Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  I’m just pulling up to the curb outside my house when I see a familiar red Jag sitting in front of Gav’s place. I slam on my brakes so hard that my body snaps forward and I almost hit my forehead on the steering wheel. Shit, shit, shit! What is she doing at Gav’s? They couldn’t be seeing each other again, could they? Why would Gav go back to her after all this time?

  Duh, Sloane, you know why. He’s rebounding because he poured his heart out to you and you basically said, “Sorry, can’t help you.” What better way to deal with the hurt and rejection than calling the first woman he could think of who would come running over so fast she’d probably break a Jimmy Choo skinny heel while doing it. I’m sure that witch couldn’t wait to kiss the boo-boo, and any other part of Gav’s hot body she could get her devil red lips on. Yuck, why did I have to think about them having sex? Could he really do that? After that amazing night with me, after he told me he loved me? Of course, he could – he’s a guy! Guys always go for the quick fix. And it’s not like he owes me any kind of loyalty or consideration. He warned me he would move on if I couldn’t get over myself and return his feelings. But why her? Of all the bossy, snooty, narcissistic, ugly lipstick-wearing– Crap, there she is!

  I slink down in my seat the second her artfully tousled pixie cut comes into my sight line. She’s heading toward her car, talking on a cell phone (probably ordering a fresh supply of virgin blood to be shipped to her coffin’s address). Finishing the call, she turns off the phone and shoves it into her purse, then turns back to say something to Gav, who’s followed her out to the car. He’s dressed up in a nice, slim-cut suit – the same gray number he wore the night we hooked up – bastard! I hope he didn’t have a chance to get the suit dry cleaned yet and it’s still covered in my scent so that he’ll be reminded of me all night long!

  I watch as Thea hands Gav her keys. What? She’s letting him drive her precious Jag? That’s a first. He makes a move to walk over to the driver’s side of the Jag, but she grabs his hand and pulls him back, with a seductive smile on her face. No, no, no, don’t you dare! Fuck, she’s doing it. She’s kissing him. From my vantage point, I can’t tell if he’s kissing her back, but he’s not pushing her away. Oh, God, her hands are in his hair – his sexy, messy hair that I dug my fingers into last week when we– I hate her so much right now. My stomach is churning, and I feel hot tears of rage pricking my eyes. I squeeze them shut, praying that Gav and Thea will get in that stupid Jag, with its stupid vanity plate, and drive the hell away.

  In an effort to distract myself, I start listing off prime numbers . . . two, three, five, seven . . . When I get to forty-one, I tentatively open one eye and am relieved to see that Gav and Thea are gone. At least the kiss didn’t last long. That’s something. She’s probably a terrible kisser. I console myself with this as I get out of the car and walk to the house with a weird, hollow feeling in my knees. Too much tongue? No, a lip biter. She is a vampire, after all. And I do remember Gav sporting some hickeys on his neck back when they used to date. My hands tremble when I try to open the front door, which makes it difficult to get my key in the lock.

  “What is wrong with you?” I chastise myself just as I feel a tear splash down on my cheek. No way. I quickly wipe the wetness away. I have never cried over a guy in my life, and I am definitely not going to start now. Even if it is Gav.

  God, I miss him SO much. I lean my forehead against the etched glass of the door as more tears spill from my eyes. I hate this. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. Am I sad, mad, jealous, all of the above? I have no idea how to sort out all these conflicting and confusing emotions. With a gross-sounding sniffle, I pull my phone from my purse and type in a text message.

  “Come over now. I need you.”

  Chapter 39

  (Willa)

  In our thirty-two shared years on this planet, my sister has never once said she needed me. Technically, she still hasn’t said it; she texted it. Regardless, it was a cry for help, and I rushed out of my apartment in a panic seconds after receiving the message. I was so frantic I forgot to put on shoes! Fortunately, Brody was close on my heels and he handed me a pair of sandals and offered to give me a ride, which saved me from having to take the bus barefooted (How gross would that have been? Have you seen the floor of a bus? I saw a used condom on one once!) On the drive over to Sloane’s, I’ve been trying to imagine what sort of cataclysmic event might have occurred that would have compelled her to send out a distress call. It had to have been something major for her to lift the “I’m-not-talking-to-you” embargo. I totally deserved that, by the way. She lost Gav and her job all in one week, and both things were kind of, sort of, mostly my fault.

  Of course, I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. I thought I was helping with Gav, and I had no idea there was a connection between Brody and one of Sloane’s clients. Still, I screwed up, and my sister paid the price, which was horribly unfair. So, whatever she needs from me (Maybe help her fight off the mutant mold beast that sprung fully grown from all the nasty, old takeout in her fridge.), I’m there, no questions asked. Actually, I did ask questions, sending a dozen or more “What’s wrong?” replies to her text, but she didn’t respond. I’m thinking the mold beast slimed her phone . . . or she might have just shut it off.

  “We’re here,” Brody informs me, and I see that we are indeed parked outside my family’s Victorian. “Do you want me to stick around until you’re sure everything’s okay?”

  “That’s sweet . . .,” I give his denim-covered thigh a grateful squeeze, “. . . but no. Cicero and I have got this. Thanks so much for driving me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I lean over the white ball of fur wedged in between us and kiss him.

  “You’ll never have to find out.” He smiles and strokes my cheek. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will.” I gather Cicero in my arms and jump out of the truck. Not stopping to set the dog down, I hurry toward the house, taking the steep stairs up to the porch two at a time. Since I was invited over, I feel like it’s okay for me to use my key to let myself in.

  “Sloane,” I call out from the foyer, finding the house eerily quiet. Why don’t I hear her fingers tapping away on a laptop keyboard, or some police procedural blasting from the TV, or the sound of a microwave whirring in the kitchen? I let Cicero off his leash, and he dashes down the hallway, running as fast as his little doggy legs can carry him. “What’s got you so excited?” I wonder. His thoughts aren’t telling me anything, so I trail after him, finally ending up in the kitchen, where I’m greeted by a shocking sight.

  My always dignified and impeccably groomed sister is sitting on the hardwood floor, leaning back against the cabinets, the top knot her hair’s been piled into has come loose and it’s listing to the side with rogue strands sprouting out wildly in different directions, her glasses are perched crookedly on the tip of her nose, her beautiful python-print blouse is half untucked from the waistband of her skirt and there’s white frosting down its front and on the underside of one sleeve. That frosting seems to be everywhere – smeared all over Sloane’s face, the cabinets, and the floor surrounding her where several empty cupcake wrappers have been haphazardly tossed. I count five, no, six. Guess it was a mistake to send her a dozen of those strawberry red velvet cupcakes. I thought she’d be able to pace herself eating them, but apparently not.

  “Oh, Sloane!” I drop down on my knees next to her. “What happened? Leave her alone, Cicero!” I admonish, removing my naughty dog from her lap, where he was licking the frosting off her chin. He snatches up one of the cupcake wrappers and trots out of the room with it. I don’t stop him, because there aren’t enough chocolatey cake crumbs left in the wrapper to do him any harm.

  “I’ve had a very difficult day,” she says, her voice choked with emotion as she lifts a half-eaten cupcake up to her mouth and takes a bite.

  “Have you been crying?” I lean in for a closer look at her eyes, which do appear a bit moist. I can’t remember the last time I saw my s
ister cry. Maybe when she got a B+ on her final paper in solid state physics junior year at Stanford. But those were tears of rage and frustration, not sadness, and she later argued her way into an A-.

  “No,” she says petulantly, turning her head away from me. “Maybe,” she murmurs, burying her face in the cupcake again.

  “And what’s been so difficult about your day?” I get myself into a comfortable position, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. I’ll probably end up with frosting and cupcake wrappers stuck to my butt, but a sister can’t worry about these things in times of crisis.

  “Well, for starters . . .” She picks a slice of strawberry off the top of the cupcake and pops it in her mouth. “I met our father.”

  Before I have a chance to react to that staggering news, Sloane corrects herself, “Met’s not really the right word since I already knew him. I’ve known him for over a year. We did business together, through Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister.”

  “He was a client of yours?” I gasp as something awful occurs to me. “Not that horrible Mr. Bainbridge?” I’d rather have no father at all than an ogre like him.

  “God, no!” She swipes her finger through her cupcake’s cream cheese frosting. “J.B. Stanfield’s our father. He’s the CEO of Stanfield Hotel Group. It was his hotel’s gala I wore that period dress to a few weeks ago.”

  Unable to contain my excitement, I squeal and clap my hands together.

  “What’s with you?” Sloane gives me her best have-you-lost-your-mind look.

  “I was right!” I’m not usually one to gloat, but . . .

  “About?”

  “Who our father is! Remember, I always said he must be the heir to a vast kingdom, and his royal responsibilities were what was keeping him from us. Now we find out that he’s running a large hotel empire, which is like the modern-day equivalent of a kingdom, so I was right! We’re princesses!” I clap again.

  Sloane frowns, and I’m not sure if it’s because she disagrees with my analogy, or because she’s polished off her last cupcake. “Don’t break out your tiara just yet, Cinderella.”

  Cinderella wasn’t born a princess; she got her royal title through marriage. So, it would have been more accurate for Sloane to call me “Snow White” or “Aurora,” but now is probably not the time to correct her. “Why not? Ooooo . . .,” I lower my voice to a whisper, “. . . is there an evil stepmother to contend with?”

  “No, she’s dead. And I don’t think she was evil, although she was partially, albeit inadvertently, responsible for our father deciding to stay out of our lives. He told me this sob story about how Lesley couldn’t have children, so they tried fertility treatments and she got pregnant, but miscarried about the time they ran into us in Union Square.”

  “That’s so sad.” My heart goes out to the poor woman. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be unable to have children. I can’t wait to have a whole houseful of them myself!

  “Yeah, I’m assuming they kept trying after that, with no luck, and J.B. didn’t want to rub salt in the wound by parading his illegitimate kids around in front of her. He was also concerned about how his father would react if he found out about us. Apparently, our grandfather was a domineering, elitist a-hole. A good businessman, though. He turned the Stanfield Hotel Group into an international concern back in the ‘70s and tripled its worth.”

  Of course, Sloane would give him points for that, but not me. Every story needs a villain, and I think Stanfield the Elder fits the bill. “How terrible for our father! He’s like a tragic hero – sacrificing his own happiness to protect the ones he loves.” I sigh with admiration for his selflessness.

  “I guess it did suck for him, but let’s not forget how awful it was for us when we were kids.”

  “I think it was mostly awful for you.” I pat her shoulder sympathetically. “You took our father’s absence a lot more personally than I ever did. I always had faith that even though he wasn’t here, he still loved us and wanted the best for us. That was confirmed when I found out he arranged that inheritance for us when we were about to graduate.”

  Sloane’s jaw drops. “You knew about that and didn’t tell me?”

  Before she can accuse me of being part of some big family conspiracy, I say, “Naturally, my first impulse was to run to you and spill the beans after I overheard Mom on the phone with the lawyer talking about our dad setting up the inheritance, but knowing you the way I do, I was sure you’d refuse the money, which would have meant no Stanford. So, I zipped my lips for the greater good.”

  “And I thought you couldn’t keep a secret.”

  “I can when it’s important. Are you mad?”

  “Eh . . .” She shrugs. “I think I’ve exhausted my supply of negative emotion for the day. It’s all water under the bridge anyway, and my Stanford education got me where I am today, so . . . J.B. offered me a job as CFO of the Stanfield Hotel Group, by the way.”

  “Ohmigod, that’s amazing! Sloane Tobin, Chief Financial Officer . . . that sounds so fancy and important. My sister, the big executive! Congrats! Do you have any champagne? We should toast to you moving up in the world!”

  “I haven’t accepted the position yet.”

  I instantly deflate. “Why not? Where else are you going to find a job like that?”

  “Nowhere, and therein lies the problem. I don’t want to be a daddy’s girl who gets breaks I wouldn’t have otherwise because of who I’m related to.”

  “Do you really think a smart businessman like J.B. Stanfield would put someone he didn’t think was capable in charge of his company’s money?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Definitely not. What else is holding you back?”

  “Oh, gosh, let’s see, maybe I’m wondering how I’m going to figure out what kind of personal relationship I want to have with this man while working with him sixty hours a week. I think that’ll be way too much father-daughter time.”

  “Or a wonderful opportunity to get to know him better in an environment where you both feel comfortable.”

  Not acknowledging that I’ve made a good point, she moves on to her next concern. “What about the rest of the Stanfields? Are they going to resent me or view me as an upstart who doesn’t deserve to be there? If I were Penelope, that’s J.B.’s sister, I would be pissed that my kids were going to have to divide the Stanfield pie into two more pieces.”

  “You’re just inventing problems now. Stop overthinking this. Focus on the positive. We have our father back in our lives!” I lift her hand in the air in a gesture of triumph and say, “Hooray!”

  “Woohoo,” she returns half-heartedly before taking back her hand. “I could use another cupcake. Did you bring any more with you?” Picking up the smiley face purse I dropped on the floor earlier, she starts rooting around inside it.

  I level a suspicious gaze at her. “There’s something else going on here. It wasn’t the parental bombshell that made you cry and go on a cupcake bender, was it?”

  “No . . .,” she sighs and throws down the cupcake-less handbag. “I found out that Gav and . . . God, it makes me ill to even say her name . . . Thea are back together.”

  “What? No!” I protest vehemently.

  “It’s true. I saw it, with my own four eyes.” She points at her off-kilter glasses. “They were all dressed up, going out on a date or something, and they kissed, Willa – right in front of me! And it wasn’t just a little peck on the lips either; it was a full-on make out. There was probably tongue!”

  I shudder at the thought. “I guess I should have seen this coming. Thea was acting so smug at the police station. She kept baiting me, dropping all these cryptic comments about Gav. He hasn’t mentioned a word of this to me, probably because he knows how against it I’d be.”

  “I’ve never felt anything like what I experienced when I saw them kiss,” Sloane recalls. “I wanted to kill her, I wanted to kill him, I wanted to cry, scream, break something, and what made it all a hundred times worse is that I knew I brou
ght it on myself. It’s my fault he’s with her, my fault he hates my guts and never wants to see me again, my fault I have this sick, empty feeling inside.”

  I nod in understanding. “You love him.”

  “Well, duh,” she retorts, “I always have, in my own weird, emotionally stunted way. I guess I was just afraid to admit it, even to myself, and now I’ve missed my chance to tell him. He’s going to get re-engaged to that barracuda; they’ll have some big, expensive, perfectly staged wedding, which you’ll be invited to and I won’t; then she’ll move in next door, with her collection of lethal heels and that hissy black cat of hers, and start scaring all the neighborhood children. UGH I’m going to have to move. Maybe that CFO gig at SHG comes with a corporate apartment.”