Second Chance Twins Read online

  “I was born ready.”

  He literally was, so I couldn’t really blame him for the cheesiness. I turned to our investors.

  “Imagine, if you can, that you are a business owner in one of the poorest countries in the world. This business owner—we’ll call him Joe—pulls in maybe fifteen thousand a year for himself; barely a living in the United States, right?

  “Now, let’s say that you’re an average mid-grade worker in the U.S.—we’ll call you Paul, and you make twice what the other guy makes in a year. Paul wants to make a little extra passive income in his downtime, and he has a little bit of money to invest. Joe has a brilliant idea to double his profits, but doesn’t have the startup money.”

  I was gesticulating as I spoke, and I could feel the excitement building with every word. Nate was sticking to his cool-guy persona, smiling mildly at me as I went on my rant.

  “So, the way things are right now, these two have little to no chance of ever meeting or helping each other out. This app changes all that. There are very few micro-investing services on the market right now, and the ones that are there offer very little control to either party. It’s practically a grab-bag scenario out there right now. This app allows business owners to input everything that makes their business unique, from their experience and plan details to ethical and moral concerns.”

  “Studies have shown,” Nate interjected, “that the vast majority of people entering the workforce right now are more concerned with the ethics of a business than they ever have been before. People would rather be out of work than work for a company they find morally reprehensible, and those same people would rather spend a little more money on ‘good’ businesses than spend their money on companies who represent ideas they find distasteful.

  “These people will be doing the majority of the micro-investing on this app, and they will want to know who they are funding; not just from a business perspective, but from a personal one.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Which is why this app—in addition to giving a platform to business owners and investors—also gives a platform to their friends, associates, and employees. It’s like a social media network for the business world.”

  “There’s already one of those on the market,” George interrupted. “And frankly, it isn’t doing so well. It built up slowly, and is now where resumes and professional profiles go to die. What makes yours different?”

  “Ah! That’s exactly what makes ours different. The investment pitch and social profile are two separate components of the same account. An investor can put in the criteria for a project that he or she is interested in, search, and pull up a bunch of opportunities. Once they find one that interests them, they can then click on the poster’s profile, where they will find not only their social media interactions, but a reputation score. This app allows anybody with a real life connection to the poster to rate them on a user-friendly scale. Better reputations get higher rankings on searches, emphasizing the ethical focus of the project.”

  “Who will use it?” Ms. Eisenhower asked.

  “Literally anybody. The app itself will be free with upgrades available for a small fee, and a small percentage will be taken off of any completed business deal. Money is moved right through the app with the click of a button. This thing makes investing so easy that anyone who has ever used social media could use it effectively. This app makes it possible for anybody with five extra dollars to make someone else’s dream come true, and make a profit at the same time.”

  Their interest was piqued. I launched into an overview of the technical specifics, and the outcome of the thousands of simulations I had run. Nate took over afterwards, discussing the marketing side of things. The more we talked, the more interested the investors looked; the more interested they looked, the more excited I got.

  By the time we’d wrapped up our presentation, I was practically bouncing with pent-up energy. I could see that this was going well, and I was dying to know how much they were going to invest and how soon we could get the ball rolling. I was mere breaths away from my dream becoming reality. I could taste it.

  “Well I must say, that was a very interesting presentation,” George said, nodding his head. “Very interesting indeed. Would you two mind stepping out for a moment so my colleagues and I can deliberate in private?”

  We respectfully made ourselves scarce. I paced the hall while Nate leaned up against the wall. To the untrained eye, he looked utterly relaxed, even bored. But I saw the tension at the corners of his hooded eyes and the little fold at the corner of his mouth which told me he was just as anxious as I was.

  “How do you think we did?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know, man. I told you to tone it down. You were like a puppy ready to piddle in there. When you hit some of those techy points, you were talking so fast I was afraid they would think we were trying to hide something.”

  “I could always go over those points again. Maybe I should do that now.”

  “You open that door before they call us in and I swear to God I will end you.”

  “Okay, okay.” I pushed a hand through my hair and sighed. “I wasn’t that bad, was I? If they weren’t interested at all, they wouldn’t be discussing it for this long, would they?

  “Maybe they’re just toying with us.”

  “That’s ridiculous; they wouldn’t…would they?”

  “Mr. Lane, Mr. Dunn, the investors will see you now.” The receptionist’s voice came over a speaker, startling me.

  I straightened my suit and took a deep, steadying breath.

  “Moment of truth,” I said.

  “Let’s see if your app is worth anything,” he answered.

  We pushed back into the boardroom, practically vibrating with anticipation. The investors were all smiles, and I thought I might actually vomit. The nerves had finally hit. I was just glad they had waited until after the presentation.

  “Have a seat, boys,” George said in a grandfatherly sort of way. “Let’s talk funding.”

  I was still hyperventilating when we reached the elevator.

  “Five million,” I gasped. “Five m-million dollars!”

  “Yes,” Nate said with barely-concealed annoyance. “Five million dollars. That’s not that much, Miles. This app is worth at least twice that. Startup costs could eat through that overnight.”

  “Nope,” I said adamantly, shaking my head. “This baby’s working and ready to go. Branding won’t cost near that much. We’re in the money, Nate!”

  “I’ve always been in the money,” Nate said with a sly quirk of his lips.

  “Well, now I’m in the money,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him. “God, why aren’t you more excited? This is the first day of the rest of your life, Nate! You made something happen! We’re about to change the world!”

  “It’s just business to me, man. Sure, I believe in your vision and I’m thrilled with your app and how you managed to make it work, but I’ve known this day would come since I was three. Maybe not with you, or with these investors, or whatever. But I always knew I’d make a million before twenty-five. I wouldn’t be a Dunn otherwise. It’s in our blood.”

  I didn’t let his chill demeanor cool my excitement. I knew someone who would be just as blown away by my sudden success as I was. The second Nate and I parted ways in the parking lot, I called her.

  “Shelley!”

  “Miles! How did it go? I’ve been biting my nails for you all morning!”

  “Well, bite no more, babe! I won their hearts and wallets in one fell swoop.”

  She squealed, and though I had to pull the phone away from my ear, I was grinning like a fool.

  “Oh my God, that’s wonderful!” she said, then added after a pause, “Even if it means you won’t be working at Finnegan’s anymore.”

  “True, but I will be raking in loads of cash and doing something I actually enjoy doing. Not that I don’t enjoy watching you flirt with old men all night, but it’s not much of a career path.”

>   She laughed, adding a golden sparkle to my already sunny day.

  “I’m so happy for you, Miles. I can’t believe you did it! You actually made it!”

  “I can’t believe it either! I want to celebrate. Celebrate with me? Tonight. I’ll take you somewhere ridiculously expensive, a sort of preview of the life I’m about to have. What do you say?”

  “Yes! Yes, yes, every time, yes.”

  Her enthusiasm boosted my already-inflated ego, and I felt as if I were floating a hundred miles off the ground, soaking up sunshine. We set the time and threw around some ideas for places, punctuating the conversations with bouts of giddy laughter.

  It was really happening. The girl, the gold, the glory; I had completed the hero’s quest, and it was time to soak up the rewards.

  Chapter 4

  Shelley

  Nothing to Wear

  “Don’t I have anything?” I asked my closet in despair.

  The pile of clothes on the bed behind me seemed to be judging me. Of course I had things—nice things, even. But nice wasn’t really good enough for a fancy dinner with a millionaire, was it? I needed to be stunning. Mind-blowing.

  “Just like he is,” I murmured through the hazy smile dancing around my lips. “Absolutely mind-blowing.”

  Memories of the night before swept through my mind, making chills run over my body and turning my knees to jelly. I sat down among the clothes for a moment, staring into space as I replayed every touch and sensation from the night before. A deep ache built within me in response to the memory, a heat which would only be cooled with Miles’ talented body.

  “It doesn’t matter too much what you wear,” I told my reflection in the mirror. “It’s only gonna be on long enough to get through dinner, anyway.”

  At least, I hoped so. I would hate to think that he was less impressed with our chemistry than I was.

  I stood and examined myself in the mirror in my bra and matching panties, turning this way and that under my critical eye. No, he’d been impressed. I took pride in my body; as a late bloomer, the womanly curves were still fairly new to me. Every time I saw myself naked or near it, I felt like I had just stepped out of the pages of a comic book.

  “Can’t go wrong with a little black dress,” I decided.

  I owned three of them, but only one of them was fancy enough for the evening. I shimmied into it, then began working on my makeup. Keep it simple, keep it clean. You know it’s just going to get smeared off on his face or his pillow. That thought sent another shiver of anticipation down my body.

  “No appetizer, no dessert,” I decided. “Dinner, then round two.”

  Butterflies stirred in my belly. Dinner was more intimidating than I had anticipated. If he was taking me somewhere fancy, it would be filled with the kinds of people I only dreamed of rubbing elbows with. Entertainers. Artists. The California elite. I swallowed hard as I realized that Miles was now one of those people.

  “As if his movie-star looks weren’t intimidating enough,” I sighed to myself. “But then again, I’ve seen him naked. A person can only be so intimidating after you’ve seen them make an orgasm face. Right? Right.”

  I blew out a breath, and the butterflies finally began to settle. They were immediately roused again as my phone went off with a text message from the man himself. I had to read the message three times before it made sense to my brain, and then, my veins turned to ice.

  Gotta cancel, sorry.

  “No reason? No nothing? Nice.” I swallowed my emotional reaction and replied.

  That’s okay. Rain check for tomorrow?

  Can’t, sorry. Taking the $$ to San Bravado to get startup going.

  My hands began to shake and my belly seemed to turn to stone. He was leaving, probably forever.

  After I’d taken a few steadying breaths, I realized that San Bravado wasn’t very far away at all. A half-hour drive outside of rush hour. That was nothing; we could totally make that work.

  That sounds exciting! After you get settled we should celebrate?

  He didn’t answer for a long time. Stress redoubled, clenching my chest. I swallowed against it, pacing my room, feeling foolish in my little black dress. My phone went off, nearly giving me a heart attack.

  I don’t know yet. Maybe.

  My breath caught in my chest as tears burned in my eyes.

  “Well screw you too, Mr. Millionaire.”

  The tremors in my hands moved to the rest of my body, leaving me feeling sick and miserable. How could he just toss me aside like that? I thought we’d had a fantastic time. I thought we were great together. More importantly, I thought we were friends. I re-read his texts again and again, and the more I did, the more obvious it was that he was distinctly and deliberately leaving me behind.

  I tore the dress off and threw it to the floor in disgust. Hurt and angry, I turned my phone off. I didn’t expect him to write a long flowery apology, but if he did have anything else to say, I didn’t want to hear it. Let his money keep him warm at night.

  I kicked my shoes into the closet with more force than necessary, then stormed to the bathroom to scrub the makeup off of my face.

  “One night.” I pointed at myself in the bathroom mirror, emphasizing the seriousness of the situation. “You get one night to cry over this jackass. Exactly one, you understand me?”

  My voice was already wavering, and the tears which burned in my eyes escaped down my cheeks. I turned the shower on and stripped out of the rest of my things. There, under the hot stream, I let the sobs crash out of my body. It could have ended with a crush, two ships passing unawares in the night, but I’d had to go and cross that line. Now, it wasn’t a what-if. It was a what was, and I almost couldn’t bear it.

  Nobody had ever touched me the way he had. In and out of bed. I had never felt such an immediate connection, or experienced such soul-shaking sex. I could still feel him, and I hated it. His presence in my memory only underlined his absence in my reality.

  I took full advantage of my one night. I mourned what was and what could have been until the sun began to wash its rays over the sky, then fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Shelley

  October at Stanford

  “My name is Charlie Lease, and I’ll be your guest speaker today. Thank you all—wow, all of you—for showing up today. I gotta say, I’ve done a lot of lectures in the last couple months, and this is the biggest crowd I’ve ever had. Thank you, Stanford.

  “Anyhow, on to the topic at hand. I’m here to teach you the day-to-day, nitty-gritty, nine-to-five—or six, or eight—grind of making a museum work. Now…”

  My eyes suddenly couldn’t focus on the guest speaker. A case of tinnitus cropped up out of nowhere, giving me vertigo at the top of the slanted lecture hall. I had the overwhelming desire for flat floors and ice water.

  Closing my eyes, I lay my head on the desk. I had been feeling a bit weak, a little tired, and a touch shaky over the last week or so, but nothing like this. I felt like I was on a boat in the middle of a choppy ocean.

  “So, when curating, you have to know two things: first, who your customer base is. Are you going to have a bunch of middle-class parents trying to put their kid on an upward trajectory, or are you going to have a bunch of upper-class nannies going through the motions at the parents’ request, or are you going to have a bunch of lower-class couples looking for a cheap way to pass an afternoon? Are you going to be showing to journalists, art critics, or historians? What’s the local art or science scene like, who already has what you’re offering…”

  This was gold. I needed all of this information. Can’t miss the lecture…can’t miss the lecture…

  Hot chills coursing over my skin disagreed with me. I put it off as long as I could, barely gleaning anything from the man’s meticulously organized presentation, before my mouth began to fill with saliva. Abandoning my bag on the floor, I raced out of the room, down the long hallway, and into the bathroom. I barely made it.

&nb
sp; “Hey!” a startled man shouted as I burst in.

  Couldn’t be helped. The ladies’ room was three yards farther, and there was no way I could have got there without a very messy, very public sort of mortification. As it was, I was re-gifting my breakfast to the porcelain throne in front of a row of urinals.

  Sweat poured into my eyes as my whole body shook. It had never been like this. It was worse than the flu. Worse than food poisoning. It was as if my body was trying to get rid of everything in it, whether it belonged there or not.

  I don’t know how many men came into the bathroom in the ten minutes it took for me to stop heaving, but I do know that none of them stuck around to make sure I was all right. I heard two of them laughing about freshmen and their hangovers. I wanted to spin around and tell them they were wrong on both counts, but I was sort of incapacitated.

  I took the time to wash my face. It was only polite. Deciding to leave my bag—complete with enough textbooks to take out a mortgage and my laptop—to the mercy of basic human decency, I turned left out the door and stumbled to the campus medical center. Sweat and saliva still flowed freely, making me afraid to open my mouth. Swallowing hard, I whispered to the receptionist that I needed to see a nurse.

  “All right, honey, d’you have your student ID? Perfect. Have a seat; a nurse will be right out.”

  The receptionist’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She looked like someone who was watching her child get their seventeenth piercing. Who disappointed you, receptionist? The question floated lazily back and forth through my head, unanswered and unanswerable, utterly inconsequential but a distraction all the same.

  “Shelley Smith?” a short, pink woman called from the doorway.

  I had never seen anyone so pink. Her skin was flushed pink, her hair was dyed electric pink, and she wore pink candy-striped scrubs. I wanted to make a witty comment, but I couldn’t seem to come up with one even if I’d been brave enough to open my mouth.