooklyne flopped on the bed huffing heavily.

“This too much.”

———

You’re missing me, I’m missing you

Whenever we meet, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

When I get to be together with you

It’s fait accompli, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

Slick. The droplets that trailed down his steel abdominals, flexed and illuminated his cream complexion. Under the soft light in the studio his shadow trailed closely behind as it remained in sync with Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep”. Brooklyn seeped in light breaths, as she remained tucked away and hidden by the barre. Taking peeks was growing tiresome like her thighs, she surpassed a little warm up to get started. At this point she was truly stalling. Why am I even doing this?

“So, we startin’ from the second verse…you ready?” Lord knows I’m not.

“Mind explaining to me what’s this for again? I’m not a hip-hop dancer, we know this.”

The heat of his body radiated onto her own as he stepped forward and stood behind her. There in the ceiling to floor mirror was the detection from Brooklyne’s view, trouble. Not a simple attempt of a duet or a pas de deux rather insisted by his mother, her instructor from hell.

“As you know The Joffrey Ballet intensive my mother is instructing has a hiplet component. A mix of hip-hop an-”

“…and Ballet, Tahj. I know, hip-hop on pointe shoes. Yes, she explained this. But why me? Did you insist this little arrangement?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brooke. She did, actually.” She turned to him and searched his face. “I don’t know…for some strange reason she has this idea that you’re good enough. Let’s get this shit over with.”

She sneered at his sarcasm, tying her hair back. An hour in as she began feeling perspiration coat her skin, she was finally able to blur out the ridicule she felt. Taking this exactly for what it was which was simply a dance demonstration for a bunch of high school students that should last no more than four minutes.

“Shit!” A stub of her toe caused her attitude to look less than stellar, as she tripped into an awkward fourth position. From her peripheral she could see his bemusement.

“Don’t overextend your back like that. The fuck you tryin’ to do? Break it?”

“Since when did you become an expert of ballet? Focus on poplockin’ nigga.”

“You forgettin’ who my mother is? You been in her class long enough, to just be makin’ common fuck ups. What…” He walked closer to her side of the studio. “You nervous?”

“I twisted my ankle, right before the senior showcase…the senior showcase that had Juilliard talent scouts, and the director of Ailey in the audience. Guess who was accepted to both? Tahj…don’t insult me. Can we start from the top, please?” She went to her cue in stance of releve with her arms in Egyptian pose.

“…You were perfect.” She would’ve missed it, had it not been so quiet you could hear a mouse piss on cotton, as he muttered it so quickly.

“What?”