The Love Scam

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  She laughed. “It’s really not, but I kind of love how your mind works sometimes.”

  “Anyway, Sofia and Elena and Teresa liked to hang the finished baskets on me like I was a tree and the baskets were my weird fruit. Exhausting! Lillith restrained herself because she is a charming child of uncommon dignity. Anyway, no need to thank me.”

  “A new iPhone,” Delaney went on, “will run you about six hundred bucks. Minimum.”

  “Oh,” he managed. “Shit.” He’d never really thought about it before. He’d always upgraded when the new one came out. The old one went … somewhere …

  (iPhone purgatory?)

  and the new one was his lifeline until the next generation hit stores. It was almost automatic, and the price had always been irrelevant. Maybe a burner was an option—those were still a thing, right? “That’s … shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  He sighed and sipped some pale broth. “So, hit me.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Please. You know you want to.”

  She gave him a small smile. “I actually don’t.”

  “Do too! So go ahead, rip into the stupid rich guy who takes his money for granted and has no idea what minimum wage is or the cost of a new phone or how not to fall in the canal.”

  “There’s no point.” She’d finished her caprese—yay, room service!—and was sipping a heavily sugared and creamed cup of coffee. “You just did it for me. You were way harder on yourself than I would’ve been. Piling it on is mean and redundant.”

  He had to smile. “Blake always said that. Said if I could laugh at myself, no one else could laugh at me.” He paused, thinking. “I might have taken that one too much to heart.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Listen, we could probably get you a cheap used one on eBay for about two hundred.”

  “Yes! The lady takes pity on me at last.”

  “I think you mean ‘again.’”

  “Whatever.”

  “You know you’re Lillith’s hero, right?” Delaney asked out of roughly nowhere.

  “She should get out and meet more people.” He finished the last cracker, chased it with sparkling water, looked up, saw her frown. “Oh. You were being serious. Sorry, I suck at picking up on that sometimes.”

  “Hadn’t noticed” was her dry reply. “She does, though.”

  “Well. She’s great. Glad I could help. DNA test back yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, well, regardless of the results, I need a phone. If I’m her dad—poor kid!—I’ll have to start figuring stuff out, not least of which is figuring out where we go from here. And not just geographically. If I’m not, I still have to track my dough and get back home.”

  “You’re welcome to help us with more baskets.”

  “I’m betting that didn’t sound threatening in your head at all.”

  “Yep. But you can take breaks to barf.”

  “Wow! Best boss ever!”

  She laughed. “I’m probably your first boss ever.”

  “Since I quit mowing Mr. Nessen’s lawn in eighth grade, yeah. You’re so much better and in every respect. You don’t have any hair growing out of your ears, for starters.”

  “Oh God,” she said, leaning back. “Here comes another story about your odd childhood.”

  “Nuh-uh! Well, maybe. I’m just saying you’re a way better boss than Mr. Nessen. You don’t yell, you don’t clomp out on your porch to watch me work while furtively picking your nose, you don’t have any hair growing out of your ears, you haven’t tried to hit me with several issues of AARP magazine, and you’re not a racist. I’m pretty sure.” He raised his voice over her giggles and continued. “Annnnnd now you’re mocking me.”

  “But there’s so much to mock! It’s almost entrapment.”

  Jesus. She looks incredible when she laughs. Not that it’s on the table, but if I was going to hook up with anyone here, it’d be Delaney.

  Whoa. Where’d that come from? He’d never wanted to get laid less in his entire life. He wanted to earn his money and get his phone and see if he could make Delaney laugh some more and yell at Blake and get his money back and then buy something really really nice for Delaney.

  What the hell?

  Not something silly and shiny, like her own CVS franchise. Something charitable and selfless, like her own YMCA.

  WHAT THE HELL, RAKE?

  Talking! Talking would drown out his inner Blake voice. “So besides Easter, what else do you do? For charity, I mean.”

  The greedy shrew was flaunting her lack of poverty by devouring crème brûlée right in front of him. The way she was licking that spoon was definitely bordering on the criminal. Damn, that mouth. That wide, pretty mouth that he definitely wasn’t picturing stretched around his—

  “Rake?”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ve been saying your name for the last ten seconds.” She’d paused in mid-lick. “Maybe this is all I do.”

  “Nope. You’re in it deep, Delaney, you’re a Good Samaritan down to your bones, and you’re hooked on the hard stuff. Most people would be okay with volunteering a couple of times a year, but not you: You need it allll the time.”

  Her tongue flicked as she licked her spoon again and shook her head. “How have you made charity work sound like a meth addiction? I’ve talked to actual meth addicts who don’t make meth sound like meth.”

  “So you admit you have a problem. Ha! I should have been a lawyer; you just crumbled under my cross-ex.”

  “Yes, that’s not what happened.” She saw him shiver; lately he’d been either too hot or too cold, often within moments of each other. “Want another blanket?”

  “No, but a cell phone and access to funds would be great.”

  She sighed. “I could float you a loan for a—”

  “I’m fine.” In the Tarbell lexicon, “borrowing” was a sin slightly less dire than theft. “And even if I wasn’t, all my money is going toward a phone. I don’t care if I get pneumonia, getting yelled at by my brother is my first priority. And I’m not letting you distract me, either. So who do you help when it’s not Easter?”

  Hmm, what other charities were there? His mother and Blake had set up some tax shelters, he knew, and mailed him gobs of paperwork every three months or so that he never read (what were they even trying to prove with all the paper?). And hadn’t the NFL figured out how to profit off at least one charity? But which— Ah! He’d bought an ex a pink Tom Brady sweatshirt a few years ago. He’d picked her up at Faneuil Hall and the expression “rabid fan” did not begin to apply. She’d been fun, and cute, and not shy about semipublic sex

  (wait, do I have a thing for al fresco banging? how have I not realized this about myself?)

  and toward the end he hadn’t really minded that she kept calling him Tom and had bitten him so hard on the throat that it hurt to swallow for two days. “Breast cancer awareness, right?”

  This prompted an epic eye roll; for a second he worried she was having a ministroke. “Breast cancer awareness? Give me a break.”

  “Oooookay.”

  She snapped her head up to glare at him. “Who doesn’t know breast cancer is a thing? Anyone? In the last ten years, who has ever said ‘Thank goodness for breast cancer awareness, because I’ve been alive for twenty years and never knew it was a thing’?”

  “Nobody?” he guessed.

  “Nobody.”

  “But—”

  She cut him off, and a good thing, because he had no idea what followed “but.” “The money needs to go to research, not awareness. But nobody bothers to check. No one looks up stats. They buy something pink and think they’ve done their part. And if I ever get my hands on Lance Armstrong, I will break his fucking neck. Even before the scandal, Livestrong hadn’t accepted new research applications for years. And you know what really pisses me off?”

  “No,” he replied, and he definitely wasn’t terrified.

  “People who do charity work Christmas week and don’t give a shit a
bout us the rest of the year.”

  Whoa. Give a shit about us?

  “When you put it like that, it makes me realize I definitely should stop donating to charity. After this week, I mean.”

  His lame joke caught her off guard and she snorted in spite of herself. “Not where I was going with that, you dick.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I know you were just asking to be nice. It’s—it’s kind of a trigger for me.”

  “Noted.” Who, Delaney? Who doesn’t give a shit about you or Sofia or Teresa the rest of the year?

  “We work smaller,” she said, calming. She was stacking things on the room service tray, possibly so she didn’t have to look at him while she explained. He did nothing to impede her. “Not one or two big charities a year, but lots of little ones. Easter baskets and school clothes and food shelters, and we’re working on a private—never mind, it’s not important. But whatever we do, it depends on the donations we get. And don’t get,” she added under her breath.

  “It’s nice you keep busy.” He kept his tone mild, and wondered if he dared ask the question. “Me, I collect recipes. It’s not just a superfun hobby, it helps with my weekly menu planning!”

  “Sure it does.” She moved the tray to the desk, went to the closet, and brought him another blanket. “You should probably sleep some more.”

  “Never! I’m guessing I don’t get paid sick time.”

  “Good guess.” But she smiled, and he mentally swore he would fill several baskets tomorrow. At least a dozen. Two dozen!

  Twenty-one

  I’d never hurt her. I’d never hurt any woman. I’ve hurt men who have tried to hurt women and never regretted it, not once; black eyes get better and broken noses can be reset. I knew that by the time I was thirteen.

  But this is hard. Literally, this is very, very hard. Dear Abby: I’m sharing a room with my (kind of) boss who’s supercute and I haven’t masturbated in ninety-six hours (that I know of—the Lake Como sojourn is still a total blank) and she has lovely soft, strong hands and I might be getting Stockholm syndrome, because I’m looking forward to working with her tomorrow even though I’m terrified of Peeps. How skeevy is it if, while being very, very quiet, I just lie here and take care of my—

  No point even finishing the question. He knew it was unacceptable levels of skeevy. He sighed and flopped over on his back.

  After more ginger ale, followed by nap chasers, he’d felt very, very close to human. Lillith still fretted and hovered and practically guarded him—it was equal parts intimidating and comforting—and finally she’d gotten so tired, she’d curled up on the floor beside his bed and fallen asleep. Teresa had scooped her up and put her to bed; he’d fallen back asleep, then woke up hard as a spike.

  Which was too damned bad.

  Just don’t think about it. Of course! Don’t think about it! Why didn’t I think about not thinking about it?

  No, really. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Delaney just a few feet away, warm and fragrant in her bed. Don’t wonder what her mouth tastes like, and the spot behind her ear, and her lovely long throat. Definitely don’t wonder what it’d be like to gently rub your cheek over her stiffening nipples. What she’d sound like if you slipped a hand between her legs and gently stroked her open. Nope. Don’t think about any of it. Easy-peasy. And definitely don’t grab yourself. A lot.

  Delaney sat up, like Frankenstein in the lab after the lighting hit. Rake almost shrieked. Oh God, she’s a telepath and knows I’m a perv! My lustful thoughts were so loud, they woke her up! Let death come quickly! “What?” he shrilled from the sofa bed. “What is it? Not the face, okay?”

  She didn’t answer. Just abruptly swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and went straight to the biggest window in the room, squashing Peeps and grinding chocolate eggs into the carpet but not stopping. Not even slowing. She got to the window and stood and looked and said nothing and did nothing.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” Please don’t kick me out. You can’t help being hot, and I can’t help finding you hot, but I’d never act on it. Never, unless you made it clear you wanted me in your bed. And maybe not even then, because although you’re hot, I’m a little scared of you.

  Nothing.

  She was still, so still. He’d never seen her like that, like a statue in the dark. “Delaney?”

  She turned to look at him and he felt a chill; her gaze wasn’t on him, not really. It was like she couldn’t see him, was looking past him, or through him. “I don’t…” she began in a low, halting voice unlike any she’d used before.

  He pushed his blankets off and went to stand beside her, relieved that when she’d clomped toward the window like a cute Frankenstein, his penis, Mr. Roboto, had turned back into Flaccido Domingo. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know where I am,” she whispered, sounding young and lost. And damned if she didn’t look young in the barely lit glow by the window.

  She reached out as if she was going to touch the glass, then let her hand drift back to her side. The woman who’d laughed when he’d barfed and yelled when he’d bitched and called him on his entitled douchebaggery was afraid to touch a window, or raise her voice, or make eye contact.

  “It’s always different, you know,” she murmured. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “You’re in Venice,” he said, and now he was whispering. “It’s—it’s okay. I mean, you’re safe and everything. I’d never— No one’s going to hurt you.”

  And God, the way her face lit up. That smile. Jesus. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “No one will come in? Unless I let them?”

  “No one,” he promised through numb lips. Fuck. A nightmare that she’s sleepwalking in? Or sleepwalking during a nightmare? What is this? “It’s okay. You’re safe. You—you can go back to bed. If you want.”

  “Bed?” And she flinched. Claire Fucking Delaney flinched.

  “Well, you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  The smile again. The relief. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Okay,” she said, and beamed at him. Then she turned around and walked back to her bed and climbed under the covers and flopped over on her side and twenty seconds later she was dead asleep again. He watched her for a while to make sure she was really out. Now he had a whole new thing to wonder about. Did that make him a good man, or just easily distracted? Both? Neither? And was he wondering about that so he wouldn’t think about how scary she had been, and sad, and afraid?

  What the hell was that?

  * * *

  He waited until they were enjoying the modestly priced continental breakfast in one of the common rooms, the others, including Lillith, taking up the table across from them. They’d saved the last table for Delaney, and the two of them had it to themselves for the moment. It had been almost a celebration, his first day back on solids and out of the room. Certainly Delaney’s family had seemed happy he was mostly mended.

  But the minute breakfast was over, he knew they were all going back to work and if he didn’t carpe the diem now, who knew when he’d get another chance?

  “So.” Easy. Nice and casual. Nothing weird is going to come out of your mouth. “Do you remember last night?”

  She looked up from her oatmeal, into which she’d ladled a mound of brown sugar and an astonishing amount of cream. She’d brought the laptop with her, of course. She never left it in the room, though there was a perfectly good safe in the closet. It was always within arm’s reach; she’d brought it to dinner, too. Maybe she was a paranoid screenplay writer, and sold scripts to fund her charity work? If it was strictly to keep track of the charitable donations, she wouldn’t need the secrecy. Twenty-two letters in a password representing something she didn’t have to think about. Hmm. And the safe combo. Something else quick and easy. “Delaney? Remember?”

  “Mostly, I remember your relentless whining about the cost of cell phones
in this day and age,” she replied, grinning.

  “Tim Cook and his corporate thugs should be ashamed of themselves. But I meant after that. Dammit! I mean I don’t whine. And after. In your sleep. You—”

  She was waiting for him to finish, and hadn’t realized there was jam in the corner of her mouth that he definitely didn’t want to kiss away. She wasn’t tense, or embarrassed. Just patiently curious. Curiously patient? “I what, Rake?”

  You walked and talked in your sleep. You were afraid. You didn’t know where you were, and when I said you were free to come and go, you were so happy. And who didn’t help you when it wasn’t Christmas, Delaney? Why do you hate careless, maybe twice-a-year charitable donations? What’s in the spreadsheets you won’t let anyone see?

  “You— It’s no big deal.” He hadn’t thought of this, and he should have. He’d expected heated denial or embarrassment, not amnesia. “You talked in your sleep is all.”

  “Oh yeah?” Still totally unconcerned. “What’d I say?”

  “‘Go, Packers.’”

  She laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. I don’t like football, but if I did, I’d never root for the Packers. That’s practically a violation of state law.”

  Christ, she has no idea.

  “Well, you mumbled something, I didn’t quite catch it, I was supertired because you’re such a goddamned slave driver.” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t telling her everything. He didn’t want to embarrass her, that was part of it, but he also had the uneasy feeling that the Delaney who walked in her sleep wasn’t this Delaney, the confident young woman who walked right up to a dripping, livid man who’d just been fished out of the canal, who’d tossed a kid into his life, ruthlessly put him to work to earn a cell phone, frequently told him to shut up already, stole the last piece of toast off his plate, and laughed when he complained.

  “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t.” Lie. “It was no biggie.” Lie.

  “All righty.” She’d finished her oatmeal, waved at a couple of the others, gathered her stuff. “Ready to get back to it?”