Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  TWIN PIQUES

  Copyright © 2014 by Tracie Banister

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, without the written consent of its author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art designed by Lyndsey Lewellen.

  http://lyndseylewellen.wordpress.com/

  Stock image: © Irish1983 | Dreamstime.com - Golden Gate Bridge In San Francisco Photo

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with Tracie Banister

  Blame It on the Fame

  In Need of Therapy

  To Simon, the canine love of my life.

  You will always be in my heart.

  Chapter 1

  (Willa)

  “You’ll be on third, after the Butt and Gut workout segment and the dog lady, so you’ve got half an hour to kill. I’ll come back and get you when it’s your time. Do not leave this room. Help yourself to the food and beverages.”

  Hearing the harried voice of the production assistant who delivered a similar set of instructions to me not five minutes before, I lift my eyes from the old issue of 7x7 I’m leafing through, making a mental note to remember the “10 Hottest Spots for Gay Singles in San Francisco” so that I can pass the info on to my friend, Tommy. (He’s always looking for new places to get his party on.) I watch the PA scurry off, leaving behind a lanky, dark-haired man who strides over to the craft services table.

  The hour’s ungodly, so it doesn’t surprise me when he picks up a Styrofoam cup (So bad for the environment!) and goes straight for the coffee. There are several carafes filled with fancy flavored brews available to him and he seems to be baffled by the assortment for a few seconds. After doing some investigating, he figures out which one holds what he wants and proceeds to fill his cup to the brim with plain black coffee. His choice of beverage also comes as no surprise to me as my fellow green room inhabitant strikes me as a no-frills kind of guy. I’m basing this on his unassuming style of dress – well-worn Levi’s, dark denim shirt, one of those safari-style jackets that has all the pockets. He doesn’t look slovenly, just comfortable and unconcerned about what the viewers of Daybreak on the Bay might think when they see him on their hi-def TV screens while scarfing down their scrambled eggs and toast.

  I, on the other hand, put a tremendous amount of thought and effort into what I was going to wear for my television debut, soliciting the opinion of just about everyone I know. I even asked my mailman, Ernie, for his thoughts after I narrowed my wardrobe options down to two. He wasn’t much help since he’s got some weird kind of color blindness where everything he sees is a different shade of blue (or maybe it’s green). In the end, majority ruled and I went with a cute color block dress that’s orange and fuchsia, with bands of white separating the different shades. It has a mod ‘60s vibe I really like, plus it shows off my long legs, which I’ve often been told (mostly by men) are my best feature. I can’t say I agree as I’ve always thought my eyes are my most striking attribute. They’re the first thing I notice when I look in the mirror since they’re shockingly blue and quite big (not creepy big, like the ones in those paintings at the Keane Eyes Gallery down by Ghirardelli Square – more like attractively large). They’re also partially obscured by my too-long bangs at the moment, so I keep having to brush the hair to the side with my hand in order to see out of them.

  I wonder what color eyes Mr. Black Coffee has? Smoldering brown, perhaps. Or maybe a mesmerizing pale green. At this rate, I’m never going to find out since he’s still standing at the craft services table with his back to me, occasionally blowing on the steaming liquid in his cup, waiting for it to be cool enough to drink. Finally, he works up the nerve to take a sip. He grimaces the minute the coffee hits his tongue, and I shudder in sympathy, imagining how bitter the java must be to have elicited such a response from him. It makes me glad I opted for the green tea (in a mug, natch). When I see him grab a glazed donut and prepare to take a bite, I decide to intervene, thinking the poor man has already suffered enough for one morning.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Twisting his head over his shoulder, Mr. Black Coffee gives me a “Huh?” look. I think he’s startled to discover he’s not alone in the room, or maybe he’s just curious to know what I have against donuts.

  “They’re stale,” I inform him. “I found that out the hard way and I mean ‘hard’ literally; I almost chipped a tooth. The muffins aren’t bad. I had one of the blueberry. They’re great antioxidants, you know. Blueberries, not muffins which are mostly full of refined sugar, something I think we can both agree is pretty unhealthy, as are most breakfast foods. I’m more of a granola-and-yogurt girl myself.”

  He grunts an acknowledgement of my warning and tosses the donut in the garbage, where it lands with a disturbingly loud thunk. I expect him to grab one of the muffins I recommended, but instead he pulls his iPhone from the back pocket of his jeans and begins to check something (his messages?). Keeping his eyes glued to the phone’s display screen, he walks over to the couch that’s catty-cornered to the one I’m situated on and takes a seat. I wait to see if he can tear himself away from his phone long enough to offer me a smile or hello, but it doesn’t happen. Clearly, he’s using the electronic device to avoid having to interact with me, which is fine. It’s a free country after all, and everyone has the right to be anti-social. However, my companion does not share my live-and-let-live attitude. In fact, he’s quite put out by Mr. Black Coffee’s apparent lack of interest in him.

  “Yes, I can see he’s ignoring you,” I say, in an exaggerated whisper. “I think it’s pretty obvious that he is not a morning person. You shouldn’t take offense. Not everyone jumps out of bed, feeling enthusiastic about facing a new day, like you do. His biorhythms are probably out of sync.”

  Mr. Black Coffee’s thumbs freeze in the middle of typing back a reply to one of his texts or e-mails, and he glances up at me. Eye contact! “I’m sorry. Did you say s
omething to me?” He looks simultaneously befuddled and irritated.

  I smile, flashing him the pearly whites that cost my mother thousands to straighten with some serious orthodontia. “No, I was talking to someone else.”

  Continuing to look befuddled, but a little less irritated, he does a surreptitious scan of the room. He sees no one besides the two of us, so he turns back to me, his brow now furrowed with confusion. “So, you have an imaginary friend?”

  “Not since I was eight,” I assure him. “Cicero is very real. Aren’t you, Cicero?” Hearing his name mentioned, my canine chum, who is a small, shaggy white dog of indeterminate parentage, emerges from the little nook between the two couches where he’s been lounging and barks his response.

  “Oh, sorry, fella,” the man apologizes, relief washing over his face. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”

  “Well, that explains why Mr. uh—,” I almost say, “Black Coffee,” but stop myself before revealing my nickname for him.

  “Wyatt. Brody Wyatt.”

  I nod, silently thanking him for the info. “That explains why Mr. Wyatt didn’t acknowledge you earlier. See, there was no reason for you to feel slighted.” Placing my hands over Cicero’s pointy ears, which both flop over in the most precious way, I lean forward and murmur in a confidential tone, “Cicero’s used to attracting a lot of attention wherever he goes and he takes great pride in his adorableness, so he was a bit miffed when you didn’t make a fuss.”

  “My apologies, Cicero,” Brody says in his deep, rumbly voice, a voice I’m already starting to like the sound of. “I hope we can be friends.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I admonish, and Brody frowns. I shake my head “no” and point down at Cicero, indicating that he’s the one I was speaking to. “He thinks you have treats,” I tell Brody before switching back to Cicero. “Fine.” I raise my hands, palms up, as a show of surrender. Cicero is a very stubborn dog, and I’ve learned through experience that there’s no use arguing with him when he has his mind set on something. “Go ahead and ask him, but don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t have anything to give you.”

  Following my advice, Cicero trots over to Brody and assumes the begging position, with his haunches on the ground and his front paws held up in the air.

  “Uh, well, I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible . . .” Brody pats around the pockets of his rumpled jacket while big brown eyes gaze at him expectantly. I really hope he isn’t getting Cicero’s hopes up for nothing. I don’t want my doggy sidekick to be in a pouty mood when we hit the Daybreak stage.

  “Aha!” Brody announces triumphantly, extracting several pieces of a crumbled up peanut butter-flavored (Cicero’s favorite!) biscuit from one of the unbuttoned compartments of his jacket. He hands the largest one to Cicero who takes his reward gently and carries it back over to a spot next to my feet before consuming it.

  “Yes, yes, you were right, and I was wrong. I should never question your sense of smell as it’s clearly superior to mine.” I give my gloating pet an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “You have a dog?” I ask Brody.

  “Me? No. These dog biscuits are mine. I like to snack on them throughout the day. They’re really good for the teeth, you know.” The corners of his lips twitch with amusement, and I’m delighted to discover that there’s a sense of humor lurking beneath his somewhat dour exterior.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and this dog?”

  “Deal?” My left eyebrow shoots up questioningly.

  “Yeah, the way you communicate with Cicero; it’s um . . .,” I could see him struggling to find the right word, “. . . unusual.”

  “Like we’re having a two-sided conversation?”

  “Exactly. Is that some kind of new age canine training method where you put yourself in your dog’s place and verbalize how you imagine he’s feeling?” He offers me what I’m sure he thinks is a perfectly reasonable explanation for my behavior, but I refuse to accept it.

  “Nope,” I answer blithely.

  “You’re not saying you can read his thoughts, are you?” The furrowed brow is back again.

  “Mmmm, not exactly. Dogs don’t think in a language comprehensible to humans. What goes through their minds are images, emotions, the occasional word they’ve learned from their owners. Somehow, I’ve always been able to tap into that and make sense of it.”

  “Not just with Cicero? Any dog?”

  “And cats, although they’re not as easy to get a bead on as dogs. Felines are more secretive by nature. I do have a few as clients, though.”

  Reaching into my pink sequined Hello Kitty purse (Love!), I pull out one of my business cards and hand it to him. I’m really proud of those cards. I designed them myself online at Vistaprint, using a fun, colorful font and an adorable photo of a calico kitten cuddled up with a black Lab.

  Examining the card, Brody mutters, “Oh, boy,” and starts rubbing his forehead.

  “I know,” I commiserate. “Pet psychic is a super cheesy job description. I cringe inwardly every time I refer to myself as one, but clients like thinking there’s some sort of magic involved with what I do and nothing else I tried was any better. Pet interpreter? Pet proxy? Pet empath?” I scrunch up my face with disgust. “They’re all bad. I wish Cesar Milan hadn’t beat me to dog whisperer. That would have rocked!”

  “So, this is what you do for a living?” He’s still staring incredulously at my business card. “Talk to animals?”

  “Uh huh, and I relay their wishes, concerns, and frustrations to their owners, which improves the quality of their lives. It’s a very noble profession.”

  Brody does not look convinced. In fact, he looks like he’s debating whether or not he should call the men in white coats to come and get me.

  “You think I’m certifiable,” I say, with nonchalance. I’m used to people thinking I’m one banana short of a bunch when I tell them what my line of work is.

  “No, uh . . . maybe just a little fanciful. If you’ve always had an innate ability to understand the behavior of dogs, it’s likely your young mind perceived that as some sort of extrasensory power when the truth is—”

  “You’re attempting to rationalize my gift,” I interrupt him with an observation. “I’ll bet you had a science-oriented education, right? And now you . . . study things?” Brody opens his mouth to either confirm or deny my theory, but I hold up my hand to stop him. “No, don’t tell me. It’ll be more fun for me to guess.”

  Squinting my eyes (even with contact lenses, my up-close vision has never been great), I scrutinize him for a second, looking for clues that’ll lead me to his profession. The first thing that jumps out at me is his tan. Okay, that’s a fib. The first thing that jumps out at me are his eyes. Earlier, I wondered if they were brown or green. Turns out they’re this unusual smoky blue-gray color that gives him a mysterious vibe. After the eyes, I notice his cleft chin. It’s kind of hard to miss since it’s a focal point on his face, a lean, ruggedly handsome face that’s been bronzed by the sun. “You work outdoors, not in a lab or a classroom,” I make the logical connection between his skin tone and his job. “And,” my gaze drops to his hands, “you have calluses and cuts on your palms, which means you use tools of some kind . . . archaeologist! No,” I quickly discard that idea almost as soon as it occurs to me, not because I can’t easily picture Brody Wyatt in Indiana Jones mode wearing a leather jacket and battered fedora, but because there isn’t anything that exciting for a relic-lover to dig up in San Francisco. I drum my fingers on my chin thoughtfully, trying to come up with another option. “Marine biologist?” There’s certainly more than enough aquatic life in the area.

  “I almost drowned when I was seven and have steered clear of large bodies of water ever since.”

  “Okay . . . seismologist? Ornithologist? Meteorologist? Bugologist?” I’m starting to get desperate.

  Brody chortles. “I think you mean entomologist and I am most definitely not one of those. My interest in insects is strictly limi
ted to the aphids that like to suck my roses dry.”

  “Roses?” I perk up. “You work with flowers?” Science with a soft, romantic side? I like it!

  “My degree’s in plant biology, but I’m a rosarian by trade. I do consulting work for some of the large public gardens in the Bay Area and design, plant, and do maintenance for private gardens all over the state. Plus, I grow my own roses for shows and volunteer at the Berkeley Rose Garden in my spare time. That’s why I’m here at Daybreak – to promote a charity event that’s taking place at the BRG next month.”

  “What a wonderful job that must be, surrounded by nature’s beauty every day,” I muse dreamily.

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” Brody says, with a shy smile, obviously pleased that I see the appeal of what he does.

  “Do you talk to them?” I wonder.

  “The roses?”

  “No, the aphids,” I deadpan. “Of course, the roses!”

  “Why would I talk to my roses?” He looks stupefied. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you communicate with flora, too.”

  “How can I communicate with something that doesn’t have a brain?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize that you were now applying logic to this talent of yours.” He smirks, which leads me to believe he’s enjoying this playful banter of ours.

  “Mock all you like, but you haven’t really seen what I can do yet.”

  Right on cue, a Daybreak production assistant sticks her head into the green room and says, “Ms. Tobin, we’re ready for you. Will you come with me please?”

  “Looks like we’re on, Cicero.” Scooping the pooch up in my arms, I rise to my feet, which I’m a little unsteady on as I’m wearing some orange Mary Janes with a pretty substantial heel. (Flats are my go-to footwear, but I thought my first appearance on television warranted something a bit fancier.) Once I think I have my balance, I tell Brody to, “Watch my segment,” and hand him the remote control to the green room TV that Cicero was using as a chew toy while we were talking. “I’ll make a believer out of you.”