“That was fun,” I say breathlessly when Josh releases my kiss-swollen lips a few minutes later.
“Sticking it to the Falgates or us doing this?” he wonders as he nibbles and licks his way down my neck.
“All of the above.” A gasp of pleasure escapes my lips as he takes my right breast in his mouth and I start to climax. He follows me to Blissville soon afterwards, then collapses on top of me with a groan.
Josh has an incredible body, still muscular and hard in all the right places even though he stopped playing football over a decade ago. I know he works out like a fiend to maintain this athletic physique of his and while I appreciate the results of all that discipline, being pinned beneath one hundred and ninety-six pounds of solid brawn isn’t the most comfortable position to be in.
“Can’t breathe,” I mumble into his shoulder, which my mouth is pressed up against.
“Sorry.” He rolls off me, taking most of the bedcovers with him.
“Hey!” I protest, making a grab for the pricey duvet and Egyptian cotton sheets Josh’s interior designer picked out for him. “Leave a girl her modesty.”
“Modest? You?” He chuckles while playing tug-of-war with me. “Aren’t you the one who showed up at my poker night with the boys last week, wearing nothing but a trench coat and some fuck-me stilettos, then flashed me and told the guys to get lost?”
“Correction. It was you who told the guys to get lost because once you got an eyeful of this . . .” I pause to run a hand up and down my naked body. “You were no longer interested in playing cards.”
“Which reminds me. I need to buy a new poker table,” Josh says, smirking.
That was one wild night. Not only was furniture demolished, the imprint of poker chips was still embedded in my flesh several days later. I’m not quite sure what possessed me to crash Josh’s card game. We’re usually much more discreet about our hook-ups. We have to be. If anyone at work knew we were sleeping together, our jobs would be in serious jeopardy seeing as how he’s my immediate superior.
Truth be told, the forbidden aspect of our relationship (I use the term loosely as Josh and I have a no-strings-attached credo.) is probably what keeps us both interested in it. If we were actually dating (GAG! I hate that word and all that it implies.), I don’t think we would have lasted a month. I really don’t understand how people have the time or patience to date – countless hours spent going to the movies, sharing candlelit dinners, taking romantic walks, exchanging boring stories about your childhoods . . . SNOOZE I’d much rather focus on my career, not some needy man. I can spare an hour or two for sex each week (the physical release is a good stress reliever, and certainly a more pleasurable way to let off some work-related steam than going to the gym), but that’s as much effort as I’m willing to put into my love life right now.
My reverie on the lameness of relationships is interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. “That might be work. Can you hand me my purse?” I ask Josh since I left my Fendi tote on the floor by his side of the bed.
“You got it.” He reaches down to grab the bag. “And Finley’s got the ball.” He pulls the Fendi into his chest with both hands, like he’s holding a pigskin. “Will he make a run for the end zone or throw to his receiver?”
I snatch the tote from him. “Ooooo, look at that – the ball was intercepted by the other team. Finley’s off his game today.” I twist around, blocking him from snatching the purse back, and pull out my phone. It’s hard to read the Caller ID without my glasses, so I squint and hold the phone at arm’s length. Although the screen is still a bit blurry, I can make out "WILLA.”
I sigh. “It’s just my sister. I’m sure it’s nothing important.” I shove the phone back in my purse without answering it.
“You never know. She might be calling to report that she talked a suicidal cat out of a tree or convinced some anorexic Pomeranian to eat its Kibbles ‘n Bits,” he teases.
“She’s a pet psychic, not a therapist,” I snap. Talking about my sister’s kooky career always makes me cranky. Not that I don’t respect Willa’s life choices, I do. I just think she’s capable of so much more. She likes animals – great! Why doesn’t she go back to school, study veterinary medicine, and become a dog doctor? That would make a lot more sense than this psychic thing, which nobody takes seriously. Willa’s every bit as smart as I am; she just doesn’t apply herself. She’s always off in La La Land having conversations with furballs, never thinking about practical things like having health insurance or a 401(k). She’s so much like our mother in that regard, both of them skipping through life, being delightfully whimsical, while credit card bills, dental appointments, driver’s license renewals, and a host of other mundanities are forgotten. Does Willa even report her earnings as a self-employed individual to the IRS? Who knows? Every time I ask her a question regarding her finances, she gives me some vague answer, then launches into a story about something cute Cicero did. God, I’m giving myself a headache just thinking about this.
“We’ve been away from the office for almost an hour. We should get back before anyone gets suspicious,” I say, scooping up my black bra from the foot of the bed. Josh’s swanky apartment with its killer view of the Bay Bridge is on Howard Street which is only a few blocks from ATM, so it won’t take us more than a few minutes to make the return trip.
I’m trying to hook my bra in the back when I feel Josh’s hands on mine. I assume he’s doing the gentlemanly thing and assisting me with getting dressed, but no, he slowly moves his big, warm hands up my spine, then slides them in opposite directions, pushing my bra straps off my shoulders. “The game’s going into overtime,” he whispers in my ear, his voice sounding husky. “We have to keep playing until someone gets another point.”
“Oh, I think we’ll both be scoring,” I assert, tossing my bra to the side, then pushing him back on to the mattress, with a seductive smile.
* * *
I pull my cerulean blue Lexus up to the curb in front of the Victorian house that’s been lived in by members of the Tobin family for six generations and put the car in Park. My great-great-great grandfather Elias built this three-level residence in 1900 with the help of his identical twin, Matthias. Aren’t rhyming names for twins the worst? Luckily, my mother didn’t go that route with Willa and me. I shudder to think I could be going through life with a handle like Camilla, or Priscilla, or horror of horrors, Drusilla. And my sweet, eccentric sister never would have cut it as a Joan, a name that only works for divas of the Collins and Crawford variety.
If things had followed their natural order, Willa and I wouldn’t have inherited this house until our mother’s spirit left her body and transcended to an alternate state of being (or as the rest of us like to call it “death”). But Valerie Tobin did things on her own timetable, so she deeded the Victorian over to Willa and me when she decided to move to Santa Fe a few years ago. Long story short – Gloria, the owner of the art gallery where our mother worked, fell in love while on vacation in New Mexico, got hitched to her girlfriend in a commitment ceremony, then relocated both herself and her business down to where her new partner lived. Wanting to keep her job as director of that gallery and excited to immerse herself in Santa Fe’s thriving artistic community, Mom decided to follow her boss to the Land of Enchantment. I was happy to assume responsibility for the family home in her absence, but Willa didn’t have the means to pay for property taxes, the constant repairs, or even the large monthly power bills. So, she stayed in her cramped two-bedroom in Central Richmond while I moved back into the Victorian. In the end, I think that was for the best. We spent the first eighteen years of our lives sharing a bedroom; sharing a home as adults would have felt like a regression, or the premise of a bad sitcom.
Exiting the car, I pop open the trunk, where I’ve got a box full of spreadsheets, file folders, ledgers, and three-ring binders – all containing information I’ll need to review for the new case that was assigned to me this afternoon. I’m really jazzed about working with
this client as she’s–
“Need some help with that?” Gavin, my next-door neighbor and friend of over twenty-five years inquires. He must have snuck up on me when I was bending down to get the box out of the trunk. Looks like he just got back from one of his daily runs up to Alta Plaza Park as he’s jogging in place, doing his cool-down. What’s really obnoxious, besides the fact that he’s exercising in the first place, is that he’s barely out of breath. I probably couldn’t run to the end of our street without passing out. (Don’t judge – it’s hilly!) I take small consolation in the fact that he’s perspiring as evidenced by the wet patches on his faded-out SF Marathon tee, which are making the already snug shirt cling tightly to his chest.
“If you could shut the trunk for me, that’d be good.” I try to maneuver out of his way, carrying my cumbersome load, when my cell starts to ring. “Oh, shoot. Could you get my phone out of my purse?” I swing around so that he can have easy access to the bag. “Careful!” I caution as he reaches for the purse’s flap. “If any of your sweat drips on to the leather, it’ll stain.”
With an exaggerated eye roll, Gav lifts up the hem of his t-shirt, exposing his flat belly, and does a quick wipe of his face and palms with it. “Happy?” he queries, extending his hand toward my Fendi again.
The glimpse of his abs certainly didn’t make me unhappy. My relationship with Gav might be strictly platonic, but I could still appreciate that he has some attractive physical qualities – his lean runner’s physique being one of them. And his hands. I’ve always liked his hands, even though they’re usually stained with ink (an occupational hazard when you’re a graphic novelist).
“It’s Willa,” Gav informs me after extracting my cell from my purse and checking the Caller ID. I nod, indicating he should accept the call.
“Hey, sis, what’s up?” I speak loudly as Gav’s got the cell on speakerphone and he’s holding it up between us as we walk toward the house.
“That’s what I was going to ask you. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, it was a crazy day at work. Lots of meetings.” (Having a nooner with my boss qualifies as a “meeting,” right?) I glance over at Gav and I might just be imagining it, but I swear he’s giving me a disapproving look. Geez. So, I didn’t return a few phone calls – what’s the big deal?
“It’s okay. I know how busy you are. I was just curious to know what you thought.”
“About . . . what?” I puff out the query because we’re climbing the steep set of stairs leading to my front door and I’m getting winded lugging this damn box. I should have given it to Gav when he offered.
“About my interview on Daybreak on the Bay! You didn’t forget to watch, did you?”
I turn to Gav and mouth the words “Oh shit!”
I didn’t mean to forget – honestly. I know how excited Willa’s been about this TV appearance (She asked me what she should wear at least ten times.), and I had every intention of tuning in to see it, but I was so focused on my meeting with J.B. Stanfield that it totally slipped my mind.
“She didn’t forget,” Gav assures Willa, taking the keys out of my hand and using them to open the door. “She knew she’d have to go in early for her meeting this morning, so she had me set up her DVR to record Daybreak.”
Oh wow, did he really do that? When I look at Gav questioningly, he gives me a thumbs up. PHEW Sisterly crisis averted. I smile gratefully as I pass by him to enter the house.
“Hey, Gav. I didn’t know you were there. So, what did you think of my television debut? You saw it, right?”
“Of course, and I thought you were incredibly charming, not to mention adorable.”
Charming and adorable, two words that would never be used to describe me. Hard to believe Willa and I share the same DNA sometimes. I drop my box of paperwork on the dining room table, and it lands with a loud thud. Great. Now my shoulder hurts. I hope I didn’t pull something.
“Thanks! I thought things went pretty well with Sasha and Fritz. They were easy to work with.”
“The hosts?” I assume that’s who she’s talking about.
“The dogs, silly! They belong to the hosts, and I did readings on them.”
Hearing the word “readings” makes me twitch. No, wait, that’s a muscle spasm caused by toting around that ridiculously heavy box. I walk toward the kitchen, rubbing my shoulder.
Gav trails behind me, saying, “The interview was tough going at first, but Willa won over Janice, the skeptical host, by exonerating her schnauzer, Fritz, in the Great Garbage Debacle of 2014.”
“Spoilers, Gav! You don’t want to ruin watching the show for Sloane,” Willa chides him amiably.
Spoilers, schmoilers. I’m barely paying attention to what the two of them are saying as I’m rummaging through the fridge, trying to find the takeout carton of Kung Pao Chicken that was left over from my Yum Yum Hunan delivery two nights ago. There it is! Nope, ew, that’s the Mongolian Beef I got from San Wang’s last week. Why didn’t I throw that away before I went to Barbados? I think it morphed into another life form while I was gone. Gross. Seeing the look of disgust on my face, Gav takes the offensive carton out of my hand and sets it in the sink.
“I think the Health Department needs to condemn this refrigerator,” he says and he’s not wrong. I really should start marking dates on these leftovers.
“Is Sloane eating something nasty for dinner again?” Willa asks.
“There is nothing nasty about leftover Kung Pao Chicken, thank you very much.” I finally find the carton I want in the door of the fridge. I have no idea why I stuck it there. I guess I was trying to make things more difficult for myself.
“All takeout is nasty. It’s high in salt and fat and all the nutrients are leeched out by overcooking, then reheating over and over.”
“Are you still on that raw food diet?” I wonder as I pop my dinner in the microwave and set it to nuke for two minutes.
“No, but I’m really into juicing since Tommy started working at Juicetopia. I could drink the orange, carrot, and ginger combo all day. It’s totally delish!”
I have to stifle an exasperated sigh. Every time Willa’s roommate changes jobs, something that happens with alarming frequency, he gets my sister involved with whatever his new “passion” is. Graphic t-shirts, ionic foot baths, incense blending, palmistry, and my personal favorite – fascinator hat design. After seeing all the fabulous chapeaux at William and Kate’s wedding three years ago, that delusional fool actually fancied himself a milliner. He started sketching designs, then bought a bizarre variety of hat-making materials. (What woman wants a mini-Eiffel Tower or a fake cupcake perched atop her head?) Once Tommy’s creations were complete, he enlisted Willa to be his model and they went to street fairs, trade shows, etcetera. to ply his wares. Needless to say, they did not go over well and a few weeks later he was on to his next profession – studying to be a Reiki healer.
“Gav, are we still on for lunch tomorrow? We can go to Juicetopia. They have a yummy sprout sandwich with tempeh bacon there.”
I pretend to gag, and he presses his lips together tightly to keep from laughing.
“Gav?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” He gives me a playful shove to get me to stop my mime performance. “Juicetopia sounds good.”
The microwave dings, and I pull my dinner out. Gav’s standing in front of the silverware drawer, so he grabs a fork for me. I stir the contents of the carton a few times, then lift out a forkful and offer it to my guest.
“Sidney’s welcome to join us.”
Gav shakes his head “no,” but I’m not sure if he’s turning down my tasty, MSG-laden Chinese food or rejecting the idea of bringing his girlfriend to lunch with Willa.
He clears up my confusion by motioning the fork away and announcing, “Sidney and I broke up.”
“Oh, no!” My sister is instantly full of concern and sympathy.
“Gasp,” I say, in a deadpan voice. �
��Gavin Shaw Dumps Another Blonde Bimbo . . . that’s been the headline of so many of my diary entries since you hit puberty.” With a smirk, I shove the forkful of leftovers in my mouth.
“Like you’ve ever kept a diary.” He doesn’t bother to deny my dig about the endless parade of ditzy dye-jobs he’s dated over the years. To be fair, he never dates more than one at a time; it’s just that none of them ever last more than a month or so. Well, there was Thea, but the less said about The Evil One, the better.
“What happened?” Willa wonders. “You and Sidney were so good together.”
“I can tell you what happened,” I say, scarfing down another bite of spicy chicken. “Gav couldn’t take that airhead Zumba instructor’s incessant babbling anymore. The woman never shut up! It was like one long, interminable monologue with her. I timed her once, and she debated both sides of racerback tanks versus spaghetti tanks for eleven minutes straight. God! I can just imagine what it was like for poor Gav to have sex with that chatterbox. He probably couldn’t even concentrate on what he was doing with all that yakety-yakking going on.”
He grins. “Sloane Tobin, did you just admit to imagining me having sex with another woman?”
“That’s what I heard,” Willa joins him in teasing me.
“Shut up, the two of you. You know that I was speaking in the abstract, not literally.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Gav winks at me, and I fling the forkful of Kung Pao Chicken I was about to eat in his face. He chuckles with amusement as bits of sauce-covered food slide down his cheeks, the rice getting stuck in the whiskers he hasn’t bothered to shave off for a few days and the chunks of roasted peanuts and chili peppers dropping on to his t-shirt. The sight of him makes me giggle, too.
“What’s so funny?” Willa wonders.
“Oh, your sister’s just trying to start a food fight with me.” Scooping up a piece of chicken, he pops it in his mouth and murmurs, “Mmmmm, not bad. Let me have some.”
Twin Piques Page 4
