Dirty Girl

Twin Flames

In high school, Jordan was smitten with a guy named Rick Helmsworth. He was tall—easily over six feet by graduation—and broad-shouldered, with dirty blond hair kept short, save for the bangs he’d sweep aside with a casual flick of his hand. He always wore collared shirts tucked into beige slacks, his brown loafers perfectly matched to his belt. He was the quintessential preppy.

Rick and his identical twin, Steve, were happy-go-lucky football players and straight-A students—aces in Math, English, and pretty much everything else they touched.

For most of senior year, Steve dated Hannah Redfoot. Quiet and composed, she played the flute in the school band alongside about eighty-five other students. Her chestnut hair was always tied back in a neat French braid, and though she dressed modestly, it was obvious she had a killer figure. She clung to Steve like a shadow and never once spoke a word to Jordan.

Jordan was invisible. If you didn’t play football or cheer, you were nobody. Maybe—maybe—you could hover on the edges of popularity if you were in the band. Jordan wasn’t athletic or musical. She suffered from a terminal case of unpopularity.

Her free time was spent holed up in the library, head buried in textbooks, laser-focused on top grades—and, truthfully, on avoiding people she had nothing in common with. One day, Rick strolled in, sat across from her, cracked open his algebra book, and asked her what she thought of Mr. Goldberg, their math teacher. After that, they met religiously at 10:15 a.m. to study.

They had exactly one thing in common: they loved doing homework. During study hall, they’d quiz each other, proof each other’s assignments. Sometimes, Steve would drop by and join in. Despite being physically identical, the twins were polar opposites when it came to relationships. Steve was happy with Hannah. Rick? He avoided dating altogether, even though half the girls at school had a crush on him.

When a big assignment loomed, Rick would call Jordan at home. She’d lie on her bed with the phone pressed to her ear, talking to him for hours—until her mom yelled at her to hang up and give someone else a turn to use the phone. As much as she wished he’d ask her out, he never did. Their friendship stayed strictly academic.

Then came graduation night and the infamous Pit Party—held on the quarterback’s parents' 52-acre farm. Beer flowed like water. Teens hurled their grad caps into a bonfire, celebrating their newfound freedom.

Rick was near the flames, dancing horribly—arms flailing, off-beat and carefree. Jordan made her way over and gave him a buddy-style side hug. “Congrats!” she shouted over the blaring music from the ghetto blaster dumped next to an abandoned lawn chair.

“Jordan!” he slurred, slumping against her. The smell of beer clung to him. “Come with me,” he said, tugging her behind the treeline.

Out of sight, he placed a hand behind her head and said, “You’re so f*****g beautiful.”

“You’re so f*****g drunk,” she replied, looking into his sexy, glassy eyes, secretly thrilled that he finally saw her as more than a study partner—even if it took liquid courage to say it.

“Yes, I am.” He laughed, then turned serious. “Will you kiss me anyway?”

She’d had a couple of drinks too. Her inhibitions were loosened. The fire, the milestone, the moment—it all felt bigger than her. ‘Nothing serious will come of this,’ she told herself. She was heading to Sault College. Rick and Steve had football scholarships in the States.

He leaned in, their lips almost touching—pausing, savoring. Then he kissed her. And not just any kiss. The kind of kiss born from months of suppressed tension. It ripped through her like electricity. She swore it was a spiritual experience. They kissed for what felt like forever. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead on hers, cupped her face in his hands, and whispered, “That was hot.”

She smiled sadly, lips swollen, knowing she’d never touch him again.

Somehow, she knew that kiss—that kiss—was something most people would never get to experience. She wondered if she’d ever meet someone who could make her feel that way again.

Later that night, while looking to refill her Solo cup, she wandered over to the keg table. Steve was there—looking good in pressed slacks, his dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal a football-logo tee.

“Hey, Steve. Congrats,” she said, tossing a Dorito into her mouth. “Where’s Hannah?”

Steve looked down at her and smiled, a bit sheepishly. “We broke up. Wasn’t gonna last.”

“Yeah, long-distance relationships are kinda dumb,” she joked.

“It wasn’t the distance,” he said. Jordan raised an eyebrow. Then Steve leaned in, cupped her face, and kissed her.

They even kiss identically, Jordan thought, stunned.

She had been so wrapped up in Rick, she’d never noticed Steve looking at her. Never realized he might’ve joined their study group for her. How long had he felt this way?

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “I wish I’d said something sooner,” he murmured. “We could’ve had more time.”

She never told anyone what happened that night—not even her best friend, Kaitlyn. What would people think of her if they knew she kissed both twins at the same party?

That secret was locked in her memory. Or was it?

Had one of them told someone? And now, here on this island, was Jake's investigator airing it all out?