Soul Mates

Chapter Three

 I wake up, finding my head on Crystal's chest. Her arms are locked around me. I smile, as I look at the time. Seven-fourty-. "Hey, Christian. Wake up." The aforementioned girl opens one eye. "We have to work at nine."

 "Okay, make me food," she mutters, flipping over to her stomach. Without even the slightest hesitation, I push the taller girl off my bed, whilst sitting up. She glares at me. "Well, aren't you precious?" She smiles sarcastically.

 "Yeah, yeah, get in the shower." She huffs, gets up, and grabs her clothes she leaves here. I get up, and quickly make pancakes. As they cook I fill a plate for her, James, and Momma; the twins won't be up for two hours at least. Minutes later, all three are down, eating. I eat a few myself, and start cleaning up the small mess I've made.

 "I'll take that," James says, grabbing the bowl from my hands and beginning to wash it. I send him a grin, as he also takes my plate. 

 "Thanks, Ray," my mom adds, kissing my cheek. It just widens my smile. 

 I reply "You're welcome, Momma." I wipe my hands, before saying "I'm gonna go shower, then we gotta work." I hop in the shower, pull on my uniform, and get ready to go. I pull on my jacket, and hop in to Crys' car. We talk the entire way to work – a five minute drive – and get there at five to the hour.

 Business is even slower today, as it the day before Christmas Eve. Despite the last minute shopping in every other city, nearly everyone leaves the island to visit family on the mainland or up north. That's why our work is shorter today. Only a few people come in throughout the day, so we are constantly chatting. In the last ten minutes or so, a tall, muscular, tired-looking man walks in, with sunglasses and an all-black outfit. "Good evenin', sir. What can I get ya?" I ask.

 "Grande- no make it a vente Caffé Americano," he speaks in a thick accent I haven't heard around here. 

 "That'll be $2.75, please," I say politely. He nods, handing me three dollars.

 "Keep the change," he says, putting his wallet in his pocket. I send him a polite smile, which he returns. 

 "Thank you, sir. We'll have your drink in a moment." He nods, sitting a high-table near the counter.

 "Ray, when are you going to get out of this job, and go to college?" Crystal asks me, making the drink. This is a common question with her. She claims to always feel bad, since she is going to college - The University of Tampa, to be exact - while I am at home, working my full time job that "doesn't make that much money." Three-hundred fifty a normal week isn't too bad, I think. 

 "I can't, I have to help pay for the bills. I don't have enough for college." Truth be told, with both James and I working, we make enough and then a bit, but no where near enough for college. Heck, for a while, we barely had enough for my public school fees!

 "Here's your drink, sir," she calls to the man. He says a quiet 'thank you', grabs it and settles back down. She turns to me. "Then go find a better job. Go find your dream job."

 "As amazing as it would be to be a stylist, no one's looking. And even if they were, they'd choose someone more qualified. Someone with a degree in fashion, and years of experience. Not some girl who's a high school dropout and has a knack for fashion."

 "You'd be great for the job! You're sensible and fashionable! You could be the stylist for big people! 5SOS, Demi Lovato, Jennifer Lawerence, hell even One Direction! You just gotta find connections!"

 "I don't know..."

 "Reagan Eliza Troy-Paige! C'mon, you don't want to be stuck with this dead end job and we both know it! Start advertising yourself as a pro!"

 "You say this like it's easy." I rest my head in my hands, leaning forwards against the cool black counter. 

 "Miss?" a deep accent sounds.

 I look up to the man. "Yes, sir?"

 "I am curious, when does your shift end?"

 "In about three minutes. Why?"

 "May I talk to you when it is over?"

 "Sure?" I say, a questioning tone in my voice. No one else comes in, so Crystal and I begin to clean up. "You had wanted to speak with me?" I say, catiously.

 "Yes, love, sit," he says, a warm tone in his accent. Irish! That's it! He's Irish! I sit quietly and Crys pulls a chair over, listening. I look back to the man. He pulls off his sunglasses and looks at us. "Do either of you know who I am?"

 Before I can say anything, Crys excitedly says "You're Paul Higgins! You're One Direction's head bodyguard and tour manager!"

 "That I am," he chuckles.

 "I was going to say a big Irishman," I mumble, quietly. 

 He chuckles again; I blush. "That also works. Back to business, you said you want to be a stylist, yes?" I nod. "How would you like to be One Direction's stylist?"

 I stare at the man as if he had seven heads. "Beg your pardin'?"

 "I am not joking. Would you like to be their stylist?"

 "Is it really that easy?"

 "Well, we'd have to background check you, and you'd have to sign a contract, oh, and design sample outfits for the lads, but other than that, yes. It's just that easy."

 "I-I don't know, sir. I'd have to talk to my momma and everything. Is there a way I can reach you?"

 "Yes. I'll give you my phone number." He begins to write it down. "By the way, what's your name again?"

 "Reagan. Reagan Troy-Paige."

 He nods, handing me a napkin with the number. "Okay, Reagan. Call me at this number anytime after Christmas. Remember I'll be on London time, so I guess in this time, you can call from 5am until 6pm. We won't be back in Sarasota until the twenty-eighth."

 "Okay, sir, I reckon I'll call."

 "Nice to meet you, Miss Troy-Paige."

 He holds his hand out for me to shake. I shake it, firmly, replying "You too, Mr. Higgins."

 "Good day to you both," he says walking out.

 I sit there, shocked. I turn to Crystal, who's in the same condition. We stare at each other for God-knows how long. "Jesus Christ," I whisper. She merely nods in agreement.