Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  “Aw, thanks.” I give him a playful shove. “But enough about me and my wacky clients. I want to know what’s going on in New Frisco.” That’s the title of Gav’s Hugo Award-wining graphic novel series. It’s also the name of the place where the characters of his futuristic stories reside. In Gav’s fantasy world, a massive earthquake hit NorCal in 2082, causing a sizable chunk of the coastline to break off. Dubbed “New Frisco” by its subversive citizens who sought to thumb their noses at the city that spawned them (So funny to think that San Franciscans will still be clinging to their hatred of the Frisco nickname sixty-eight years in the future.), this newly created land mass now floats a few miles off the shore and is a bustling mecca of commerce and crime.

  “Hold on . . .” Gav wipes the peanut butter off his hands with the paper towel that’s serving as his napkin, then jumps up from the comfy, old couch we’re sitting on and heads over to his drafting table, where he collects several sheets of Bristol paper with pencil drawings on them.

  “Charlatan and Pyro were both trying to steal an extremely rare and priceless red diamond during a gala at the New Frisco Museum of Natural Science,” he explains. “They botched each other’s plans and were in the wrong place at the wrong time when one of Pyro’s explosive devices detonated. Now they’re trapped beneath a bunch of rubble in the museum’s basement and they’re running out of oxygen, so . . .”

  “Pyro goes all MacGyver and builds another bomb from pieces of stone and scrap metal, then blasts them out of there? Or Charlatan uses her twin telepathy to let Detective Bliss know she’s in trouble?” The lead characters in the New Frisco series are a pair of identical twins on opposite sides of the law whom Gav based on my sister and me, which is why he has pictures of the two of us pinned to the walls of his office. Being leggy brunettes with full lips and electric blue eyes, superthief/mistress of disguise Charlatan and her sister, intrepid detective Britt Bliss, do bear a striking resemblance to Sloane and me. Well, almost. Sloane always says that Charlatan and Britt are us with double-D implants. Personally, I don’t mind the extra boobage on our cartoon doppelgängers. I mean, both ladies wear a lot of tight leather that wouldn’t look nearly as sexy on our unexceptional B-cups, and Gav has to give the fanboys what they want, right?

  He shakes his head. “Charlatan and Pyro have tried everything and they can’t find a way out, so they accept that their deaths are imminent and have sex.”

  My mouth falls open and I drop my sandwich on to the plate in my lap. “No way! Charlatan hates Pyro. She swore an oath of vengeance against him in Volume Two when Pretender got blown up in one of his explosions.” Pretender aka Abby Martin was Charlatan’s teenage sidekick, an orphan Charlatan took under her wing and thought of as family. She was devastated by the girl’s death and blamed Pyro. Rightly so, in my opinion. The guy’s a total psycho when it comes to his work, never caring about people getting hurt as a result of his obsession with all things fiery.

  “Ah, but there’s a thin line between love and hate,” Gav remarks. “And Charlatan and Pyro have always had an attraction simmering beneath the surface of their mutual antipathy.”

  “Your editor told you to sex up the new novel, didn’t he?” Gav’s editor is a big believer in the old “Sex sells” maxim. He’s always encouraging Gav to put the twins in skimpier outfits and he’s not happy unless there’s at least one saucy double entendre on each page.

  Gav grimaces and runs a hand through his tousled blond hair (or “a terminal case of bed head” as Sloane likes to call his messy mop). “Yeah, Mike said it was time for a little bow chicka wow wow in the series. I hadn’t planned on going there just yet, but I think I laid the groundwork for this hook-up in the last few novels, don’t you?”

  “Well . . .” I pause to take a sip of bottled water as I do a quick review of the most recent New Frisco story in my head. “Charlatan did get kind of gropey with Pyro when she had him tied up in her masquerade room in Volume Three.”

  “Right, and they almost kissed when Pyro saved her life in Contradiction.”

  “Oooooo, yeah, I’d forgotten about the almost-smooch. That was hot! I think this could work. Let me see what you’ve got so far.” I extend my hand, and he gives me the papers he’s holding. I spend the next few minutes poring over the panels he’s penciled.

  I never cease to be amazed by how talented Gav is. Drawing comes as naturally to him as communicating with animals does to me. He’s able to express so much emotion with his illustrations. The characters he creates are incredibly animated and lifelike; they practically jump off the page. And he’s a heck of a storyteller, too. I’m always sucked into whatever drama is playing out on the pages of his novels.

  “I love this!” I exclaim. “Britt’s desperation to find her sister before it’s too late, Charlatan’s regret that she didn’t try harder to get close to her twin when she had the chance. Such great, angsty stuff! Even though these women are poles apart in every possible way, they still love each other. You’ve really captured the dynamic between identical twins beautifully here.”

  “Well, I’ve had a front row seat to The Tobin Twins’ Show for over twenty-five years now, so I think I know a little something about how that type of relationship works.”

  “I’ve always wondered why you wanted to be friends with Sloane and me,” I tease him. “Now it all makes sense! You wanted to study us like a couple of lab rats so that you could turn our sisterly squabbles into graphic novel gold and become a millionaire off our twin drama.”

  “Busted,” Gav says, with an amused twitch of his lips. “Although I think there may have been some flaw in my diabolical plan because I’m still waiting for the millionaire part of it to kick in.”

  “Well, when it does, I hope you won’t forget your muses. I’d like to be hired on as your full-time pet psychic.”

  “Guess I’ll have to get a dog then.”

  Petting Cicero on the head, I murmur, “We’ve been telling him that for years, haven’t we?” He barks his agreement and wags his tail enthusiastically. Cicero has always wanted a sibling, but my landlord only allows one pet per unit. A cousin would be the next best thing. Unfortunately, we can’t depend on Sloane to supply us with any furry playmates since she’s never been big on animals. “Don’t forget Sloane. You’ll have to offer her a position on your staff, too.”

  “Hmmmm, how about personal money counter? I could put her in a room with stacks of twenty dollars bills and a ten-key calculator and she could go to town.”

  With a chuckle, I say, “I’m sure she’d think she’d died and gone to accountant heaven. Speaking of Sloane, have you showed her this new stuff?” I hand his drawings back to him.

  He frowns. “Not yet. She’s been so preoccupied with work lately . . .”

  “I worry about her. I mean, it’s great that she’s so dedicated to her job, but her life isn’t very well-rounded. You and I are really the only people she hangs out with outside of work, and her love life seems to be nonexistent. I can’t remember the last time she went on a date.”

  “You know how Sloane feels about romance.” In a high-pitched voice, Gav parrots my sister’s mantra, “‘Love is not my top–’”

  “‘–priority.’ Yeah, yeah, I know. But it would be nice if she had someone to share her life with, someone to kiss her on her way out the door every morning, someone to bring home her favorite sushi for dinner, someone to hold her hand while she’s watching a scary episode of Once Upon a Time–”

  “Sloane hates sushi, and she’d rather stick a chopstick in her eye than watch that fairy tale show.”

  I dip my head down, embarrassed. “I suppose I was talking about myself, but the same scenario can be applied to Sloane, just substitute chow mein for a California roll and Game of Thrones for Once Upon a Time.”

  Gav gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before saying, “The right guy will come along, Willa. Count on it. Of course, I’m going to have to vet him before you hand over your heart. Make sure the lucky bastard dese
rves you.”

  “You’re sweet; thanks. But what about Sloane? Is the right guy going to come along for her, too?” I level a pointed look at him.

  “Ah . . .” He averts his eyes and starts piling our plates and napkins up on the coffee table in front of us. “I think your sister has a handle on her love life.”

  I crinkle my brow with confusion. “What’s that mean? Do you know something about Sloane I don’t? Is she seeing someone?”

  “Beats me,” he mumbles unconvincingly. “Ask her.”

  “Tell me, or . . . I’ll tickle it out of you.” I hold up my hands and wiggle my fingers menacingly.

  “Stop that!” He smacks my hands away and scoots down the couch, trying to place himself out of my reach. Gav is crazy ticklish, so there’s no threat that could be more effective. I could probably get his ATM pin number and the name of the first girl he ever slept with out of him while I’m at it, but I don’t like using the power of my tickle fingers for evil.

  “Come on, Gav. Spill.” I slide down next to him and gently poke him in the side, which makes him double over with laughter. Wondering what’s going on, Cicero bounces up and puts his paws on Gav’s knees.

  “Okay, okay,” Gav concedes, waving me off as he wipes tears from his eyes. “Your mother plays dirty,” he complains to Cicero, but he gets no sympathy from the pooch who’s staunchly Team Willa.

  “So?” I prompt him.

  “I’ll tell you, but let the record show that I’m only breaking the Neighbor Code under duress.”

  “I’ll never reveal my source.” I mime locking my lips with a key and throwing it across the office. Cicero gazes over in that direction to see if I might have tossed a toy or a treat. When he doesn’t see either, he lays his head down on the carpet and prepares to take a snooze.

  Gav sighs. “I have no clue how long this has been going on since I’ve only been back here a few months . . .”

  In February, Gav vacated his gorgeous loft apartment in SoMa, and the bachelor lifestyle that went with it, so he could move back into his childhood home and take care of his dad who’s recovering from the stroke he had late last year. Gav foots the bill for the nurses who are with Henry 24/7, but he also wanted to be there to provide emotional support. It was an incredibly selfless and amazing thing for him to do, but he gets twitchy when I say that to him.

  “But there’s a guy who visits Sloane maybe once a week, usually in the evening. I don’t know anything about him, except that he drives a silver BMW and looks like a douchebag. I can see him pulling up to Sloane’s house when I’m sitting over there at my drafting table.”

  Interesting. “So, he comes to pick up Sloane for dates?”

  “Noooooo . . .” Gav fiddles with the braided leather bracelet Sloane gave him for his last birthday. “They don’t go out.”

  “Then why does he come over?” I’m perplexed.

  “Think about it, Willa. Why would a guy come over to an attractive single woman’s house at night, stay for an hour or two, then leave by himself?”

  “Maybe they’re eating dinner in,” I speculate.

  Gav groans and buries his face in his hands. That’s when I finally put two and two together and come up with . . .

  “It’s a booty call!”

  “Thank God. I thought I was going to have to draw you a picture,” Gav says in an exasperated tone.

  “Just because casual hook-ups aren’t my thing, it doesn’t mean I can’t grasp the concept of them.”

  “Then why do you still look baffled?”

  “I’m just wondering how Sloane could be happy with that type of arrangement. Sex with no commitment or emotional attachment?” I make a face.

  “Well, we don’t know exactly what’s going on between her and this guy–”

  “You said he was a d-bag. Why?”

  “He’s totally corporate. Always wears expensive suits, has the perfect haircut, looks like he spends a ridiculous amount of time at the gym, and I would bet good money that he shaves more than once a day because there’s not even a hint of five o’clock shadow on his face when he comes to see Sloane.”

  “Since when do good grooming habits qualify a guy for douchebagdom?”

  “Since always. If a dude’s paying that much attention to his facial hair, he’s a narcissist. Normal, non-douchey guys,” Gav indicates himself with a movement of his hand, “don’t concern themselves with a little stubble at the end of the day.” Or ever, in Gav’s case, since he always walks around with a few days’ beard growth.

  “You may be right, but I don’t think we should rush to judgment on this man based on his physical appearance. For all we know, he could be a real sweetheart who volunteers at soup kitchens or mentors a child through Big Brothers in his spare time.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he does on the weekends, in between working on his triceps and getting his Tom Ford suits custom-tailored.” Gav rolls his eyes.

  “Well, I’m going to find out more about this mystery man and prove you wrong.”

  “And how do you propose to do that? Employ the same ‘hide behind a tree and ambush the unsuspecting douchebag’ m.o. that worked so well with Mr. Shumacher and his Lab?”

  “No, silly, I’ll ask Sloane. In a very subtle, roundabout way, of course. Twins can’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “She’s managed pretty well so far,” Gav reminds me.

  “That’s because I wasn’t aware she was keeping something from me. Now that the jig is up, I know what questions to ask to get her to reveal all. Would you mind if Cicero and I hung out here until Sloane gets home from work?” I smile and bat my eyelashes at him.

  Gav sighs. “Fine, but I’m going to put you to work as a model.”

  “Oh, goody. Who do you want me to be? Detective Bliss?” I make a finger gun and point it at him with a steely-eyed glare. “‘Freeze, dirtbag!’ Or Charlatan?” I pucker my lips into a sexy pout and say in my best seductress voice, ‘Pyro, you hottie, plant one of your scorching kisses on me, or I’ll spontaneously combust!’” I pop my chest out on the last syllable, and Gav guffaws so loudly that he wakes up Cicero who looks at us both like we’ve lost our minds.

  Chapter 7

  (Sloane)

  I sit in my client’s lushly decorated living room, impatiently tapping the file folder in my lap with the Montblanc pen that was given to me by the partners at ATM last Christmas. I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for one of San Francisco’s most illustrious residents, romance novelist Blythe Summers, to make an appearance. Prior to being assigned Ms. Summers’ case, I didn’t really know much about her other than what I’d seen of the carefully constructed image put forth in press releases and interviews.

  She’s a very photogenic woman with elegantly coiffed blonde hair and milky skin that doesn’t give away her age, which has been a well-kept secret her entire career. A philanthropist and patron of the arts, Ms. Summers contributes generously every year to the Bay Area’s opera and symphony, as well as several museums, and she co-chairs many fundraising events. For the last nineteen years, she’s lived in one of the city’s most iconic houses, a 16,500 square foot palazzo-style mansion in Pacific Heights that was built in the 1920s for a wealthy bootlegger’s bride, an abode she shares with an excessive amount of Pomeranians. I was set upon by a trio of these furry, little menaces when the housekeeper met me at the front door and they trailed us all the way down the long corridor from the reception area to the living room, trying to intimidate me with their annoying, high-pitched barks. One of them was even bold enough to nip at the back of my ankle! Thanks to its razor sharp teeth, I now have a run in my hose. I’m hoping Ms. Summers won’t notice when she finally decides to grace me with her presence.

  For fun, I’ve already surveyed the living room and appraised as best I could all the items of value in it. Large silk area rug – in the ballpark of $4800; Italian marble statue/Woman carrying water pitcher – probably custom-made outside the country, guesstimate $6,500; pair of gilt bron
ze candelabra – approx. $20,000, could be more depending on who original owners were. Now in need of another form of entertainment, I open up my blue file folder and review some of the pertinent biographical info on Ms. Summers. Her legal name is Lois Zalapski, which is a lot less melodious-sounding than Blythe Summers, so I can understand the need for an authorial pseudonym. Having published thirty-nine novels in twenty-six years, all of which have been on the New York Times Best Seller list, Ms. Summers is one of the most successful female authors of the last few decades.

  When asked by the head of my department if I was familiar with Blythe Summers’ catalog, I claimed to be a big fan of her work. And no, my pants didn’t immediately catch on fire, even though it was an outrageous lie. Willa’s the romance novel enthusiast in our family, not me. When we were teenagers, she blew most of her weekly allowance on the Harlequins sold at our local drugstore and spent many a night reading those contrived love stories under her covers with a flashlight. I’d hear the occasional dreamy murmuring of “Oh, Rance . . .” or “Just kiss her, Brock!” emanating from her side of the room, which would make me groan and throw a pillow at her. No matter how many times I told her that those romance novel heroes were just idealizations of what women wanted men to be and there was no such thing as a Rance or a Brock in real life, she just ignored me and kept mooning over these fictional Mr. Perfects. Meanwhile, my reading taste always ran in a different direction, toward biographies and thrillers, not books with cheesy titles like Forever Entwined or Rapture on the Bluff (the names of Ms. Summers’ two most recent releases, both of which I’m sure Willa has read from cover-to-cover).

  Now that I think about it, maybe I should have called Willa and had her give me the CliffsNotes versions of a couple of Ms. Summers’ most popular books. What if this woman wants to engage me in a meaningful dialogue about her work? It’s possible she might ask which novel of hers is my favorite, or who I hope is cast in the movie version of Forever Entwined. Crap, I’d better text Willa and get some feasible fibs from her before I botch this. I pull out my cell and begin to furiously type a message when I hear the living room door open. Hurriedly shoving my phone back into my purse, I rise to greet my client.