Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  YAWN I think it’s idiotic to fork out tens of thousands of dollars on a pricey ring. That money would have been better spent on a down payment on a house or some high-yield corporate bonds. And why should any of us care that this twit duped some guy into marrying her? I pity the man who’ll have to put up with her incessant whining and orange streaks on his bed sheets for however long their union lasts. I give it a year before he goes screaming to a divorce lawyer.

  “I couldn’t be more pleased with Monica’s choice, even if I’d picked him out myself,” McAllister punctuates this claim with a chuckle. “My future son-in-law is smart, hard-working, and solid as a rock. I think that he and Monica will make a great team, and I hope to see them working side-by-side here at ATM one day.”

  So, she does plan to let “Daddy” hand her a job. I’m so shocked . . . not.

  Hold up, if Monica’s going to be working side-by-side with her hubs, that means he’s already an employee here. Hard to believe that a daughter of one of the partners could date a guy at ATM without anyone catching wind of it, and Princess Ombre doesn’t strike me as the discreet type. Weird. Lifting the taco up to my mouth, I prepare to sneak another bite . . .

  “Please raise your glasses and join me in wishing Monica and . . .,” McAllister motions at someone in the crowd to step forward, “ . . . Josh a lifetime of happiness together.”

  What the fu–! The taco I’m about to chomp down on slides from my fingers and falls to the ground, landing with a splat on my foot. I stare, slack-jawed with horror, at the scene that’s playing out in front of me. Josh, my Senior Manager, my work ally, my confidant, the guy I do the nasty with, is clinking champagne glasses with Monica and grinning like he just won the Mega Millions jackpot. When she pulls his head down and plants a big, wet kiss on him that’s totally inappropriate in this venue, Josh doesn’t resist. What is wrong with him? How can he be involved with that sulky, barely legal, traffic cone-colored girl? And how the hell did I not know that the two of them had something going on?

  Kneeling down to retrieve my fallen taco, I scoop up the bits of meat and kimchi as best I can and shove them back into the to-go bag. Of course, the pump that bore the brunt of the taco avalanche is the same one that had a run-in with the pink frosting earlier. I wipe at the sauce-covered leather with a napkin, but it’s a lost cause. This shoe needs to be hosed down, as do my now-sticky hands, and I need to put some distance between myself and the happy couple. With that goal in mind, I straighten up and follow the flow of the crowd as it surges forward with everyone rushing to offer their congratulations to Monica and . . . SHUDDER I can’t even put their names together in my head. It’s too disturbing.

  Burrowing my way out of the throng, I vacate the reception area as quickly as I can, walking at a near-trot and keeping my head down in an effort not to attract any attention. However, I make the mistake of turning to the left for just a split second when I veer in that direction to go down the corridor that will take me to the ladies’ room, and that’s when my eyes lock with Josh’s over his much shorter fiancée’s head. I can’t read his expression – Embarrassed? Apologetic? Regretful? All those feelings would be appropriate in this situation. I break our shared gaze, not wanting Josh to see how disconcerted I am over his engagement news. Screw him. He’s not getting any reaction out of me. At least not until I’ve had some time to collect myself, which is what I attempt to do in the bathroom by first splashing some cold water on my face, then by pacing around for a few minutes while muttering a litany of all the profane things I’d like to call Josh – my favorite being “Lying, cradle-robbing, clearly suffering from brain damage because you’ve been tackled too many times and now can’t make an intelligent decision fuckface.”

  When I’m done having my little temper tantrum, I stuff my bag of unintentionally deconstructed tacos in the bathroom trash – another reason to hold a grudge against Josh and Monica, they made me ruin my delicious food truck lunch! I spend a few minutes practicing looking calm and composed in the mirror and am picking up my laptop case and purse in preparation to leave when the bathroom door swings open and in walks Pam Goldstein, a Junior Associate on another team in my department.

  “Sloane, you sly thing.” She joins me over by the sinks, pulling a lipstick that’s a hideous shade of coral out of her bag. “You knew about Josh getting cozy with the boss’s daughter all along, didn’t you? I mean, you had to have since you and Josh are always together, working cases and whatnot.”

  Oh, Pammy, you’re so obvious with your gossip-trolling. I know what you’re implying with that whatnot, but I’m not going to take the bait.

  Smiling at her reflection in the mirror, I reply, “Of course I did, Josh and I are friends, as well as co-workers, after all. But his relationship with Monica was his personal business, so it wasn’t my place to say anything.” Not bad, Sloane. Delivered with just the right amount of condescension and indifference.

  Having applied two coats of her ultra-bright lipstick, Pam grabs a tissue and blots the color on it. “I’m sure he appreciates your discretion. They make a cute couple, don’t you think?”

  “So cute,” I concur, feeling a bit queasy because I hate the word “cute” and don’t think it’s at all applicable to Josh and his child bride.

  “They seem really happy.” Pam finger fluffs her kinky hair, probably because she can’t get a brush through that tangled mess. “Wonder if we’ll get invited to the wedding. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Oh, shit, I hadn’t even thought about that! McAllister probably will invite everyone Josh works with to this travesty of a ceremony. No way am I going. I’ll have to invent an aunt who dies unexpectedly, or mainline a pineapple (I’m highly allergic and will end up covered in hives, which would be a preferable alternative to attending this wedding.)

  “So fun,” I reply in a monotone. “I should really get back to my desk. Lots of work to do.” I pat my laptop case and take a few steps back.

  “But we haven’t even talked about Monica’s ring!” Pam objects to me leaving. “Did you see the size of that thing? It has to be at least three carats, don’t you think? Maybe four.”

  “Sure, yeah, that sounds about right.” I glance down at my watch. “Oh, shoot, look at the time. I have a conference call with a client who’s in his Abu Dhabi office.”

  Pam squints, and I can tell she’s attempting to do the math in her head. Crap! Why did I say Abu Dhabi? That makes no sense from a time zone perspective. I am so off my game right now; it’s not even funny. Pull it together, Sloane!

  “Isn’t it the middle of the night in Abu Dhabi?”

  “Uh . . .” I inch slowly toward the exit, my hand reaching for the handle on the door. “The client’s still on San Francisco time,” I offer the first feasible explanation that comes to mind, then fling open the door and dart out into the corridor before Pam can question me further, which would be problematic since I don’t have any clients with offices in the United Arab Emirates.

  Thankfully, I make it back to my office without encountering any more co-workers. I close the door behind me and dump all my stuff in a pile on top of my desk, then collapse in my comfy chair. It’s a relief to be in my own space, so I can think through what’s happened.

  Okay, Josh and Princess Ombre. How could such an abomination occur, when did it start, and why all the secrecy? I was just with the two of them at the Stanfield party . . . what was it? Four nights ago? They didn’t act like they were a couple that night. In fact, Josh seemed totally disinterested in her. He gave polite answers to the inane questions she directed at him and danced with her once out of obligation, but that was it. And he went home with me! Or I went home with him, whatever. The point is we got busy back at his place, and I was there until the wee hours of the morning. He certainly wasn’t acting like a man who was seriously involved with someone else that night. Maybe there were signs and I just wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe Josh is just a really good liar. Shouldn’t surprise me. Because of my job, I deal wi
th men who are experts at manipulation on an almost daily basis, don’t I?

  I guess I thought Josh was different, that he respected me enough not to play games or be deceitful. It’s not like he and I ever agreed to be monogamous. If he’d said, “Sorry, Sloane, I can’t sleep with you anymore because I’ve fallen for an Oompa-Loompa,” I would have been okay with it. Correction: I would have laughed in his face and told him he had terrible taste, but I would have appreciated the honesty and there would have been no hard feelings. My feelings are definitely hard now, like cold, heavy granite, and I’m going to break off a big chunk and conk a certain self-serving, two-faced jerk over the head with it. I’m having a good time visualizing that when my desk phone rings.

  I pick up the receiver and bring it to my ear. “Sloane Tobin.”

  “I’d like to speak with you,” Josh says in a very casual manner. “Can you come to my office?”

  You bet your sweet, rock hard ass I can. I’m actually quite curious to hear what he comes up with by way of an explanation, or excuse, for all this. There’s really nothing he can say that would satisfy me, but seeing him squirm could be fun.

  “Sure thing. I’ll be there in a few.” I hang up the phone and rise to my feet, feeling my toes sticking to the sole of my right pump. Uh oh. I never did clean off my shoe, did I? Don’t know how I could have forgotten about that. I don’t have time to go to the bathroom again, so I grab some tissues from the box on my desk and pull a bottle of anti-bacterial hand gel from one of the drawers. I’m able to get all the kimchi sauce and frosting off my shoe and foot, although they both smell very antiseptic when I’m done.

  I march off to Josh’s office, with a random file folder and some memory sticks in hand so that it looks like I’m going to a meeting where actual business will be taking place. En route, it occurs to me that even though I’ve been wronged by Josh, I’m not a victim. In fact, his duplicity has put me in a position of power. I’ll bet he’s sweating bullets, worried that I might tell his precious poopsie he was hooking up with me several times a week while he was courting her. Poopsie strikes me as the type who doesn’t like to share, so I’m pretty confident she’d detonate if she found out her man toy had been played with by someone else recently, and all that shrapnel would fly right into Josh’s face. Buh-bye, engagement. Buh-bye, job. Buh-bye, professional reputation. Hello, low-level position at some crappy accounting firm out in Oakland.

  Of course, I’ll probably be joining Josh at that crappy firm in Oakland because Monica will want to see me punished, too. YUCK Not worth it. I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am. I’m not going to sacrifice my career just to stick it to Josh. He doesn’t have to know that, though. Let him think I’m a woman scorned, let him beg me to keep my mouth shut, let him grovel, let him cry. Yeah, I’d enjoy that, seeing the big, manly football player get all snotty and have tears streaming down his face . . . Oop, I’m here. Okay, Sloane, this is it. Go in there and make the son of a bitch suffer.

  Josh’s door is ajar, so I walk in, not bothering to knock, and kick the door shut behind me. He’s perched on the edge of his desk, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and he’s passing a football from one hand to the other. That football is one of Josh’s most prized possessions; he used it to make the winning touchdown in the big Cal/Cardinal game back in 2000 – a win that kept The Stanford Axe, an axe-head mounted on a wooden plaque, on our campus for another year and made Josh a hero to his peers.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Josh points to his headset to indicate he’s on a call. I exhale with irritation. Shouldn’t this conversation with me take priority over whoever’s on the other end of the line?

  “You are so full of it!” Josh exclaims, with a chuckle. “The only reason you came so close to par is because your caddy kicked the ball in for you on the eleventh hole to make up for those three strokes you lost in the sand pit. Oh no, don’t even try it! That’s exactly what happened. I saw it, and there’s no such thing as a golf course mirage, even on a hot day.”

  He’s making me wait while he shoots the shit with one of his golf buddies? I glare daggers at Josh, letting him know that I am not pleased and he needs to get off the phone now.

  He holds up a finger, giving me the “Just a second” sign.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, rematch this weekend. Loser, that would be you, buys the winner prime rib at the clubhouse afterwards, so don’t forget to bring your wallet. Yeah, I’m sure she’d like that. Why don’t you have Elizabeth call her and they can make a plan for the four of us to get together? All right. Talk to you later.”

  Did he just set up a dinner date for himself and Monica with another couple right in front of me? The gall of this man!

  Josh removes his headset and tosses it down on his desk. “Sorry about that, Tiger.” His use of my nickname makes me want to knee him in the nuts. “How’d things go over at BDC this morning?” He tosses the ball in the air and catches it. “Was Bainbridge’s CFO cooperative?”

  “That’s why you wanted to see me? To ask about my meeting with Bradley Jensen?” I’m stupefied. Why is he acting like it’s business as usual around here? Where are his half-assed excuses and tearful apologies? I’m owed those and I intend to collect.

  He shrugs. “We always confer after important meetings, don’t we?”

  “Yeah, we do.” I watch as that infernal pigskin flies up in the air again. “You know what else it would have been nice to confer on?” I stalk up to the desk and use the fisted hand that’s holding the memory sticks to spike the football to the ground. “Your plan to propose to Monica McAllister.”

  “Hey!” Josh protests my harsh treatment of his beloved ball. His eyes drop down to the floor and I know he’s dying to pick the filthy thing up, survey it for damage, and whisper some soothing words to its stitches, but he wisely refrains. “Monica was the one who did the proposing, and she took me completely by surprise. I mean, I’d hoped that we’d get married eventually, but we’ve only been seeing each other a few months and her parents didn’t even know what was going on between us.”

  “Oh, good! So, I wasn’t the only one who was kept in the dark about this unholy alliance. I feel so much better, knowing that you lied to everyone, not just me.”

  “Woah, wait.” Josh raises his hands in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t lie. I thought you and I had a ‘Don’t ask; don’t tell’ policy when it came to our love lives. We have our thing, which is amazing . . .,” he trails his fingers suggestively up my thigh when he says the word, “. . . but we’re free to date other people if we want to.”

  “Monica McAllister is not other people!” I snarl in his face after smacking his hand away. “She’s the daughter of our boss, and he’s not just any boss, he’s the Managing Partner at this firm.”

  “Which I’m well aware of. Why do you think I got involved with her in the first place?”

  “You found her charm, grace, and fake-baked beauty impossible to resist?”

  Josh smirks. “She’s not that bad. Okay, she is kind of high-maintenance and a bit immature . . .”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” My rejoinder drips sarcasm.

  “I can handle her, and it’ll be worth the effort. You’ll see. This marriage is a good business move. McAllister is talking about an early retirement and when he goes, his dutiful son-in-law . . .,” Josh smiles broadly, looking as creepy and carnivorous as Lewis Carroll’s cat, “. . . will slide right into his position.”

  “Are you sliding around Monica’s bound and gagged body? Because the last time I checked, she is the heir to McAllister’s partner slot, not you.”

  Josh shakes his head, without stirring even one perfectly coiffed hair. “Monica needs a phone app to figure out how much to tip her hairdresser; she has no gift for math and no interest in running a big accounting firm. She’s just humoring her father, letting him think she wants to work here some day. It’s not his footsteps she wants to follow in; it’s her mother’s. Shopping, going to the spa, lunchi
ng with her friends, decorating the house, arranging dinner parties – that’s what she aspires to.”

  “Sounds like this marriage will work out perfectly for both of you then.”

  “And for us.” He snakes an arm around my waist and pulls me toward the desk, wedging me between his legs. “I’m going to be keeping the apartment on Howard, so you and I can still spend quality time there.”

  So, he thinks he can have his cake and eat it, too? Guess again, Fast Fingers . . .

  I lean forward like I’m going to kiss him, but stop just an inch short of his lips. “I don’t have sex with married men,” I murmur huskily, “or engaged ones either. So, this . . .,” I waggle a finger between the two of us, “. . . pleasure party is over.”

  He frowns. “I can’t believe you’re going to let an opportunity like this slip through your fingers. I’m going straight to the top of this company and I could take you with me.”

  “Thanks, but I can get to the top on my own. I don’t need to sleep with, or marry, someone to do it. Enjoy being shackled to that dimwitted prima donna for the next fifty years. Hope you don’t mind having children who look like baby carrots.”

  I turn on my heel and stride toward the door.

  “Sloane, come on!” Josh calls after me in a cajoling tone. “Think about this. You’ll be missing out on–”

  Whether he was going to say “a lifetime of midday quickies” or “always being my second banana,” I’ll never know because I close his office door and walk away so fast that I imagine I’m leaving scorch marks on the carpet behind me.

  Chapter 24

  (Willa)

  Walking hand-in-hand, Brody and I follow the stream of people moving from the parking lot toward the entrance to the rose garden. As we cross a little bridge, Brody draws my attention to a large, vine-covered post with a signboard hanging from it that has the words, “Welcome to the Enchanted Garden. Step lightly, for fairies abound,” scrawled atop the wood in glittery, silver script. The message is illuminated by tiny, white fairy lights. I squeeze Brody’s hand and smile. I know we’ve only just arrived, but this night already feels magical. A few hours ago, there was a summer shower, so now a light mist is swirling on the ground and all the flowers and trees are dampened by drops of water, which intensify their sweet and woodsy aromas. The air has a still, languid quality, as though the night is waiting, ever so patiently, for something wonderful to happen. Or maybe that’s just me projecting because I’m so ridiculously excited about this date with Brody.