Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  “No!” Willa whispers emphatically, taking the Styrofoam cup out of my hand right before it reaches my lips. “You’ll smudge your lipstick and you don’t have time to reapply.”

  “I don’t care.” I reach for the coffee, which I am now convinced will be the secret to my success with this operation.

  Willa pulls the cup into her chest and holds up her other hand in a defensive karate chop position. “You can’t have coffee breath when you tell Gav how you feel about him. That’s not sexy!”

  “Weren’t you the one who sent Brody off to get me a coffee?”

  “I didn’t think it through,” she admits.

  “What about this plan of yours?” I gesture at the stage. “Did you think that through? Or am I about to commit romantic suicide in front of a thousand con geeks?”

  “It’s more like six hundred and forty-five,” Callie tosses over her shoulder. “And you’re up. The plant’s just about to ask her question.” She grabs me by the arm and pulls me forward so that I’m wedged in between her and Willa.

  Fuck. I do not have a good feeling about this.

  Peeking around Callie, I see a young woman, standing down on the convention floor in front of a large microphone. She’s dressed up like Detective Bliss, complete with a high ponytail, short, black leather trench, and Britt’s signature blue-tinted glasses. Leaning into the microphone, she says, “Hi, my name’s Hailey, and my question is for Gavin. I’m a big fan of the New Frisco series, obviously.” She points at her get-up, and there are chuckles in the audience, as well as on stage. “You’ve created two such iconic, complex characters in Charlatan and Britt Bliss. I was wondering, since you’ve always been kind of vague about this in interviews, where you got your inspiration for the twins?”

  Even though I can’t see Gav’s face from my vantage point, I imagine he’s looking pained while silently cursing this woman for asking him this question, which is probably the last one he wants to answer under the current circumstances. To his credit, he responds good-naturedly, “Thanks for being a fan, Hailey. I’m glad to hear you’ve been enjoying the series. Great costume, by the way. You totally nailed Britt’s look. In answer to your question, I get inspiration from many sources. I never know when I might see or hear something that will get my creative juices flowing. For instance, back when I was working on the first volume of New Frisco, a friend dragged me to The Haight for some shopping.”

  “That was me!” Willa squeaks excitedly as if I didn’t already know who Gav was talking about.

  “Not my favorite thing,” he continues, “but I always like to people watch and while we were there, I saw a woman sitting outside one of the cafés and she was wearing blue-tinted glasses. They made her look funky and tough at the same time, and I thought, ‘If those glasses could protect someone’s eyes from solar flares during the day and give her night vision when she has to chase perps in the dark, they’d be exactly what a cool, futuristic crime-fighter would wear.’”

  “That’s interesting stuff, but I was talking about the characters themselves, not what they wear. Was there anyone in particular who inspired the physical attributes or personalities of Charlatan and Britt?”

  Yes, thank you, Hailey. Gav just danced all around your question. Don’t let him get away with that.

  I hear him sigh. “There was a woman . . . in my past–”

  He just stopped talking to me twelve days ago, and I’ve already been banished to his past? Screw that! I push Callie and Willa out of my way and strut out purposefully on to the stage . . .

  Chapter 41

  (Sloane)

  The crowd roars its approval the minute I step into the glow of the stage lights. Four heads, belonging to the moderator, Gav, his over-inked admirer, and a young guy trying, and failing, to look cool in a fedora, swivel to the left to see what all the fuss is about. Fedora and the moderator are quick to jump to their feet and join in the enthusiastic clapping, but Gav’s too busy looking like he’s been shot with a high voltage stun gun to react right away and Tattoo Girl stays in her seat, glowering. Giving Gav a minute to collect himself, I turn toward the audience and show my appreciation for their warm welcome with a wave, then I blow a kiss out to them, something the flirty and audacious Charlatan is known for doing, usually when she’s about to elude the cops, or stick it to one of her nemeses.

  I sashay over to the panel, swinging my leather-clad hips seductively from side-to-side because that’s how I imagine a sexy bad ass like Charlatan would walk. I have to admit I’m starting to enjoy unleashing my inner vixen. Charlatan and I make a formidable team, and I feel like we could accomplish just about anything together. With her help, I’m confident I will get Gav back.

  He’s standing now, eying me warily as I approach. He’s probably wondering if I’ve had a psychotic break and developed a split personality. When I reach him, he places his hand over his wireless mic and hisses, “What the hell are you doing here, and where did you get those enormous boobs? Please tell me they’re not implants.”

  Poor guy. I’ve got him so discombobulated he actually thinks I ran out and got plastic surgery. As if I’d ever do something like that for a man. Besides, I know what a big fan of my B-cups he is.

  “Of course not,” I whisper back. “These boobs are all smoke and mirrors. I did get felt up by Tommy in order to achieve them, though, which was about as much fun as going under the knife. Here, let me have that.” I take the microphone out of his hand.

  “Hi, everyone,” I say to the audience. “My name is Sloane, and I’m the inspiration for not only Charlatan, but Britt Bliss, too. Gav and I go waaaaay back. It’s a really good story. Do you wanna hear it?” I put my hand to my ear, encouraging them to respond.

  All the fanboys (and girls) cheer loudly, giving me the green light to continue. “Okay then . . .” I motion to the moderator and Fedora, letting them know it’s all right for them to sit since my tale won’t be a short one. “Our story starts back in 1989 when Gav and his family moved into the house next door to mine. Gav was very mature for his age, having already been through the girls-are-gross-and-have-cooties stage by the time he met my sister and me, and the three of us became fast friends. All through our childhood and into our adolescence, he was my confidant, my protector, my biggest supporter, and I like to think I was the same for him.”

  “Did you guys do it?” a male voice calls out from the audience, which elicits a few wolf whistles and “Woohoo!”s from others in the ballroom.

  I roll my eyes, suddenly feeling like I’m back in junior high.

  Gav wraps his hand around mine and brings the microphone up to his mouth. “No,” he tells the crowd. “Sloane and I did not hook up when we were teenagers.”

  I pull the mic back. “That depends on what your definition of ‘hook up’ is. Gav was the first boy I ever kissed.” This revelation is met with a bunch of “Awwwww”s. “And . . .,” I pause to debate with myself whether or not I should give them a more salacious tidbit, “. . . we went to second base in the closet at our friend’s Sweet Sixteen party,” I decide to confess, and the audience erupts with more cheers and claps.

  “But that’s as far as it went,” I say when the crowd quiets back down. “We’ve had a close friendship and been very involved in each other’s lives all these years. So, it didn’t come as a surprise to me when Gav made the heroines of his first graphic novel identical twins, like my sister and me. He was just writing and sketching what he knew, right? I did wonder if he considered me to be a Britt or a Charlatan, but he was always very tight-lipped on the subject, letting me draw my own conclusions. It wasn’t until recently, when he was under the influence of a really good Pinot . . .” I hazard a sideways glance at Gav, who’s looking a little trepidatious about where I’m going with this. He doesn’t have to worry. It’s not like I would share the intimate details of our first time together with a ballroom full of strangers, although I’m sure all the hormone-driven fanboys would love it if I did. “. . . that I learned the truth – h
e created both characters in my image and they represented different sides of me. I was floored; it was like finding out I was the inspiration for the Mona Lisa, or had been compared to a summer’s day in a sonnet.”

  I can see Gav smirk out of the corner of my eye. “You realize you just compared me to da Vinci and Shakespeare,” he says under his breath.

  “It’s called ‘hyperbole’; all the best storytellers use it,” I toss the words over my shoulder, then wink at him playfully.

  “I should have told Gav how flattered I was,” I address the audience again, “and how much it meant to me to know that I was his muse, but . . . I didn’t.”

  A chorus of hearty “Boo!”s rings out from the crowd.

  I nod in agreement with their disapproval. “I know. I know. I suck. If you had tomatoes, I’d tell you to throw them at me. I’ve been beating myself up a lot for how I handled things that night. If any of you has access to a time machine, let me know, because I would love to have a do-over. In lieu of that . . .,” I take a deep breath and exhale in an attempt to expel the butterflies from my stomach, “. . . all I can do is offer this . . .,” I turn to Gav, “. . . wonderful, talented, extremely patient man an apology, in front of you, his loyal fans.” Looking him straight in the eye, I say, “Gav, I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart– Yes, you were right. I do have one.” The corners of my mouth briefly twitch upward in a wry smile. “And it’s yours. It always has been. I think I knew that all along, but I was just too stubborn, or stupid, or scared to own it. Your New Frisco series was an ode to me, and me dressing up in this uncomfortably tight costume – I think it’s going to take a crowbar and some baby oil to get me out of it later – and this very public declaration of my feelings are my ode to you.”

  “You’re serious about this?” he wonders, with a furrowed brow. Clearly, he’s skeptical, or maybe just cautious. I can’t blame him. The last time we saw each other I told him in no uncertain terms that I was anti-relationship and had no intention of ever changing my stance. Now, here I am, less than two weeks later, singing a completely different tune. He’s probably wondering if Willa built a Sloane robot in her bathroom and programmed the thing to go around telling everyone how much it hearts them.

  “I’m wearing contacts.” I point at my masked eyes. “And you know how much I hate them. They burn like a mother. My corneas are probably being scratched as we speak. So, if me wearing them for you doesn’t say ‘love,’ I don’t know what will.”

  A huge grin spreads across his face. “You love me?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “Not quite. You implied it, but . . .”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Do I?” He quirks an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t want to assume something and be wrong. To be on the safe side, I think some clarification is needed. What do you guys think?” Gav queries the ballroom, and the audience starts chanting, “Say it! Say it! Say it!”

  I groan and lower the microphone so that no one else will hear me. “This is payback for my friends-with-benefits suggestion, isn’t it?”

  He flashes me a smile.

  I surrender, with a sigh. “Okay, fine. I guess I do have a lot to make up for, and it’ll make a good ending to the story we’ll tell Willa’s kids one day.”

  “Say it! Say it! Say it!”

  “What about our kids?”

  “Are you having them? Because if not, they won’t exist.”

  “Say it! Say it! Say it!”

  “Aw, come on,” he cajoles. “Don’t you want to pass on your mathematical genius to the next generation?”

  “It would be selfish of me to deny the world more of my brilliance, wouldn’t it?” I smirk. “All right, we can have one kid, in like six or seven years, if I can fit it into my busy CFO schedule.”

  “Say it! Say it! Say it!”

  “Maybe we’ll have twins. Our own little Sloane and Willa,” he teases me as he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close.

  “Thanks for putting that out there. Now, I’m probably jinxed. I may have to rethink this whole procreating thing.”

  “Say it! Say it! Say it!”

  “Sorry, you’re not getting out of this. We have a binding oral contract. Oh, right, I forgot to seal it with a kiss.” Pressing his lips to mine, Gav dips me back with a flourish, just like the heroes in Willa’s favorite romantic comedies always do. I’m sure she’s loving every minute of this. I know the crowd is. They’re going absolutely wild, applauding, whistling, and shouting their approval.

  I feel lightheaded and strangely euphoric when Gav lifts me back up, and our kiss ends. From being off-balance, no doubt. I’m not giddy because I’m happy, or in love, or anything girly like that. Willa’s the sappy twin, not me.

  Speaking of my sister, she just couldn’t contain herself any longer. Rushing up next to Gav and me, she squeals, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! That was the most romantic thing ever!” then throws her arms around both of us, making me party to an overzealous group hug.

  “You still haven’t said it,” she murmurs in my ear.

  “What?” I mumble, because my face is smushed up against Gav’s collarbone.

  “You know . . .”

  She’s right. I do. I got a reprieve when Gav kissed me, but I still haven’t delivered those three all-important words I came on this stage to give him. Extricating myself from the hug, I raise the microphone to my mouth, and say, “I love you, Gavin Shaw.”

  “How could you not?” he retorts, with an incorrigible smile. “I love you, too.”

  “And I love you both so much!” Willa embraces us again just as I hear several loud POP!s and a colorful mix of foil hearts, in red, purple, and pink, rains down on our heads. I look over and see the moderator, Fedora, and even Tattoo Girl with giant confetti cannons in their hands.

  “You?” I ask my sister as I try to spit off all the hearts that are now stuck in my lipstick. They’re in my fake eyelashes, too. I bet I look like a drag queen on New Year’s Eve.

  “Of course!” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “What better way to celebrate a momentous occasion like this than with an explosion of confetti? I got the idea from you, back on Gav’s birthday. Super fun, right?”

  Not even a little, but I still chuckle. “Never stop being you, Willa.”

  “Back at ya, sis.”

  Author's Note

  Many thanks for purchasing and reading Twin Piques. If you enjoyed the adventures of Sloane and Willa, I would really appreciate you taking the time to leave a review on your site of choice (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads). Not only do reviews mean the world to us authors; they encourage potential readers to give our stories a try!

  Acknowledgements

  I could not have written Twin Piques without the help, encouragement, and all-around awesomeness of the following people:

  Anna Garner, your kind words and support at a critical juncture in my creative process are appreciated more than you’ll ever know. Thanks for being my authority on San Francisco.

  Brea Brown, thank you for always being there to talk me off the ledge and to answer all my grammar questions. You are a font of knowledge and wise counsel!

  Cat Lavoie, my writing wonder twin, thank you for always rooting me on and having faith in me. I look forward to seeing what we can accomplish with our combined forces in the future.

  Jackie Bouchard, I have you to thank for the incredibly clever title of this book. I would have been lost without your beta reading “eagle eye” and accounting expertise.

  Karan Heitschmidt, my graphics angel. Thank you for devoting so much time and energy to giving my blog a fabulous, new look that complements Twin Piques. You did an amazing job!

  Kathleen Irene Paterka, aka Queen K, having you by my side makes the roller coaster ride that is life much less scary. Thanks for your many kindnesses and for being your wonderful, royal self.

  Laura Chapman, you were one of the first bloggers to embrace my work, and for that I w
ill be forever grateful. Thanks so much for your support and friendship and for steering me in the right direction with the football stuff in this book.

  Lauren Clark, my southern soul sister, thanks for always being my sounding board and offering such good advice. You’re a peach, which is, as you know, the highest compliment one can receive from a Georgian.

  Lyndsey Lewellen, you brought my creative vision to life with the cover art for Twin Piques, and I am in awe of your talent. Thank you for your patience, creativity, and attention to detail.

  Marcia Hassell, mom, friend, founding member of the Tracie Banister Fan Club, thanks for always pushing me to follow my dreams and believing that they weren’t all that far-fetched.

  Michelle Bell, I couldn’t have written the final scenes in this story without you. Thanks for sharing your convention experiences with me. I hope I can go to Comic-Con with you one day. Or, at least, Dragon Con!

  My Chick Lit Chat peeps – Admins Becky Monson, Glynis Astie, Hilary Grossman, Jayne Denker, and Ophelia London, thanks for holding down the fort so that I had time to write and edit, ladies. And a shout-out to all the wonderful members of this group who are a daily source of inspiration to me.

  Sherron Bienvenu, my other mom and patron saint, thank you for always being on Team Tracie. I hope to always make you proud.

  About the Author

  An avid reader and writer, Tracie Banister has been scribbling stories since she was a child, most of them featuring feisty heroines with complicated love lives like her favorite fictional protagonist Scarlett O'Hara. Her work was first seen on the stage of her elementary school, where her 4th grade class performed an original holiday play that she penned (Like all good divas-in-the-making, she also starred in and tried to direct the production.)