Double-Team

“How’d you get my number?”

Devon narrowed her eyes at the fern pattern on the wallpaper as if it were the strange young man on the other end of her phone.

“This is a small town,” said Kyle, “and I’m a Royal. I have my ways.”

“But why, though?”

“I wasn’t very nice to you when we first met, and I wanted to apologize. For real, this time. On my own.”

“All right. I accept your apology. If there’s nothing else—”

“Uh, yeah! There is.”

Devon beckoned with her free hand as if he could see it.

“Spit it out, or I’m hanging up.”

“I know how crazy this is going to sound, but I’d like to make it up to you. A nice dinner, maybe? Neutral setting? So you can see that I’m not the Royal Brat that everybody thinks I am.”

What the f--? Devon made a face and ran her hand over her close-cropped Afro.

“I want to get to know you better, too,” he kept going, “and getting myself arrested again is probably not the best way to do that.”

Devon bit her bottom lip.

Yeah…you’d be an idiot to try that again, considering what you got the last time. What kind of man are you?

“Still there?” he wanted to know.

“Mr. Royal—”

“Kyle.”

“Kyle…asking out the cop who jammed you up? You have to see how strange this is. I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“I’m not trying to put any pressure on you; mainly because you could do bad things to me.”

“Mm-hmm…the least of which would be to run you in for stalking. The worst of which would be to—”

“Let’s. Not. Go. There!” Kyle cut her off. “I don’t want to give you any more trouble. Just the opposite. How about you just think about it? You can even pick the place you’d be most comfortable. No strings. No hidden agenda.”

The front door clicked open, and Angela, Devon’s identical twin, stepped into the apartment, followed by her boyfriend, Marty.

And a dark cloud loomed over the room.

“Let me get back to you,” Devon said into the phone, clicking it off without a second thought. Then she turned a hard glare on the twosome.

Marty returned the glare with his own up-and-down look. Six feet tall, blue-eyed, with shaggy brown hair and a typical jock build, Marty could not have been more mismatched with Angela, a carbon copy of Devon’s dark-skinned face, brown eyes, and a five-nine, hourglass figure. Their most notable difference was their hairstyles: Angela’s silky-straight hair was done up in a librarian’s bun, while Devon kept her Afro closely cropped according to police regulations.

“So…” Marty asked Devon, “what’s for dinner?”

Devon narrowed her eyes. “Hemlock salad with strychnine dressing. Want me to fix your plate?”

“Come on, Dev…” Angela rolled her eyes.

“Remind your bedwarmer that I don’t cook, clean, nor do anything else for him.” Devon pointed her finger emphatically. “That’s your job, not mine, and you’re a fool for taking it.”

“Temper, temper,” Marty shook his head. “This is why you don’t have a man of your own.”

“I’m good with or without one,” Devon shot back. “I do pray that one day, Angie will find herself one.”

Marty did not like that, and Angela slid herself between the combatants just in time.

“Babe,” she tried to keep her voice even. “See if you can find something in the kitchen to snack on till I get something started. Okay?”

Marty’s scowl leveled out into a smug grin. He took off his jacket, flung it across the sofa, and backed his way into the kitchen. Devon hardly waited for him to disappear behind the arch.

“Why do you let him do that?” she muttered to Angela.

“Do what?”

“Disrespect me in my home!”

“Our home, Dev.” Angela peeled off her sweater. “And you hold your own well enough that you don’t need me to defend you.”

“Is that why you go out of your way to defend him?”

Angela folded her sweater and draped it on the sofa, then picked up Marty’s jacket to do the same with it.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “You don’t ever see the nicer side of him. He’s always been good to me, treated me well. I don’t have the luxury of having men fall over themselves just to talk to you. Marty may not be the perfect guy for you, but he’s not supposed to be. He’s mine.”

Angela’s tone was crystal clear, and Devon saw the wisdom of dropping the subject…lest they wind up discussing the touchier one beneath the surface.

Reluctantly, Devon retreated to her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and changed out of her uniform, into her favorite lilac sweatsuit. She flung herself onto her bed and had already grabbed her headset to drown out every sound around her when a thought occurred to her:

I was so busy refusing to cook, I didn’t get anything to eat. And I sure as hell won’t be breaking bread with the Jobless Wonder.

Devon went back to the living room, getting to the kitchen arch just in time to see Marty at the table, scarfing down the vegan blue corn chips with homemade salsa, and chugalugging her two-liter bottle of strawberry soda, which was chilled to perfection.

“No, the f*ck you didn’t!” she bellowed, using her cop voice.

Instinctively, Marty leaped backwards, sending himself and the chair to the floor. Devon rounded the table like a runaway train, stood over him, and raised her foot in the air. Fortunately, Angela grabbed hold of her and pulled Devon away before she could stomp her footprint into Marty’s chest.

“Calm down, Devvie!” she shouted, while pushing her to the wall. “What’s the problem now?”

“You can’t see for yourself?” Devon readjusted herself and pointed to the table. “That’s my food! My snacks! Saved for my binge-watching!”

“How was I supposed to know?” Marty scrambled to his feet. “It’s just food! Why’re you getting so worked up about--?”

“Was it your food, dickhead?” Devon went off like a lunatic. “Was it in your refrigerator? Did you pay for it?”

She flung the nearly-empty bowl of salsa in his direction, barely missing the side of Marty’s head.

“Get him out of here, Angie!” Devon ordered, pointing at Marty. “Before I jack his broke ass up!”

Marty inhaled. “Who’re you calling broke?”

“The only one in this room who still lives with his mommy,” Devon countered, “because he doesn’t have a f*cking job, like the rest of us grown people!”

“Dev,” begged Angela, “just let me handle it.”

“Never mind,” grumbled Marty, between clenched teeth. “I’ll go. I know when I’m not wanted!”

“If that were true,” said Devon, “you’d have never come in here!”

Marty stormed past them, snatched his jacket off the sofa, and made his way to the door. He paused for a moment, expecting Angela to stop him. When it became clear to him that she was firmly planted, he flounced out of the apartment, slamming the door shut in a renewed huff.

“Why don’t you want to get along with him?” Angela asked Devon.

“Why am I the only one being asked to get along?”

“Because he’s not here right now, and you are!” Angela shouted back. “Once, just once, I’d like for both of you to consider my feelings before you attack each other like a couple of pit bulls!”

“How the hell do you think we got here, Angie? The amount of crap that I let slide with that man-child could fertilize every tree in Betancourt Park!”

“See?” Angela poked the air as if she were poking her sister’s chest. “That right there! That’s the problem! You never cut Marty any slack! Every chance you get, you run him down, call him names, and talk to him like he’s nothing!”

Devon glared incredulously at her twin.

“You picked a moocher to share your bed, and I’m the problem? You might want to roll that one back, Sis. The problem is that you have never held Marty accountable for his actions…just like his mother.”

Angela folded her arms across her chest.

“I am not like his mother!”

Devon looked her up and down, telepathically saying “could’ve fooled me”.

“I’m different!” Angela insisted, receiving the message. “Marty’s mother can barely stand him. I believe in him, and I tell him so every chance I get. I’m the only one who helps him.”

Devon rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

“You’re not giving him help, Sis.” She lowered her voice to a no-nonsense tone. “You’re giving him money that he never pays back and a place to flop out whenever he’s sick of hearing his mother’s mouth. You can’t tell me that you’re one-hundred percent okay with that.”

Angela visibly squirmed, her body trying to decide between tensing up and relaxing. Her shoulders went down, and a single tear streamed down her left cheek. She made no effort to wipe it away.

“So…what do I do?” she asked. “How do I make this right?”

“Well…” Devon tapped her temple with her index finger. “I’m newly inspired by something that happened at work. What Marty needs is an attitude adjustment, and I would love to give it to him.”

Angie narrowed her eyes. “I’m not clear on what you mean by that, but I know for sure that Marty will never let you touch him.”

“Who says he has to know it’s me?”

The room had gone silent. For a moment, neither of them were breathing.

“Hear me out, Sis,” said Devon, at last. “I feel a plan coming on.”