The Terrible Twins

I’m leaning against the rusted railing of the ‘Galactic Spinner,’ the smell of burnt popcorn and diesel fumes clogging my throat. Siobhan is grinning, her teeth white against the smear of dirt and lipstick on her face.

We’re mirror images of the same disaster. Lean, corded muscle from years of hauling gear and fighting every prick from Cork to Galway. We’ve got the same pale, translucent skin that burns red in ten minutes of sun and the same wild, copper hair that looks like a forest fire gone wrong, currently tangled and greasy from three days of not giving a shit.

She sneers at the passers-by, taking a swig from a plastic bottle of moonshine that smells like industrial solvent.

She passes it to me. I take a long, burning gulp that hits my stomach like a hot coal. It’s illegal as fuck, brewed in a shed by some cousin who’s probably in jail now, and it makes my head spin in the best possible way.

The county fair is a shithole, but it’s our shithole. The air is thick with the sound of screaming kids and the rhythmic thump-thump of the ride hydraulics. I can feel the sweat sticking my thin cotton tank top to my skin. My nipples are hard, rubbing against the fabric, and Siobhan's eyes drop down to them with a hungry, filthy look. She doesn’t hide it. We don’t hide anything. We’re O’Connors; we take what we want and we piss on the rest.

"Look at that little posh cunt," Siobhan whispers, nodding toward a girl in a floral dress walking past us. "Bet she’s never had a finger up her arse, let alone a proper shag."

"Bet she tastes like fucking tea and biscuits," I laugh, my voice a gravelly rasp.

I shift my weight, feeling the tightness of my denim shorts digging into my thighs. My legs are strong, calf muscles knotted like rope, and my skin is mapped with a few faded scars from a brawl we had in a car park last summer. I feel the heat of the crowd, the friction of bodies, and the sudden, sharp urge to hit something or fuck someone—or both.

A local lad, some chinless wonder in a polo shirt, makes the mistake of looking at us. Not just looking, but lingering. He gives me a slow, appreciative scan from my boots up to my chest, a smug little smirk on his face.

The switch flips. It always does.

"What the fuck are you staring at, you gormless prick?" I snap, stepping forward.

"Just admiring the view, love," he says, his voice dripping with that condescending tone that makes me want to vomit.

I don’t even think. I just move. I bridge the gap in two strides and slam my palm into his chest, sending him stumbling back into a display of oversized stuffed pandas. Siobhan is right behind me, cackling, her eyes wide and manic.

"The view’s a bit too good for a waste of skin like you," she screams, stepping in to kick his shin.

He tries to protest, but he’s outmatched. We’re feral, we’re loud, and we’re faster than he is. By the time the security guard—a fat man who looks like he’s about to have a heart attack—arrives, we’re already walking away, laughing, our copper hair flying in the wind.

"That was pathetic," I mutter, though my heart is racing. "I barely broke a sweat."

Siobhan reaches out, grabbing my hand and squeezing it hard. "Come on. Let's find some other poor soul to pick on. I can still taste the blood in the air."

"Hold my fucking drink before I put my boot through your teeth," I tell Maeve, shoving a plastic cup of moonshine into her hand.

The liquor tastes like battery acid and old socks, but it hits my gut like a sledgehammer, and that’s exactly why I love it. We’re standing in the middle of the county funfair, a neon-lit shithole smelling of fried dough and desperation. Everything is loud, gaudy, and fucking tacky—just the way we like it.

I can feel the sweat slicking my skin under this thin, ripped tank top. My body is a map of hard edges and lean muscle, carved out from years of hauling gear and fighting every prick who thinks a girl in a trailer can't throw a punch. My arms are corded, my stomach flat and hard as a paving stone, and my tits are just enough to stop a man's heart before I break his nose. I can feel the sweat itching under my braless chest, my nipples rubbing against the cheap fabric of a stolen tank top. I've got a bruise blooming across my ribs from where Maeve kicked me in the gut three hours ago because I told her she looked like a slag.

Maeve is my mirror image, just as lean and lethal. She’s got that same wild, copper mane of hair that looks like a forest fire against her pale, porcelain skin. She’s wearing a skirt so short it’s practically a belt, showing off legs that are all muscle and scarred knees. She looks at me with those predatory eyes, and I can tell she’s itching for another row.

"You're a hateful cunt, Siobhan," she sneers, though she’s grinning. She takes a massive swig of the shine and wipes her mouth with the back of a hand that’s still stained with engine grease.

A group of local lads are staring at us from the edge of the midway. They’ve got that look—that hungry, pathetic look. One of them, a skinny prick with a haircut like a mushroom, lets his eyes linger too long on the curve of my arse.

"What the fuck are you gawking at, you little shite?" I bark, stepping toward him. My voice is a rasp, raw from screaming over the wind of the road.

"Just admiring the view, love," he sneers.

I don't even think. I just move. I bridge the gap in two strides and plant my palm right into the center of his face. The sound of his nose cracking is the most satisfying thing I've heard all night. He goes down hard, and I'm on top of him in a heartbeat, my knee pinning his chest, my fingers gripping his collar.

"View this, you cunt," I hiss, my face inches from his.

Maeve is howling with laughter, leaning back and clutching her stomach. She doesn't move to help me; she just watches, her eyes dancing. She likes it when I'm violent. We both do. It’s the only way to feel the blood pumping in this dead-end town.

As I pull away, I catch a glimpse of a girl standing by the candy floss stand. She's got dark curls and eyes that look like honey, watching the whole scene with a mix of horror and fascination. I feel a sudden, sharp throb of heat in my lower belly. I don't care that she's terrified; she's fucking gorgeous.

I wink at her, a slow, predatory movement. "Don't worry, sweetheart," I call out, licking a drop of the other guy's blood off my knuckle. "I'm a lot more fun when I'm not punching people."

Maeve slides an arm around my waist, her body lean and hot against mine. "Coming, Siobhan? Or are you going to finish off the trash?"

"Coming," I say, turning my back on the sobbing prick on the pavement.

We walk away from the noise and the lights, two copper-haired hurricanes in the middle of a storm, looking for something—anything—to keep us from getting bored to death.

Then we see you, standing in the shadows at the base of the Ferris wheel...