Chapter 3
I shouldn’t be doing it.
I shouldn’t be searching for him when my best friend’s in pain. When the reason he’s in pain, unbeknownst to him, is because of the man I’m going after.
Because of these crazy feelings I have for him.
Not to mention, searching for someone who claims to be colder than this winter night is not advisable.
I don’t even know why I’m searching for him.
All I know is that if I don’t find him, my heart is going to beat out of my chest and I’m going to perish.
So here I am.
I scan the ground as best as I can in the wintry darkness. Snow clings to the air and the ground as I make my way farther and farther away from the ballroom. When I can’t find him anywhere in the vicinity, I venture into the part of the grounds that’s flanked by bare and scary-looking trees and seems more slippery and chillier. The winter air’s more brutal as it slashes through my bare arms and shoulders, making even me think—the girl who loves the sharpness of cold—that I should’ve put on a coat at least.
“Running away again?”
My gasp is loud.
Louder than probably that voice.
That deep, deep voice.
That reminds me of a bottomless well.
I whirl around and for the first time in a year, come face to face with him.
I know it sounds dramatic—in a year and all that—but it’s true. Even though I’ve seen him around, I’ve been to the same places as him, deliberately put myself in his path so he can stumble upon me, we haven’t been alone since the night we met a year ago. We haven’t talked to each other or come in contact with each other in any way whatsoever since then.
He’s always been there but only in my periphery.
I always looked at him from the corner of my eye, with surreptitious side glances. And now that I have him in front of me, I can’t stop staring.
He’s standing under a tree like he was the night I met him. It’s not a pink magnolia, but it doesn’t matter. Because everything else is the same. His casual lean against the trunk; his dark clothes; the fact that he’s in the shadows and that cigarette of his.
Dangling from his plush lips, all orange and glow-y.
Sending out curls of smoke.
Reminding me of a rose set on fire.
“You scared me,” I say after a year of not saying anything to him.
He gets that cancer stick out of his mouth and, sending a puff of smoke into the air, speaks, “You don’t look scared.”
I think he’s right.
I probably don’t. I probably look the opposite of scared.
I probably look all flushed and breathless.
Because I’m the same too.
From a year ago.
I’m feeling the same feelings. The same emotions, the same thrill. The same ecstasy running through my veins that I’d felt when I’d stumbled upon him.
“I am, trust me,” I insist because maybe if I keep saying it, it’ll become true.
All my ecstasy will turn into fear.
All my thrill will turn into revulsion.
“Well, then you shouldn’t be out here all alone at night,” he shares.
“Or maybe you shouldn’t be standing out here hidden in the night like some sort of a thug.”
“A thug,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
His silence feels thoughtful. “And here I thought I was a bodyguard.”
A jolt goes through me like I’ve been electrocuted.
Like I stuck my finger in the power socket and now every corner in my body is filled with electricity, every cell buzzes, every nerve crackles.
All because he said something completely inconsequential from that night.
“And here I thought,” I shoot back, watching his silhouette, “that the world needed protection from me and not the other way around.”
“Old men, specifically,” he reminds me as if he needs to.
As if I don’t think of that night—also enact it on some occasions—every single day.
“And then,” I keep sharing, “we decided that you’re safe because you’re not that old.”
“But now you know that I am,” he returns.
He is.
Or at least he thinks he is even though he’s only seven years older than me. And since I’m only nineteen, that puts him at twenty-six. Not old by any means whatsoever and even if he were, I know I wouldn’t care.
When it comes to him, I don’t care much about anything at all, to be honest.
And that’s the problem.
That has always been the problem.
“So maybe,” I say, “it’s you who should be scared.”
He takes a drag. “I guess so.”
“Well, it’s not too late. You can still go back inside and save yourself from me.”
“Maybe I should.”
“You—”
“Because I don’t think I’m in the mood to be mauled by a half-naked girl tonight.”
“I didn’t maul you,” I say, taken aback.
He lets out another puff of smoke. “Forced yourself upon me then.”
“I did not do that either,” I say vehemently.
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So what would you call it?” he asks.
He sounds so genuinely curious that I can’t help but answer, “Seizing my destiny.”
“Ah”—he lets out another cloud of toxic smoke—“somehow I’d forgotten about that.”
At this, I’m burning in the middle of winter.
With embarrassment.
“You don’t have to?—”
“So what about tonight?” he asks, cutting me off.
“What about tonight?”
He sucks in a drag, his cheeks hollowing out and his chest expanding before he lets it out. “Any particular reason you’re half-naked?”
“What?” This time, my voice sounds squeaky. “Are you… I’m not half-naked!”
“It’s forty degrees out.”
“So?”
“So you should probably wear something more than that flimsy thing you have on.”
The flimsy thing he’s referring to is my scarlet Vera Wang dress. And yes, it’s tight and short and hardly a cover against this brutal weather, but how dare he. It’s pretty and has spaghetti straps. It has a slit running down my left thigh and a huge rosette-style flower on the right side of the bodice that makes it both edgy and feminine.
“I’m fine,” I announce.
“If you keep standing out here for too long, you won’t be.”
“Are you saying you’re worried about me?”
“I’m saying I’m not in the mood to interrupt my smoke of the day to haul a dead body inside,” he says, taking a long drag to emphasize his point.
“Smoking is injurious to health,” I inform him primly even though there’s nothing prim or proper about me.
“Your point?”
“So you shouldn’t be doing it.”
“Now, are you saying you’re worried about me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why’s that good?” I keep arguing.
“Because I’m not him.”
“Who’s him?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“I don’t…”
It’s like I slammed into a wall.
And all my words, my breaths, my heartbeats get knocked out of me.
Leaving me empty.
Breathless. Thoughtless. Speechless.
I’m just… less.
Than I was a second ago.
A second ago, while I was going back and forth with him, I felt alive. I felt like I was flying on my fake wings. But now it feels like someone—him—froze them.
Froze me.
With his chill.
Leaving me a little less alive.
“And I’m not sure if your boyfriend would like it that you’re worried about me,” he finishes.
“He—”
“Actually, I’m not sure if he’d like it at all that you’re out here, talking to a strange man.”
I can’t help but rub my arms then. “You’re not a strange man. You’re his twin brother.”
I notice his chest moving then.
Expanding and contracting with the next drag he takes. The longest until now.
Then, “I wouldn’t.”
My heart races. “You’re?—”
“So you should probably run along to him.”
“That’s what you said to me that night too,” I say before I’ve had a chance to think it through.
I also do what I try to avoid doing before I’ve had a chance to think it through.
Study him.
Or in this case, when I can’t see him: map out the differences in my head.
Differences between Shepard and him.
Even though they’re identical twins, they never looked similar to me, let alone identical.
Their hair may be the same color, dark chocolate brown, but one keeps it deliberately mussed up and longer, while the other keeps it short and pushed back from his face. They both may have the same heavy-boned and square jaw, but one keeps it stubbled and the other clean-shaven. And the shape and dusky color of their lips may be the same but only one has the perfect pout that I think has come from years of smoking one cigarette per day and slowly killing himself.
Even their voices are different.
As in, they sound different.
One sounds friendly and easy and open, while the other blends in calmness and condescension so easily that it hurts and feels good at the same time.
I’ll give you one hint who that brother is.
The one with shorter hair, clean-shaven jaw, and pouty lips. That hurt-y voice.
It’s not my best friend Shepard.
It’s the guy who pushed me toward him.
He did that, didn’t he?
Not only did he reject me that night, but he told me—explicitly—to go to him.
He told me to go to his brother.
So it’s not all my fault that I did, is it?
It’s not all my fault that I used Shepard to get to him and now Shep’s hurting. It’s not all my fault that he wants to be with me. With a girl who’s obsessed with his twin brother. He deserves better.
He deserves so, so much better than me and him.
“You told me to run off to him,” I accuse, my hands fisted, anger coursing through my veins.
“And you did.”
I’d like to think that his tone is accusing as well.
That he’s mad about it.
About the fact that I ran off to his brother minutes after trying to get him to kiss me. That I didn’t even wait to go flirt with someone else after flirting with him, mauling him half-naked as he called it.
I want him to be angry about that.
I want him to be jealous.
I want him to think that I’m a slut. The only time I know I’d like being called one: by him.
But I don’t think he does.
Because he sounds calm, his tone soft.
In fact, more than saying those words, he murmured them. Instead of standing up straight and taut like I am, he’s still leaning against that tree, cigarette dangling from his lips.
It pisses me off.
That he can remain unaffected like that.
While the world around me is burning.
“Yes, I did.” I narrow my eyes. “Because you were an asshole to me. You humiliated me. You made me cry that night.”
He did.
After I left him at the tree, I ran back up to my room. I cried in my pillow like the heroine from a melodrama whose destiny was just ripped from her fingers. Then I pulled myself together. I let anger consume me and shed my wings. I changed into the clothes my mother had picked out for me and did my makeup to give myself a smoky, seductive look before going in search of his twin brother. I invited him to dance on the floor that no one was dancing on, not until Shepard accepted my invitation and we started slow dancing to fast music.
And every second I spent in the arms of his brother, I missed his.
I missed their quiet strength, the steely muscles, the way they curled around me, keeping me safe from falling as if he really was my bodyguard and his job was to save me from myself.
From all the insane things I do.
“Well, from where I was standing, you looked pretty fucking happy to me,” he declares.
“I wasn’t,” I tell him, accusation still laced in my tone. “And you weren’t looking.”
“Is that why you were dancing with him,” he asks, “because you wanted me to look?”
“I was—” I pull myself back once again.
I catch myself in time from uttering the truth.
I’m not going to betray Shepard like that.
Not after what happened tonight. Not after how he laid himself bare in front of me while his twin can’t even be bothered to conjure up one little emotion for me. If someone deserves to know the whole truth first, it’s Shepard.
Not him.
So I say, “I was dancing with him because I wanted to.”
He waits to respond back because, once again, taking a drag is more important to him than me. “I’m glad you got what you wanted then.”
I’m clenching my teeth.
I’m clenching my belly too, holding my muscles tight lest I burst out of my body.
“I did,” I agree and then add because I just can’t help myself, “Because he’s more my type than you ever were.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” I raise my chin, rubbing my arms anew. “He’s more fun and adventurous. Impulsive.”
“Yeah, he’s that.”
“I know you’re twins, but nothing, not one thing, about you and him is the same. You don’t even look alike.”
“Hmm. Not sure you know the meaning of identical then.”
I scoff. “Technically, yes, you’re identical twins. But not really. Not to me. I can tell you both apart with just one look.”
I totally can.
And I still can’t believe that others can’t.
Again, he chooses to smoke first. Then, “Sounds like you’ve done a lot of looking.”
Yes. You.
I’ve spent a lot of time looking at you.
I dig my nails into my arms. “Of course I have. He’s my boyfriend.”
After this, I take a few seconds to recover.
Because this is the first time I’ve said it.
The first time I’ve said these words.
Directly.
I’ve never said them before. To anyone. I’ve danced around it. I’ve beaten around the bush when people talk to me about it. I’ve never corrected people when they’ve assumed. But actually using the exact words, that I haven’t done.
Not until now.
Not until him.
I didn’t think, though, that it would be so hard. To lie. Not only because lying is a skill I’m good at and very comfortable with but also because this is exactly what I wanted.
This is my dream come true.
To throw these words at him and watch him burn with jealousy.
Only I can’t see him all that well and the only thing that’s burning is me.
“So I guess I was your destiny after all,” he muses after a few seconds.
“You… What?”
“Because you wouldn’t be with him”—he releases a puff of smoke—“if you hadn’t met me.”
God.
God.
I just…
I can’t contain myself.
I can’t contain all these rioting feelings inside of me.
I can’t.
“You know, people think you’re this great guy,” I say, my nails cutting into my flesh. “Stellan Thorne, great coach. Great ex-soccer player. Great brother. Great, great, great. But you’re not, are you? You’re a fucking asshole in disguise.”
The whole Bardstown thinks he’s one of the good guys.
A straight A student while growing up; an amazing soccer player just like the rest of his brothers who could’ve gone pro if he wanted to but chose to be a coach; a saint of a brother who stepped up and took care of his siblings when their dad took off and their mother tragically died.
He’s the quietest of the bunch; even quieter than their oldest brother Conrad Thorne. All the Thorne brothers have always had a spotlight on them, either from the way they grew up or from the fact that they’re the soccer royalty of this town. Conrad Thorne, the greatest soccer coach there ever was; Shepard Thorne, the captain of the team that he’s helped resurrect from the dead; Ledger Thorne, one of the most promising up-and-comers with a bright future in the European league.
But somehow, Stellan Thorne has always been the one who has managed to fly under the radar. Somehow, he’s always been the one who has managed to stay in the shadows, avoiding this glaring spotlight that seems to follow these brothers everywhere they go.
The mysterious one.
The cold one.
The one who gets overlooked but maybe shouldn’t.
But perhaps it’s all a facade, huh?
Perhaps it’s all fake. He’s nothing like the good guy people think he is.
Which begs the question: why the hell am I so obsessed with him?
“So then what the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, his voice almost a growl.
A growl that reaches my clenched belly.
Because this is the first sign he’s shown that my presence affects him.
That anything at all about me is affecting him.
In a whole year.
And I can’t help but say or try to, “I’m… I want…”
I want you to kiss me.
I want you to want me.
I want you to be jealous. I want you to feel something for me. Someone else wants me. Your twin brother wants me. Why can’t you? Why can’t you want me enough to put a stop to all this?
Why can’t you want me at all?
That’s why I came.
Because I want him to want me. Because the game I started playing in my craziness, in his name has gotten out of hand and he still doesn’t care about me.
I burned the world down for him, but he’s still cold as winter.
But then again, I can’t force him, can I?
No matter how angry I am, how frustrated, how utterly devastated that he feels nothing for me when I feel everything for him, he doesn’t owe anything to me.
So my posture sags and my hands fall away from my arms. I look down at the ground that seems so icy that nothing will ever grow here. “I-I think I need to go.”
And try to find a way out of this mess I’ve made.
But as it turns out, I can’t do that.
I can’t go anywhere.
Because as soon as I tell him that I’m leaving, he comes out of the shadows. He shows himself, all towering and broad chested. And it’s not as if he comes at me in a flash, though, no. He takes his time. He prowls instead of strides. He leisurely approaches me, his cigarette clenched between his teeth, his hands in his pockets, his eyes pinned on me.
So saying that I can’t go anywhere may be an exaggeration.
I can absolutely leave if I want to.
I have time to run away.
But I don’t do that.
Like an idiot, I stand there and wait for him to reach me.
When he does, he slides his hands out of his pockets. Looking down at me and keeping the cigarette in his mouth, he pulls the front of his jacket apart. I watch the stick burning at the end, wispy smoke wafting as he rolls his broad shoulders and shrugs it off. Then, reaching forward, he swings it behind me and drapes it over my shoulders.
With my arms limp at my sides, I look up at him. “What are you doing?”
Adjusting the jacket on me with one hand and taking the cigarette out with the free one, he replies, “Saving you from yourself.”
This is why, I think.
This is why I’m obsessed with him. This is why I’m in love with him and I am, aren’t I?
Love at first sight.
Things that only happen in the movies, happened to me.
And it’s because he has a habit of protecting me. Because under all that ice, I have a feeling he’s got a heart that beats and beats oh so fiercely.
Oh so hotly.
As hot as his coat.
Hot like wildfire.
“I—”
I stop on a flinch.
Because his fingers brush against my elbow.
My left elbow.
Even though it’s through the fabric of the tux and his touch was light—he was simply fiddling with the sleeve—I still feel a sting on the tender spot where my mother pinched me earlier.
“What was that?” he asks, a frown between his brows.
I immediately fold my arms across my chest, cupping my elbow, protecting it. “Nothing.”
He glances down at my arms.
And I try to stand straight and tall, holding my posture from before.
When he still doesn’t look away, I say, “I think I’m going to?—”
He looks up. “What did your mother say to you?”
“What?”
“Earlier. By the bar.”
His eyes are penetrating. So grave.
As bottomless as his voice that I can fall into.
“How do you know”—I lick my lips—“I was with my mother at the bar?”
“She said something,” he replies, his features sharp and tight. “What was it?”
“I thought you don’t look at me,” I say instead. “I thought?—”
“Was it about your acting?”
I draw back. “My acting?”
“Yeah.” He keeps digging, his voice thick and low. “Was she giving you a hard time about that?”
I squeeze the bruised area as I keep looking at him.
I don’t know why I can’t answer him just yet.
I just can’t.
Maybe because my heart’s so full. My body’s so full.
Of feelings. Of emotions.
He’s still the only man I’ve told about my dream—other than my biji—who didn’t laugh at me. Who didn’t make a joke about it, dismiss it.
He was interested.
He was curious.
And God, he still is.
“Dora,” he prods when all I do is stare at him.
And now there’s no way I can answer him because… Dora.
He called me Dora.
“No one calls me that”—I swallow—“still.”
A muscle jumps on his cheek. “She still give you a hard time about it?”
I nod, my heart racing in my chest. “Yeah. She doesn’t want me to be an actress.”
“And are you?”
“I’m what?”
“An actress”—his gaze flicking back and forth between mine—“yet? Because last time you were on your way to an audition to be one.”
I don’t know why I blush at this.
But I do.
Maybe it’s his direct gaze. Or maybe because I’d sounded so hopeful back then.
So young.
Even though it was only a year ago.
“I never made it,” I tell him.
I guess he already knows, though; I spent the night dancing with his twin brother in my quest to make him jealous.
“What happened to that guy who was waiting for you?” he asks next, his voice raspy now.
And I can’t believe it.
Even though I know he remembers everything from that night; he’s already proven that. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that he remembers the guy I’d mentioned to him in passing.
“He said I wasn’t worth it,” I share on a whisper.
“What?” he bites out.
When I didn’t show up to meet him at his car, he called me nonstop. Something I noticed the next day. He left me numerous texts and voicemails, ranging from being concerned and cajoling to angry and ranting.
“He said that”—I remember the exact words from his last voicemail—“I couldn’t be that good of a lay to make him wait for over an hour, and that I didn’t have any talent to begin with anyway. So I kinda did him a favor by not showing up.”
I’m used to men being angry at me.
It’s the name of the game when you tempt them and refuse to put out. I don’t mind it. But apparently, this man in front of me does. There’s no question about it.
He is angry.
“What’s his name?” he asks, his voice raspy sounding once again but in a way that’s dark and threatening, and his jaw is tensed.
My heart’s spinning in my chest. “Why?”
“He live in New York?”
“Bardstown.”
“Then he’ll be easy to find.”
My eyes go wide. “Are you going to?”
Another clench of his jaw. “Yes.”
“Why, so you can beat him up?”
“So I can teach him how to talk to a girl, yes.”
“And how do you talk to a girl?”
“Nicely.”
“Is that another one of your rules?”
“Yeah.”
“You never talk nicely to me, though.”
“What can I say,” he murmurs, “you’re fire and I’m ice. You’re the only girl I melt for.”
I close my eyes then.
Because it’s music to my ears.
It’s poetry.
It’s a song for the ages.
But it’s also a lie.
He doesn’t melt for me.
I want him to, but he doesn’t. And his mocking words are the proof. Opening my eyes, I find that his are roving over my face. His are drinking my features in like he drinks that smoke.
Hungrily, compulsively.
Or so I think.
“You don’t,” I whisper, shaking my head. “So you don’t get to ask questions like this. You don’t get to ask about my dreams or my mom or that guy. If anyone is going to beat him up, it’s him. Your twin brother. My boyfriend. And you’re not him, are you?”
It’s none of his business what my mother was saying to me. What my mother did. What she’s always done—pinch me, dig her nails into my skin when no one’s looking, smack me away from everyone’s eyes. Something that’s increased in the past year ever since I started hanging out with Shepard. Because she thinks I’ll do something to screw it up. In my usual slutty fashion, I’ll do something to cause a scandal and ruin the team. They already had to transfer or fire or trade in players and staff members in the last two years because of me, and now that team’s finally on its winning streak and making money for my father, I’ll mess things up.
So a few months ago, she banished me to Bardstown.
Where I could be away from New York and the team.
I think she always wanted to do it mostly because she wanted me away so she didn’t have to deal with me and my scandalous ways, and also keep me closeted in a small town where I may not be able to pursue my dream. So when I started hanging out with Shep, she saw it as an opportunity and finally sent me away.
So here I am, living in one of their houses that I share with a housekeeper and a couple of bodyguards, going to the Bardstown community college where their theater department has one teacher and probably five students who double and triple and quadruple as writers, prop managers, costume designers, and set designers.
My biji was really mad when she’d heard about it. She didn’t want my mom to send me away like that, make it even harder for me to pursue my dreams, but I promised her I wouldn’t give up. I wouldn’t let lack of funding or enthusiasm or resources or the fact that I’m not even officially registered to be in one of their classes deter me from my path. That’s why ever since I started my freshman year, I’ve been trying to rally about funding, organizing bake sales and whatnot to gather funds. And we’re so close. We may get to put on a show soon.
But again, he doesn’t get to know any of that.
“So how come,” he murmurs, “you’re going to let me do it?”
I frown. “Do what?”
“Kiss you.”
Once again, it feels like I’ve slammed against a wall. And I’ve slammed so hard that not only are my breaths knocked out, but this time, there’s going to be a bruise on my body.
Purple and pulsating.
Painful.
As painful as this ache in my chest.
This longing.
“What?”
His eyes drop down to my parted mouth. “You will, won’t you?”
I lick my lips and his eyes flare slightly. “I… No.”
“How about I sweeten the pot?”
“No.”
“And go further?” he goes on.
I wince. “I… Look, I don’t know what?—”
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“I don’t think?—”
“How about when I’m kissing you, I slip my hand under that flimsy dress of yours and touch your tits?”
And God, I know I’m the one who said it to him first, but in his voice, on his tongue, these words take on another meaning altogether. They were dirty before, but now they sound obscene. They sound so erotic and filthy that I can’t help but feel all shy and innocent.
I shake my head. “I-I… Please stop…”
“And I bet you’re not wearing a bra tonight either, are you?”
“I’m not telling you that,” I say, finally able to complete a sentence instead of stumbling.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, “it’s not that hard to figure out.”
“You—”
“So then,” he begins, leaning closer, “it’ll be real easy, isn’t it? All I’ll have to do to get to your cherry tits is hook a finger in the middle of that ridiculous dress you have on and give it a tug. Not a hard tug, mind you, because I don’t think your dress can handle that. I don’t think your fragile little flowery dress can handle my big, rough fingers without crumpling like tissue paper, can it?”
His eyes go down to my dress, to my heaving tits. And I, before I can think it through, cover them with my arms. I even pull his coat closed for good measure.
His lips twitch.
Keeping his chin dipped, he lifts his eyes. “Do you think that’ll save you?”
“I—”
“Hiding them from my view like that.”
“I don’t think you should?—”
He leans in even further. “Because let me tell you, it’ll only make things worse.”
My heart jumps. “H-how?”
“Because then I’ll have to make you show them to me. I’ll have to force your arms away and pin them behind your back and fucking make you show me your cherry tits. And I’m sure you won’t like that. I’m sure you’ll struggle. And in all of your struggling and my subduing, your dress will be the one to suffer. Your useless but pretty dress may get ripped down the middle, not only spilling your tits out but also leaving other parts of your honey-dipped body bare. And that’s not what we’re trying to do here, is it? I’m not trying to strip you fucking naked. I’m just trying to get to your tits.” His eyes are glinting right now, wisps of smoke wafting from his mouth. “I’m just trying to suck on them. Lick them, bite them, leave my teeth marks. Be your new daddy. So what do you say, Dora, my mouth, your tits, let’s make fire and melt this goddamn snow.”
God.
God, my chest is heaving. My tits are feeling heavy and swollen and so achy.
“C-can you stop repeating everything I said to you,” I say breathily, “that night? I don’t think it’s very appropriate. I’m with your?—”
“Twin brother,” he finishes for me. “I know. So again, what the fuck are you doing here, writhing in ecstasy and going to pieces, just because I said I’ll kiss you and suck your tits. Because let me tell you something. I’m an asshole in disguise. I’m a fucking thug. And if you keep looking for trouble, I am what you will find. And if you do find me, I’ll keep you, you understand? Not forever, no. Because you’re still an annoying little girl, but until I teach you what it means when you tempt a man like me to be your daddy. I’ll make you forget every fucking thing you think you know about it and teach you a new definition of the word that you’ll remember for the rest of your fucking life. And then I’ll send you back to my brother as my sloppy seconds. So next time,” he goes on, his eyes shiny and dark, “you want to look for me after dancing in my twin’s arms, next time you get the urge to flit from one brother to another, remember that. Remember that I don’t play games. Now one more time: run along and find my brother and leave me the fuck alone.”