CHAPTER NINE

 

 

Greyson Zane was born on February 28, 1960 at 11:50 p.m. His brother Orin first witnessed the light of this vexatious world fifteen minutes later.

It was a leap year.

If one wants to get technical about these sorts of details, this makes Orin now eight years old in real time, while Greyson has just begun enjoying his thirties. While this has clearly not affected Orin’s physical growth or his actual age accepted by the general public, his confidence as an eventual grown man has still been harshly stunted. Though this confusing concept occasionally enters conversations, Greyson had never gone out of his way to make it a bone of contention during their youth. This infrequency does not offer Orin much relief, if any at all.

Needless to say, as absurd as his situation may be, Orin feels more than a little bitter resentment toward this calendarized technicality, a sentiment that is oftentimes passive-aggressively redirected toward his more fortunately birthed “older” brother. When they were younger, their parents—God rest their souls—always offered their best efforts to make the brothers feel equal on their special day. Always a cake with both names in sugary cursive, the same numbered candle representing both boys. Almost without fail, some cruel child—usually some neighborhood brat Orin didn’t even know, but was invited to the party regardless—had to bring the topic up in a taunting tone and spoil everything. Birthdays tend to be so very important in one’s formative years.

Today just happens to be their birthday, or at least the day both of their birthdays are officially celebrated. The heavy clouds in the sky form their cake, the sinking sun their burning candle. And today there is a gift strolling along Swallow Street, heading in their direction. A gift from the past that is now a present in the present.

“Grey,” Orin says, nudging his brother in the rib cage, “look who I see.” He points down the street with one hand and absently straightens out his slacks with the other.

“I don’t know what—”

Orin grabs Greyson’s face, smashing it with the palms of his hands and turns it in his desired direction. He points again to a girl on the sidewalk, blending in with the other pedestrians. “Look familiar? Hmm?”

“Oh. Oh.” Greyson swats Orin’s hands away and dusts off his blue bamboo-leaf polo shirt even though it has not been touched. “Been a while since we’ve seen this one, hasn’t it?”

She has headphones on. She is bobbing her head. She does not notice them. She is no longer part of the walking crowd. She is five feet away when the twins step in front of her. She looks up and almost runs right into both of their iron chests.

“Shit!” she says.

“Hello, Ariel,” Orin says. “Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. I mean hello, Trixie.”

Trixie’s face scrunches up, her eyes squint in disgust. She removes her headphones. The muffled music escapes and she turns off her Walkman. “Oh, God. Are you serious?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Greyson asks. “Are you trying to say you’re not happy to see your favorite old flames?”

“Ugh. Don’t flatter yourself. No. You know what? Actually, I am glad I ran into you jerks. God, the fucking nerve of you two. I can’t believe—”

Orin holds up the palm of his hand as if he is Diana Ross asking her to stop in the name of love. “I’m sorry. What exactly are you babbling about?”

“Why would you tell that little troll about me?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “About my past?” She is almost in Orin’s face now, but since she is a few inches shorter she has to stand on her tippy toes to come off as intimidating. Orin can smell her breath. It stings like fresh wintergreen.

Orin looks over to his brother. Greyson just shrugs. He is no help.

“Honestly,” Orin says. “We have zero idea what you’re talking about.”

“Kast? Ring any bells?”

“The cast of what? Are we talking a play here or something you put on a broken leg?”

“Stop fucking with me, Greyson.”

“Orin. I’m Orin.”

“Yes, dear,” Greyson says, finally ready to join the party. “I’m Greyson.”

“Whatever,” Trixie says. She looks right at Greyson now, giving Orin a chance to breathe. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? Did you even have to say that?”

“I’d still like to know what you’re accusing us of,” Orin says.

With each word, Trixie shoves Orin. “You. Told. Him. About. Me.” Orin stumbles back a step with each battering. “About The Truth.”

“Told whom?”

“Kast!”

“Oh there she goes about this ‘cast’ thing again,” Greyson says. “I’m at a loss here, brother.”

“This is a person you’re talking about?” Orin asks.

“I guess you could call him that.”

“Well, we’d never betray your trust. I can promise you that much. Too many good times to taint all that.”

“And we hold no grudges,” Greyson adds. “Honestly. And we do miss you dearly. Why don’t you come with us after our last stop of the evening?”

“Oh, what a good idea for once, Grey. Yes, Trixie, how would you feel about coming back to our place with us? For old time’s sake. What a sweet reunion!”

Trixie fakes a gagging sound. “No fucking way. Are you kidding me?”

“When have we ever been known to joke?” Greyson asks.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m seeing someone else now. And it’s serious, so don’t even bother.”

“Well now,” Orin says. “So sorry to hear that. I’m sure he’s a lucky fellow. Would love to meet him sometime.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she says.

“At least come with us over to Video Drones and help us pick out something we’ve not seen,” Greyson says.

Trixie’s face goes pale. “What?”

“Yes,” Orin says. “Please do. It’s just back the way you came. You must have passed right by it”

“Wh-why are you going there?” Trixie has stopped making eye contact with the twins. Orin sees she has lost her composure, but cannot determine why. He attempts to get her attention again but fails.

“Well, you know what today is, don’t you?” he asks.

“No. Don’t care either.” Some of her bite has returned, but she is still clearly shaken.

“Well,” Greyson says, “we’ve just installed a theater in the east wing of the estate as a celebration for a certain day that happens to be today. We want to celebrate with the cinema and you are cordially invited. We’ll put you on the list in case Fredo doesn’t recognize you after all this time.”

“I do think he’s going blind in one eye,” Orin says.

“Can I go now?”

Orin and Greyson step aside, parting ways like a steel gate. Trixie does not immediately pass through the space they have provided her.

“Please do come visit sometime,” Orin says. “Our theater will be so lonely without your lovely face to view it.”

“Yes,” Greyson says. “Our doors are always open for an old friend.”

“Okay. See you on the fifth of Never.” Trixie places her headphones back on her ears and shuffles off. Orin still cannot determine what has her so bothered, exactly who this person wearing a cast is and what part of their body may have been broken.

“Well, that’s too bad now, isn’t it?” Greyson says.

“Yes. Well, we have ways of figuring out who this new beau of hers is.”

“In due time.”

Orin grabs his brother’s hand and links their fingers together. A woman with a small child passes by them and looks at them as if they should be burned at the stake. They both smile at her.

“Grey, do you remember the first night we met her?”

“I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”

“No, you recalcitrant lout. Our girl Trixie.”

“Oh. Of course. It was quite wonderful.”

“Yes. Yes, it most certainly was.”

“Methinks our friend Trixie doth not agreeth.”

* * *

Three or so years earlier.

 

A spoiled boy can never have enough toys and attention.

And a man can never have enough holes to thrust himself into.

The damp alleyways of downtown Sweetville offered many pleasures. An abundance of secret underground clubs, both under the noses of the authorities and physically below the surface of Sweetville proper. Soliciting sex was a nightly adventure due to the individual workers and their respective genders rotating almost as frequently as the Zanes’ soiled silk boxer briefs. Seemingly endless supplies of Sweet Candy available at a moment’s notice. Masochistic and, perhaps to a lesser extent, sadistic desires a mere phone call away. The Zane brothers considered themselves connoisseurs of deviance. Most of their pursuits had become passé, yet still they dragged themselves out of bed each day to search for and concoct carnal fantasies, hoping to unearth these hidden treasures or something similar amongst the pupu platter of secret sex offered downtown on any given night.

“Lyle, please take us to Fifth and Quail,” Greyson requested of their chauffeur. “Or somewhere in that vicinity. And don’t dilly-dally. We’ve had a bad streak the last few nights, so we prefer to stay focused. Tonight’s the night, old chum!”

Lyle was paid very generously for his driving services. He was contractually bound to be discreet. He was also what one might, if they were kind, refer to as homely, truthfully only a step or two above Attila the Hun on his best days. Eyes spaced too far apart to ever be worth gazing into lovingly, reverse-puckered lips like a contracting anus, patchy facial hair that he usually neglected to groom with any effort. Despite this, he was no virgin, and his employers knew he was appreciative of the special times they treated him to a gorgeous, high-class call girl for his loyalty. These women were grand actresses that never revealed their disgust for his appearance. Nothing but the best for those devoted to the Zane brothers.

The Zanes’ pristine black, 1940 Packard Super Eight glided through the streets of Sweetville, a hunter on the scent of its prey.

“Orin, my boy, we’re trying something new tonight. I think you’ll be impressed.” Greyson placed his hand on Orin’s leg, walked his fingers like the itsy bitsy spider, leaned over and nibbled at his brother’s ear. Orin remained stoic.

“Don’t call me boy. I’m not your boy.” Orin politely removed Greyson’s hand like it was a turntable’s tonearm leaving the precious grooves of a record. “And I can’t recall the last time you successfully slayed me with any of your findings. You do understand the definition of ‘new,’ don’t you?”

“Why, of course I—”

“I believe you’re slipping. Boring, boring, boring. I can’t take much more of just the two of us. Do you really feel like being the bottom again?”

“Ye have little faith, Oreo. Don’t be such a Negative Nancy.” Greyson stared narcissistically at his twin, in lust with his mirror image. It was impossible to tell the two men apart, either via a quick glance or an observant stare. They were identical archetypes. Hair fascistly greased and coiffed into impenetrable black helmets. Diamond blue eyes. Perfectly manicured hands with not a stray cuticle in sight. Bodies toned and crafted from obsessively rigorous exercise routines, stuffed into custom-tailored grey seersucker suits. Matching genuine Nile crocodile wing-tips. Beneath the wardrobe were corresponding birthmarks on their left breasts that, if one were to squint, slightly resembled a wolf’s head.

The Zanes could easily seduce men or women of their choice, yet the normal and the bourgeoisie types they associated with in the daylight hours had become just plain humdrum over the years, their ulterior motives predictable. Never-ending yattering about Swiss bank accounts, summer homes in the Hamptons, private jets, aged caviar. It made both of the Zane brothers ill with ennui. The more interesting encounters came from the people who did not brag about how much they paid for their new Rolls Royces or their Versace gowns, but rather those who had price tags dangling from their own sleeves. The hardest working people within Sweetville’s city limits. Those with tales of blood, sweat and seminal leakage.

“And, of course I’ll bottom up if I have to,” Greyson continued. “Better bottomed than blue-balled, naturally. Isn’t that right, Lyle?” He leaned up toward Lyle’s seat and patted him on the shoulder.

“If you say so, sir,” Lyle replied. “I’ll respect your choices, but you know where my tastes lie.”

“Fair enough,” Greyson said. “It’s your prerogative. But I still think—”

“Since when do you get to make the decisions, Grey?” Orin asked.

“My special little brother, how soon you forget that I am your eldest surviving relative, the closest thing you have ever had to a guardian. Don’t make me put a hold on your trust fund.”

“Yawn. Same old empty threat. Please try again.”

“Well, regardless, I deserve respect every now and again.”

“You deserve a good kick in the privates,” Orin muttered, which Greyson was too self-absorbed to notice.

The Packard slithered through the filthy south-side streets of Sweetville. This section of the neighborhood was a dank swamp robbed of nearly all its fluids. Street lamps with broken bulbs that would never be replaced. Roaches and rodents splashing through the shallow gutter puddles. Homeless campers huddled in their cardboard like eggs in a carton. The meat market at Fifth and Quail appeared to be all but shut down, not that there was usually a large crowd. Only one girl tonight.

“Oh, yes. I want her!” Greyson cried out, briefly clapped and pointed like a child picking out a brand new puppy that he’ll never remember to feed.

Orin rolled his eyes. “Lyle, please stop here.”

The girl noticed the car nearing her and gave a subtle, flirty, practiced wave. She wore Mary Jane flats, a jean skirt that came to just above the knee and a plain grey tee that comfortably hugged her undernourished torso. The shadows made her shoulder-length hair resemble the color of a Bing cherry.

The well-tuned Packard came to a silent stop beneath the oscillating beam of a broken streetlight. Lyle pulled it close to the curb, careful not to scratch the hubcaps. Greyson cracked his window six inches, his dark eyes leering over the edge. The girl cautiously looked from side to side, as if preparing to cross the street.

“Darling, would you like a ride somewhere?” Orin once again rolled his eyes at his brother’s cloying behavior. No matter how frequently Greyson demanded center stage, Orin was never content to accept it.

“Are you a cop?” the girl asked.

The twins knew this was only a formality. Cops almost never bothered with the sweetmeat offered on this corner. There were far more pressing issues developing in Sweetville. A few prostitutes just trying to pay last month’s rent and fill their shrunken stomachs were very low on the Sweetville Police Department’s priority list. Not that arrests didn’t occasionally occur in order to appease the taxpaying public, but the instances were few and far between. Greyson shook his head to the girl’s query, opened his door, allowed her to step in. Her straight auburn hair tickled the side of his face as she sat. He cooed softly.

“Lyle, carry on,” Greyson said. “Let’s head back to the estate.” Then, to their guest, “What’s your name?”

“Ariel.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ariel. My name is Greyson and this is my dearest brother Orin.” He nodded in Orin’s direction and leaned back a few inches, which revealed the sudden simulacrum. “Try not to get us confused.”

“Um, I’ll do my best.”

* * *

The Packard purred as it switched from neutral into drive. Trixie’s fingers danced across the grey leather upholstery.

As “Ariel,” Trixie did her best to internalize her fear and disgust. Her profession was more profitable if she allowed herself to become the role she was supposed to be playing. She had never been with twins before. Never been with brothers. Never been with two men together. Period. Where exactly did this fall on her “wrong” scale? Was she even able to gauge that anymore?

“Don’t worry, Grey,” said the brother called Orin. “She’ll be able to tell us apart when it comes time to pay the bill. She’ll figure out you failed remedial math.”

Greyson shot his brother a glaring look, then turned back to Trixie. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” She was still inching toward that number, but she remembered what Gwen had recommended when she was first starting out.

When they ask your age, always say eighteen. Even if you’re still doing this when you’re well into your twenties, cling on to that number as long as you can. The darkness is a great cover for wrinkles. Barely legal’s a cash cow. They don’t even care if you’re telling the truth most of the time. It’s all for fantasy’s sake, right? Just go with it.

Trixie hesitated, cringing at the next requirement of working this part of town, then turned her switch to put on her best pouty performance. Even though the majority of potential customers who drove to this destination knew what they were getting into, there was always the off chance an unwary straggler could make his way here. This could result in either a simple awkward exchange or perhaps something more terrifyingly savage.

Fear of sexuality—both of one’s own and that of others—could be a powerful rage inducer. She had encountered other transgender girls who seemed to revel in seducing and hooking up with as many intoxicated straight guys as they could. Blurting out The Truth in front of the guys’ friends after the fact, just for embarrassment’s sake. It was like an outtake from a bad talk show.

Trixie knew from her recent experience on the north side of town how quickly a meet-up with a trick could shift into a violent encounter. She had managed to avoid anything sketchy since that night and didn’t plan on it happening again. However, she knew danger was always a distinct possibility. She had seen the fading welts and bruises on Gwen’s body and the very slight curved scar on her left cheek—unwanted gifts given to her because of who she was. It needed to be stated outright, though. Lying could result in even worse than a harsh beating.

“You guys are looking for a transsexual, right?”

She loathed the word. Being reduced to someone’s fetish. Feeling like a reject from the blackest corner of the sticky porn shop. “Shemale” wasn’t any better. Even the less harsh term transgender made her feel ill inside. She wished she could be privileged enough to just refer to herself as a girl and call it a day. Self-hatred, unfortunately, allowed her to eat and pay the bills.

“Sure, that’s perfectly fine, dear.” Greyson stated this with such nonchalance that Trixie felt she could have just as easily asked if they were seeking an octopus in a nightie or a mannequin with its fiberglass chipping and it would have been “perfectly fine.” She wasn’t so sure their indiscriminate nature was such a great quality. Greyson allowed a smile to escape his Ken-doll face and placed his hand on Trixie’s exposed thigh. “And don’t be concerned about payment. My brother was just making a little funny. You’ll be generously compensated. I never cheat a new friend. Or an old one, for that matter.”

Orin extended his hand, which was filled with a colorful spectrum of hard-shelled, chewy-centered pills. He shook them like lucky dice.

“Would you care for some Candy?”

If nothing else, Trixie knew she would at least have that to hold her together for the night.

* * *

The Zane residence was a lush, restored Victorian mansion in the Sweetville Hills, an area aptly dubbed The Sweethills by the locals. No neighbors within an approximate acre of land and no numerical address. The property was a street unto itself named Steamer Duck Lane, thus the postal street address for the mansion was simply Steamer Duck Estate.

The driver dropped them off at the front gate and remained in the Packard. A sneering gargoyle statue greeted the trio, its left palm held up as if awaiting a high five. Fittingly, Orin placed his right palm against the gargoyle’s stone. A soft gong echoed from a source unknown to Trixie, and the gate began to creak open. The brothers locked arms with hers on each side. Not like prison guards, but like gentlemen. They trekked along a fifty-foot flagstone pathway that led from the gate to the front door. It was lined with bushes trimmed like animals, but not like any Trixie had ever seen before. One had the head of a wolf and the body of an eagle. Another appeared almost human, but with a serpentine tail trailing off behind. Yet another had no discernible physical qualities of any animal she had ever seen in the zoo. The Hedges of Dr. Moreau.

Scaled shingles decorated the outer walls. The four domed dormer windows that protruded from the second story resembled a spider’s eyes. There was a turret to the right, like a life-sized rocket prepared for lift-off. Though green was the mansion’s dominant outer color, splashes of purple throughout kept begging for Trixie’s attention. Purple made her tingle inside. The Sweet Candy was already getting down to business.

Once they reached the front door, Trixie arched her head back to see if she could view the top of the house from this position. She failed. The door itself was made of solid burgundy oak. Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas. was carved into the door’s center. An oval piece of stained glass featuring two aqua Abyssinian lovebirds crowned its top third.

The door creaked open without anyone from the outside touching the handle. A portly, middle-aged butler with a pencil mustache greeted them.

“Hello, Fredo,” Orin said. “We’ll be in for the remainder of the evening. You may retire to your quarters.” Fredo nodded and allowed them to enter. He was apparently either a man of few words or one who favored another tongue.

The foyer was empty, save for a waist-high wooden table with cast-iron legs. On the table lay a stack of pamphlets advertising Citizen Zane Property Investments, with a picture on the front of the twins in full Sears-portrait mode. Argyle sweater vests. Glistening dental hygiene. One tilting his head up as if contemplating the meaning of life, the other staring almost directly into the camera with debonair eyes that seemed to be begging, “Trust me with all of your goals and dreams. And feel free to fuck me. You will not be sorry.”

Greyson noticed Trixie’s curious gaze at the pamphlets.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself with that,” he said. “We’re just proud of the sound financial decisions we’ve made over the years. I’m sure you can see why.” He gestured to the general vast space of the house. The echoes of his voice scurried off to uncharted hallways and hidden rooms.

“I feel like I should be charging you guys extra.” Trixie felt that a flirty joke here and there often endeared a client to her. “You know, just because you wouldn’t notice.”

Greyson bellowed out a hearty laugh that, leaving anyone else’s mouth, would have sounded forced. He brushed Trixie’s cheek lightly with the back of his knuckles. “You don’t ‘charge’ in the House of Zane. We invest in you. No lowball offers here. We are businessmen, and we believe in our stock.”

“You make it sound as if she’s cattle, Grey.”

“It’s okay,” Trixie said, “I guess that’s probably a better deal for me in the long run, right? Return business and all that.”

“Well, we certainly hope so. We prefer to build long-lasting relationships, with emphasis on ‘relationship.’ If you work hard, if you perform as well as your face is pretty, then you’ll be welcome any time and all of the time. We—”

“Brother,” Orin interjected. “May we stop flapping our tongues and escort our guest to the master suite now? Please?”

Trixie noticed that Greyson and Orin’s slight British accents came and went, as if their proper manner was affected, a mere ruse to make the brothers appear more sophisticated than they actually were. She figured as long as she wasn’t being paid in pounds instead of dollars, it was none of her business.

“Yes, let’s,” Greyson said. “But first…Ariel, is it? Would you be so kind as to prepare us some tea? Orin and I are going to head upstairs to get the room tidied up. We’d be ever so grateful. Chamomile, please. I tend to break out in hives from chai. The kitchen is at the far end of the west wing. Tea is in the pantry. The French press and china in the third cabinet on the left, second shelf. Then just come up these stairs here. The entire second floor is our private penthouse. You’re an angel. Thank you so much.”

Greyson shuffled away. Orin remained behind for a moment. He leaned toward Trixie’s face for a whisper. His eyes were like those of a mischievous cat.

“Never mind what my brother just said. Bring the chai.”

* * *

The first kiss was Orin’s, a flavor like mint leaves, a texture like used sandpaper, a gentle eagerness. Then Greyson, a scent like freshly smashed pumpkin, a nibble like a vestal vampire, a clammy wetness swimming between gooseflesh. The sounds of Def Leppard’s “Love Bites” seeped through unseen surround speakers. A few moments of writhing, tangled bodies sans plastic Twister mat, and Trixie tried to imagine the twins were only one man. She used both of her talented hands to simultaneously stroke and paw at each of their waistlines, which proved they were well beyond aroused as well as pelvicly gifted.

She found herself plunging into The Necessary Zone: the discovery of indulgent pleasure and feigned intimacy in an effort to avoid a complete mental breakdown. This was almost exclusively a mind trick that made the work tolerable and convincingly enjoyable. Some girls claimed they had the ability to black themselves out of the situation, like specters watching down disdainfully on their empty performing bodies, thrusting and lusting, trysting and fisting and orificial resisting. However, in this rare case, The Necessary Zone was an unnecessary act. Her Sweet Candy dose lubricated all inhibitions, loosened her like a rusty bolt saturated with WD-40.

The Zane brothers roused some dormant shrieking beast within her, and she abandoned her concerns and let the primal urge take the reins. Their sex was an exquisite sundae, the payment would be a bonus cherry on top. A few moments of heavy petting and the twins tugged playfully at the worn denim of Trixie’s skirt. She unconsciously disputed despite being contractually obligated. A “may I,” and a “please.” A lip sync of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” with a response of, “sure, just nothing painful,” and it soon became clear that all intentions were quite the opposite and that pleasure was currency within the walls of Steamer Duck Estate.

Months and years of consuming androgen blockers assured avoidance of almost any and all accidental erections, but Trixie was strangely enkindled, so she stopped battling the throbbing hardness that was stirring down below and let the brothers have their manly moments. Greyson was pure animalistic lust, jagged edges of teeth and all, enjoyed his quick fill of flesh Popsicle. Orin was comparatively tender, like a well-practiced virgin doing his best to make a good first impression. And then it was time to switch out so Orin stood up, removed his belt, dropped his pants. Trixie twisted her body around so that she was now on all fours, doing all she could to own the role—save howling at the moon—and took his semi-erect shaft into her mouth like a pacifier. It quickly transformed from silkworm to stone and Orin groaned and moaned like a chanting ghost. Greyson planted himself behind Trixie, lubed himself generously and grinned and leered only somewhat perversely. He caressed the barely-existent curves of her ass, squeezed her hips and the side of her stomach and accessed her secret entrance, which resulted in a light, surprised squeal that teetered between delight and discomfort and was also muffled by her mouthful. A sickening sandwich made of twin brother bread and Trixie turkey.

Greyson’s arm extended inches longer than it should have ever been allowed to and clawed at his brother. Orin did not pull away but instead smirked deviously, so Greyson pulled out of Trixie before climaxing and shoved his brother roughly to the bed and began passionately kissing him like he was his wife on the first night of their honeymoon. Greyson flipped Orin over with beastly aggression, or maybe it was Orin now doing this to Greyson, but there was soon certain penetration. The brothers clutched hands, and someone’s knuckles cracked. They pumped faster, harder, a flesh locomotive. And Trixie just leaned back, found a comfy pillow to hug.

It was like she wasn’t even there anymore.