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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  OTHER BOOKS BY GEORGETTE KAPLAN

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT GEORGETTE KAPLAN

  OTHER BOOKS FROM YLVA PUBLISHING

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  OTHER BOOKS BY GEORGETTE KAPLAN

  Ex-Wives of Dracula

  PREFACE

  Many thanks to Carl Hoffman for permission to use extracts from his book, Hunting Warbirds: The Obsessive Quest for the Lost Aircraft of World War II.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Over there, what about her?” Regan asked with the proxy desperation of the married friend.

  Wendy glanced over, feeling like she needed binoculars to see through the strobing lights and the mist that was rolling around like the Hound of the Baskervilles was about. Yeah, she was cute. Black, with a modest afro, about Wendy’s age, maybe a little older, pushing thirty. Dressed not too shabby, but not trying too hard either.

  “Okay,” Wendy said. “I’m going to try to psychically implant in her mind a desire to come over here and make the first move, while she tries to do the same to me. Brace yourself. Psychic combat on this level can be a hard thing to watch.”

  “Or you could just go over and talk to her.”

  “No, no, this is the lesbian way. Loser has to speak first. It’s a time-honored tradition.”

  Regan sighed and sipped her drink empty. “Well, you have me as a wingman. How does one lesbian wingman? Do I just go over there and loudly mention how hot and single you are?”

  “You’re my sister, so no, that would be creepy.”

  Not that either of them needed a reminder. Five years older, and infinitely more mature, Regan looked like the finished model of what some sculptor was trying to do with Wendy. She was several inches taller, with long, limber legs and yoga-tightened arms, and the fashion sense of a swan turned into a human. Her face was narrow and elegant, (whereas Wendy’s was round and ‘cute’), with a pert nose, high cheekbones, long dark hair that obeyed her will out of loyalty to the crown. A face made for rouge and eyeliner and smiling. Her eyes were a piercing shade of blue not found in nature, while Wendy’s were an unremarkable brown. Wendy didn’t consider herself unattractive unless she was on her period; Regan just looked like some ethereal elf queen or something. It made Wendy want to start an Instagram account: My sister wearing white and quotes from Tolkien.

  Wendy looked at herself in one of the many mirrored surfaces that composed the bar. She liked the way she looked, she did: sweet and natural, and she fashioned herself a little mischievous, even with eyebrows that she couldn’t quite bring herself to love (after all, they might’ve been proof her mom fooled around with Peter Gallagher behind Dad’s back). But one day of looking like Regan, and she would have no problem finding someone. And she could wear a corset, just because.

  Regan jostled her again. “You’re feeling sorry for yourself again, I don’t know why. You have a great job, you’re young, you’re pretty—who cares if you have a girlfriend?”

  “That’s good, let me down easy.”

  “Oh, you’re a pill.”

  “A pill with a great job.” Wendy toasted it. “Great job.”

  Wendy Cedar worked for Savin Aerospace, a small but lucrative company that built helicopters for military and civilian use. Her job was in Safety & Risk Management. She worked as an intern directly under her manager, Donnie Parsons, whose job (and thus Wendy’s job) was to collate the various findings of safety experts within the department and submit a recommendation on the technical risk margin (TRM) up the ladder.

  “It pays well,” Wendy reasoned.

  “Not when you’re an intern.”

  “So I used the wrong tense. It will pay well. It’s important work.”

  Wendy grumbled the way she did when the person she was arguing with was right. Successfully distinguishing between a design flaw and random chance within the testing apparatus could mean millions of dollars, not to mention lives. So she tabulated and calculated, took one memo and ground it down to its essential points and wrote it out again in the proper formula and passed it on to another department. Six years for a Master of Science in Engineering and she double-checked figures. It was frustrating.

  “Fine. I won’t be frustrated with my boring, monotonous, grindstone job—”

  “That everyone does as an intern,” Regan finished with her, singsong in the way all sisters were when they got a chance to torture their siblings. “What did you think, that they were going to let you build a Heli-Carrier fresh out of college? Or—” Regan gestured around in the impressed-with-herself way all mothers had when they stumbled on a teachable moment “—that the perfect woman is just going to fall into your lap while you sit at home wondering which crappy horror movie Netflix should shoot into your eyes next?”

  “I know that was meant to be discouraging, but all I can picture is some kind of Die Hard situation where terrorists have taken over my building and some lady cop is crawling around the air vents in a tank top.”

  “Terrorists haven’t already taken over your building? How do you explain the rent?”

  “You’re the one who took me out. I could be getting my money’s worth right now, working on my bike or something.”

  “I don’t think ‘money’s worth’ and ‘your bike’ belong in the same sentence.” Regan took another sip, then slapped her empty glass down on the bar. “If you didn’t want to go to a gay bar, then why’d you let me take you out? We could’ve gone to a cheese-making class.”

  “Do they let you eat the cheese?”

  “Yes!”

  “You’re right, we should’ve gone for that.” Wendy tried to signal the bartender, who was gazing soulfully into a soft butch’s eyes, getting ready to give her a free drink. Christ, if Wendy worked here, she’d be doing better. “You wanted me to meet someone. Your idea. I blame you. My plan was working perfectly.”

  “What was your plan?”

  “I grow old, I die, in heaven I get married to Tallulah Bankhead.”

  “Or you could use Tinder.”

  “I’m not using Tinder,” Wendy said definitively. “If I get murdered by a psycho, I want it done the old-fashioned way.”

  “Would you listen to yourself? I would never have gotten married if I had your attitude.”

  “Maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you’re giving everyone unrealistic expectations. They look at you, they think ‘hey, it could happen’, then they look at me.”

  “No one thinks I’m prettier than you. We’re two tens.”

  “I look like Megan Fox about to sneeze.”

  “You do not!”

  Wendy grinned. “I look like the face Megan Fox used to have before the face Megan Fox used to have.”

  “I think you’re pushing the Megan Fox thing too far.”

  “I look like…shit.” After a moment’s hesitation, Wendy had one. “I look like the Megan Fox who would actually end up with Shia LeBeouf.”

  “Now you just sound depressed. Do I have to take away your razor blades?”

  “I need those to shave my legs. ‘Cause hair actually grows on my legs, unlike yours.”

  “It’s a genetic disorder, I didn’t ask to be born with it, and it actually slightly raises my risk of leukemia. But come on, it’s not like people can tell the difference.”

  Wendy cou
ld barely hear her. The music was too loud. Wendy was far too young for the music to be too loud for her. But she didn’t know if the current music would be safe at any volume; even with the volume turned all the way down, it might irritate dogs. It was loud, repetitive, and not much more than a beat when you came right down to it. Sounded like one of those comedy sound effect CDs being played inside a washing machine. Dubstep. What the hell was a gay club doing playing dubstep? The gays had David Bowie! You’d think people could take some pride in it.

  And the lights were flashing, and there was some kind of mist being sprayed around and all in all, she’d have preferred it if someone changed the flickering lightbulb (oh, those were strobe lights), put on some damn pop, even Taylor Swift, and maybe just served coffee. Heck, she didn’t care how cliché she was. Tea. She’d take tea.

  She knew that wouldn’t exactly make for much of a nightclub, but how was it only nightclubs had ended up being gay? Couldn’t there be a gay martial arts dojo? Gay bookstore? She could meet people like in a Meg Ryan movie.

  Gay arcade! She didn’t care if no one went to arcades anymore, she would stay there all day playing Time Crisis, and when the only other lesbian who liked light gun games and Street Fighter came in, she would marry her.

  Lesbian movie theater for showing lesbian movies. Shit, though—once they’d shown D.E.B.S. and Imagine Me & You, who would come? Maybe if it was winter, some hobos would sneak in for the central heating. Not if they were showing Bar Girls, but otherwise…

  The bartender picked then to set a tequila sunrise in front of Regan. “From the lady in the back.”

  They both looked over. It was from the woman with the afro. She waved and flashed a smile. Wendy groaned. It was a cute smile. Yeah. Wendy wouldn’t mind playing Time Crisis with her.

  “Get up,” Regan stood, gripping the drink.

  “What is this?”

  Regan pulled her to her feet. “I’m being a wingman.”

  “Oh God no—”

  Regan gripped Wendy with a bouncer’s hold on her upper arm and ushered her toward the cute girl. She worked out surprisingly often. Had a weight set where other housewives would have a sewing room.

  “Sit down beside her,” Regan ordered. “Don’t think. Just sit.”

  “Abort. Abort. Abort—”

  Regan stranded Wendy on one side of the cute girl, setting her drink down on the bar between them. “Hi!” she said brightly. She could talk to strangers as easily as a normal person might talk to a stray kitten they found on the road. “Thank you so much for the drink. I’m Regan.”

  “Alice,” the cute girl said. Shit, she had a British accent. “I didn’t know you needed a stunt double.”

  “This is my sister, Wendy.”

  “Oh,” Alice said, her face doing some maneuvers it didn’t seem to be cleared for. “I’m not really into that. Don’t get me wrong, if I could be into that, you two would certainly have me into it.”

  Regan let out a deep breath, and Wendy was somewhat gratified by her frustration. Even her sister wasn’t good at the lesbian dating scene. “I’m married, actually, but my sister here is single! Very single.”

  Wendy elbowed her in the ribs. “Thanks, sis.”

  “So, married—” Alice said. She sounded deep in thought.

  Wendy supposed she would have to be, to get the conversation back on some kind of track.

  “Do you and your wife…like to party, say?”

  “Married and straight. Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.” Regan straightened and looked around theatrically. “Oh good, no takers. Last time I did that, the whole club came with me.”

  “She thinks she’s funny,” Wendy told Alice. She gave Regan a look. “I’m gonna tell Keith you turned that one down,” she stage-whispered.

  “Don’t you dare.” Regan headed off.

  Alice picked up the drink she’d bought Regan and sipped.

  Wendy wondered if that was a good sign. You know, a good sign, like sitting in silence with someone who wanted to fuck your sister. “So,” Wendy said, “you looking forward to the next Star Wars movie?”

  “Excuse me?” Alice replied.

  “Star Wars Episode 8. Rian Johnson’s directing it? He did Looper, Brick, The Brothers Bloom… Some people say Rey is going to go Dark Side, which I think would be really cool, because then maybe Finn—”

  “I don’t watch Star Wars.”

  By the time Regan came back, Alice was long gone.

  “You know we have pretty much the same genetic code?” Regan asked. “I’m not sure how you can mess up with someone who’s already into you on a genetic level.”

  Wendy held up a finger. “I opened with Star Wars,” she said defensively. “Not Star Trek. Not Farscape. Not Stargate. Star Wars. If she’s not into that, what’s she into? What’s that leave? The Fast & the Furious?”

  Well, Wendy had wanted to pay her dues. She just didn’t think dues had included making coffee runs because her boss insisted on Starbucks, even though she’d worked there in high school and honestly, the stuff in the Savin Aerospace break room was exactly the same. She could even do the little leaf in the foam if he wanted. No, that would be too much brownnosing.

  She walked through the lobby on autopilot, appropriately enough, flashed her identification to the security guard and then swiped her pass for good measure, then headed to the elevator bank where she would swipe her pass again because if someone wanted to steal industrial secrets, by God, they would use the stairs to do it.

  And it was there, waiting for her elevator, that Wendy saw the most beautiful woman in the world.

  The most beautiful woman in the world was standing there, at the elevator beside Wendy’s, waiting for her car to arrive. And just by standing there, she appeared to Wendy more vibrant than her immediate surroundings; a whole different species from everyone else embroiled in the drab rat race. Her clothes seemed more fitted on her, a second skin: gray on white, a midi skirt bridged to black high heels by a length of stockinged calf that seemed shockingly naked—unarmored, really, especially in comparison to the black leather gloves that shrouded her hands.

  But it was her face that nearly overwhelmed Wendy. The rest of her was all tight control, humming power in deliberate muscle, all sorts of things projecting and drawing in. And then her face was stone. Square, symmetrical, with a neat point of a chin, light pink lips, a pert nose and smooth cheekbones cutting into that white-gold tan of hers. And reigning over it, a pair of Wayfarer eyeglasses, black and sturdy and somehow timeless. More than anything, Wendy wanted to see what that cool, composed face would look like with the iota of remove that the glasses provided gone.

  Wendy stared. How could she not, it being so important to her to find out how a person could look like that? People weren’t supposed to look like that, right? Maybe Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Angelina Jolie in Gia, but not just a person at Wendy’s job, where she worked, like, how was that fair?

  The woman noticed she was being stared at. She looked at Wendy and Wendy looked away. Because staring at people was creepy and rude and wrong, even if you thought they might possibly be a Greek goddess seeking out the Chosen One. She felt the woman’s eyes on her; a quick, appraising scan. She really wanted to look back. She really wanted to make crazy-mad eye contact, even if it might cause spontaneous human combustion. She took deep breaths and wondered if the woman was still looking and hoped she wasn’t looking and hoped she was. Could she still feel herself being stared at? Was it just wishful thinking? Maybe she should flash the most beautiful woman in the world and see if she reacted. No Brain, bad idea, get it together or I’m punishing you with shots.

  Her elevator arrived. Wendy stepped inside the glass capsule, pressed the button for her floor, and reminded herself that no one has a heart attack in their twenties. It was passé. The elevator car rose, climbing steadily up the building’s atrium, and Wendy casually looked around as if that hanging scale-model F-14 that she passed every day could take her mind off possibl
y seeing a Terminator (indeed, a Terminatrix) built to be able to both seduce and destroy any human resistance.

  And Wendy saw the most beautiful woman in the world again, in the elevator beside her, and if seeing the most beautiful woman in the world once was shocking, twice in one day was getting into Die Hard sequel territory. How many times could one man run afoul of independent gangs of terrorists? How many times could Wendy abruptly want to volunteer for sex slave duty?

  Wendy was not an unintelligent woman. She wasn’t MacGyver or Machiavelli, either. While a quick-thinker, she was more likely to come up with the proper tip in a few seconds than any sort of master plan. So Wendy was a little proud of herself for coming up with this scheme: she would get out her phone and call someone as she looked at the most beautiful woman in the world.

  She called Tina Thuy, whose number was labeled BFF in her phone.

  “I am so gay,” she said, right off the bat. “Holy shit, am I gay. I am just… I’m even gayer than previously expected. I didn’t know my gay could go that high, but it can, and it has.”

  “Good for you.” Tina punctuated her reply with a yawn. Working from home meant she didn’t have to know if time had letters other than P.M. “Are you coming out again? Do people do that? Like a second wedding?”

  “No, I’m just really fucking gay.”

  “Because if you can come out again, don’t throw anything at the clown this time, he meant well—”

  “I’m not coming out again! But I feel like I should, because if I was at a hundred percent gay before, now I’m at two hundred percent!”

  “What, did Donald Trump make a pass at you?”

  Safely on her phone, Wendy looked over into the other elevator. It was still rising with hers, and the most beautiful woman in the world was still the most beautiful woman in the world. The way she stood, God, all power and control and just a little slinky, not at all like a man but maybe kind of macho? It was the way Xena would stand. Or the way a female director of the FBI would stand as she gave orders to Agent Scully—that was a happy thought.