A frustrated sound, like a swallowed groan, came through the line. “Yes, you dolt! Italy is seven hours ahead of the central time zone, so that should help you narrow it down.” Rake could hear Blake moving around on the other end, probably getting ready for the day, and was that—it was: He distinctly heard the sound of a toaster being turned on. “You are in Venice.”
“That’s a relief,” Rake teased. “It sucked, not knowing where I was. Why are you making toast at oh-God-thirty?”
“Never mind.” A pause, then: “Wait, you weren’t making another tiresome joke? You just woke up in Venice?”
Well, finally. “See? You’re not the only person having a weird month. Not to belittle your woos or anything—”
“Woes,” his brother snapped back.
“—but I’m neck-deep in my own shit, I promise.” And he was. But talking to Blake was having the usual effect: He was annoyed, but he also knew Blake would fix it. Why had he postponed this conversation? Just to see if Delaney would give him another kiss?
“Your shit is not as all-encompassing as my shit, I assure you.”
Hmm. A challenge? Foolish mortal. “Wanna bet? I’m stranded on the other side of the planet with no money in a country where I don’t speak the language—” He loved, loved that Blake got polymath and polyglot mixed up. “And I don’t know where my pants are. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“It does,” Blake admitted. “What’s her name?”
Oh no he didn’t! Delaney and Lillith were his secret. Nothing about them, including their names, was any of Blake’s business. “There are five of them, I think.” Right? In ascending order of weirdness: Elena, Teresa, Sofia, Lillith, Delaney.
“Good God.” Ah, this was more like it: Blake sounded appropriately appalled.
“Now I just have to figure out which one is responsible for my being here.” Not really. He’d apparently gotten so drunk, he’d been able to con someone into giving him a ride from Lake Como to Venice. And that was the least interesting thing that had happened all week. Even cooler: He barely minded. If he hadn’t pitched his wallet and drowned his phone, he would never have met Delaney or Lillith. “And what I have to do in order to get the hell out of here and get back home.”
“Rake, I know exactly how you feel.” Sorry, what? Was that actual, honest-to-God sympathy from Blake “Tightass” Tarbell? Meanwhile, his brother was still pontificating: “Wait. You said you’re stranded with no money. You didn’t return my call to find out what trouble I’m in, you called for a loan so I could get you out of the trouble you’re in.”
Busted. “Anything sounds bad when you put it like that.”
“You are terrible,” Blake hissed. “And it gives me genuine joy to tell you I have no money, either.”
“What? Oh hell, you can’t be serious. What am I saying? Of course you’re serious, you’re constantly, tiresomely, relentlessly serious. Fuck and double fuck! Fuckity fuck!”
Blake, always courteous, let him finish with the potty mouth. When he took a breath to swear more, he could hear running water—ugh. “Like me,” he said while Rake paused for breath, “you’ve brought this on yourself.”
“You know I hate listening to you spit.” Was there anything more disgusting than watching someone brush their teeth? No. There was not.
“There are far worse places to be stranded,” Always Pontificating Blake said, “than Venice.”
“This is true.” Rake could feel himself perking up in spite of everything. But it wasn’t being stuck in Venice. It was being stuck with Delaney and Lillith. “So your messages said you’re in Mom’s hometown? And you’re working on a farm?”
“Are you asking me? If that’s what my messages said? Because you’re using an upward inflection at the end of your sentences? Denoting a question?”
“God, I hate you … Yes. I’m asking if it’s true.”
“I am incarcerated in Sweetheart.”
“Ha!”
“And I am working on a farm. Not one our mother inherited.”
Rake had to puzzle that one over for a few seconds. Their mother had inherited a number of farms, but Blake … wasn’t working on one? Just some random other farm? “Uh, that’s good, I guess?” But why? No. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Not really sure what you’re wanting to hear from me on this one.…”
“Our great-great-grandfather built it.”
Okay, weirder and weirder. “He did?” Rake could count the number of times their mother had talked about her family on one hand. Their great-great-grandfather could have been a Hoboken butcher, for all he knew.
“Or was it our great-grandfather?” Blake mused, like they had time for that.
“Are you serious with this shit?”
“Completely.” Then, compounding the weird: “My toast is ready.”
“Did you just say your toast is ready?”
“Is it a bad connection, or are you tracking more poorly than usual?” Ah, there was the nasal nastiness Rake had come to expect. “Yes. My toast beckons. And after that I might have time to steal some bacon if I can somehow lure Gary from the table. Then I must feed my pony, the terrible Margaret of Anjou, and foil whatever plan B Garrett Hobbes may be putting into motion so his fertilizing company goes under and he’s free to open a chain of strip clubs in Hollywood. Or possibly design toilet paper.”
Jesus Christ. Rake, for one of the few times in his life, couldn’t think of a thing to say. It sounded like his twin was losing his shit. Or his mind. Or both. Yes, both. “You use the word terrible a lot.” Then, because out of all the nonsense, that was the part Rake found most intriguing: “They gave you a horse?”
“They cursed me,” Blake corrected, “with Margaret of Anjou, the foulest, cruelest, most vile pony in the history of equines. And perhaps she isn’t terrible.”
Annnnd it was official, Blake was drunk. “Sorry, did you say it wasn’t terrible?”
His twin let out a sigh/groan hybrid. “She is just one more problem I can’t solve on a list of problems I can’t solve. If you’re drowning, you don’t especially care if someone pours a bucket of water over your head.”
“You need to get laid,” Rake said, his go-to answer for every problem Blake discussed with him. “Clear your pipes.”
“Vulgar,” he sniffed.
“And effective! Tell the truth, you haven’t gotten any farm tail, have you?”
A growl. “You are terrible.”
“Old news, big brother, and answer the question.”
There was a long, telling pause
Knew it! He’s not getting any!
and then: “I don’t deny having infrequent intercourse of late.”
“Knew it! That’s always Blakese for ‘major dry spell.’”
“By choice!” his so-horny-it-had-driven-him-clinically-insane brother protested. “I’ve been trapped on the desolate prairie, and the opportunities for intercourse have been rare.”
Brrrr. Where to even start with this? “Okay, first thing, maybe you’d have more frequent intercourse if you stopped referring to it as intercourse.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Hmmm.”
“Stop that.”
Got it. It’s not that he hasn’t been laid. It’s that he wants to get laid by someone in particular, and she’s not into it. “There’s a girl, isn’t there?”
“Of course not.”
Rake made a face. “Ugh, fine, a woman, there’s a woman stuck on the prairie with you.”
“There are”—ah, the familiar sound of Blake evading—“several. Of course I’m not interested in all of them, just Natalie Lane.”
Got him! “You’re sooooo easy,” Rake chortled. Delaney had noticed in a day and a half that people told him things they meant to keep to themselves. Blake had known that for decades but still made that same mistake. “So talk about Natalie Lame.”
“Lane, you imbecile,” Blake hissed. “And she’s wonderful. Smart and driven and fierce.”
That … would be so cool. Like, the best thing ever. Teasing Blake about dying alone was one thing, but Rake had never actually wanted him to, y’know, die alone. But better not let him figure that out. Not yet, anyway. “Uh-huh, and what’s the body situation? Is it wonderful to watch her arrive, or watch her leave? Or is it more about the face?”
“You are a pig.”
Rake waited.
“And she has a lovely face. She’s Irish and Native American”—a goofy sigh while Rake tried to build a mental Etch A Sketch of this Natalie Lame person—“and has wonderful blue eyes and gorgeous cheekbones.”
“Nice.” Speaking of wonderful eyes, Delaney had a pair! But he wouldn’t discuss that now. Delaney was his sigh-inducing lady, thanks very much; Blake could stick with what’s-her-face with the cheekbones.
“She’s kind,” Blake agreed, “but she doesn’t think she’s kind. And she loathes me, of course.”
Rake, who had been scrunching into the pillows to get more comfortable, sat up so fast, he nearly tumbled off the edge. “What, ‘of course’?” Not this shit again! Blake was the worst, but that didn’t mean he was actually the worst. “She hasn’t known you enough to loathe you, so where’s she get off? Hey, if she doesn’t get what a great catch a history-obsessed, technology-loathing, glum, slutty stick-in-the-mud like you is, screw her.”
“Thank you.” Rake could actually hear his twin smiling into the phone. “She sees me as an apathetic interloper who has contempt for her way of life, and she’s not entirely wrong.”
Fuck that. Fuck that twice. And with extreme prejudice. “You’re too hard on yourself.” Then, lest Blake think he was going soft, he added, “That’s my job, you apathetic, interloping jagoff. Ask her out!”
“To what end? She won’t leave Sweetheart under her own power, and I won’t stay.”
This again. His brother, who had once taken on three bikers and an elementary school teacher at a Vegas indoor BBQ, was terrified to put himself out there when it came to anything beyond getting laid. “Um, I dunno, because you like her?” Dumbass? “And she’d like you if you unclenched long enough?” Dumbass. “And it’ll make your prairie sentence go a little faster?” Dumbass! Then, lest he scare the guy away from it: “You don’t have to marry her, for God’s sake.”
A sigh. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”
Rake didn’t bother holding back his snort. “Uh-huh, Blakese for ‘You’re full of shit, but I’m way too classy to tell you.’”
A laugh. “Yes.”
“So let’s talk about something we can agree on—namely, how we can get back control of our money.”
“Excellent question.” Blake’s tone brightened at once. “And it’s fortunate you chose this week to acknowledge my messages—”
Rake ground his teeth. “I woke up in another country! Without pants!”
“—because you need to understand: I have employed the nuclear option.”
Ha ha ha very funny Blake it almost sounded like you said oh my God so dizzy so very dizzy ow …
Thirty-four
“You have to tell him, or authorize me to tell him.” Delaney was on the phone in Teresa’s room, speaking in a low voice. Pure force of habit; Rake couldn’t have heard her if she’d stood on the bed and shouted.
A murmur from the other end.
“I don’t care. Step up, or I will.” A pause while she listened. “Yeah? Well, he’s talking to his brother right now. He’s about to find out all of the bad but none of the good and then you’ll be toast. Listen: He’s a good guy. Annoying and entitled as shit, but decent, and I’m sure if you— Ouch.” The snarl of static not only cut her off; it made her ears ring.
(Huh. I thought that was just an old saying.)
“No, I’m not telling you your job.” Not anymore, that was for sure. Cripes. She reminded herself that the Big Pipe Dream was going to be the Big Thing That Never Happened if she didn’t hold up her end.
“Listen. Please. You gotta authorize my follow-through. He needs to know what’s going on, not just part of what’s going on, and they’re— What?” She listened, then said, “No, I haven’t seen them around. Pretty sure they’ve decided they’re on the wrong track—which is what we both wanted, right? Now. I need to be able to go back into our room and— Of course, ‘our’ room. I didn’t think that when you took his money you actually wanted him to sleep in the park.” She listened, her unease rising every second. That was fine; it could keep her nausea company. “No, of course not. He sleeps in the hide-a-bed, and— Nuh-uh. No. That’s not what you’re paying me for.” Unfortunately. “The hell’s the matter with you? I’m going to have to— You will? Right away?” Huh. Unexpected. And it would make everything worse and then maybe—maaaaybe she’d be off the hook and everyone could go back to their Rake-free lives.
Their lives is what she meant.
Or maybe her employer would just show up and slaughter everyone. That could be okay, too.
Thirty-five
For a moment, Rake thought he’d honest-to-God faint, just swoon like a heroine in a black-and-white movie. Bad enough he’d fallen off the bed; now passing out seemed imminent. He’d been gripping his phone so hard that his fingers ached, but finally he managed to whisper, “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I would never, because I agree,” Blake said, also subdued. “It’s not a thing to joke about.”
“You didn’t. Right?” Rake heard the pleading tone but was helpless to stop it. “Blake? Come on, man, you’re winding me up. You didn’t really do that. Right? Blake? You didn’t, right?”
“Rake, our mother left me with few alternatives.”
He slapped his hand over his eyes. It was, unfortunately, the hand holding the phone. “Ow! Oh God.” His mother had cut Blake off—that alone was difficult to wrap his brain around. But she had threatened Blake with the nuclear option if he didn’t obey. So Blake … deployed the nuclear option? It made no sense! It was like using a tank to go grocery shopping: total overkill. The guy was drunk. Or nuts. Or suffering from a high fever.
“And if nothing else,” Blake was blah-blah-blahing, “it will be a way to get some answers out of Shannah Banana.”
“Who? Listen, tell the truth. I won’t be mad. It’s a good joke.” Rake managed to croak a fake laugh into the phone. That sounded natural, right? Not even a little like a duck being slowly strangled. “Really good, but you didn’t really do it, right? The nuclear option? You’ve eloped with Natalie Lame instead—”
“Lane.”
“—and this is just—” What? What other explanation could there be? “—just a weird way for you to break it to me gently.” An odd, shitty way. “It’s fine. I’m not mad. You really got me on that one, bro, good one.”
“I did, Rake.” Uh-oh. That was his brother’s determined “This is serious, you incompetent moron” tone. He never used it when he was joking. The man barely joked at all. “This is not a drill. I called her last night. She’s coming.”
“You arrogant ass,” he breathed. “You’ve killed us all!”
“The line,” Blake said, because he was just so fucking awful, “is ‘You arrogant ass, you’ve killed us.’* And, in fact, Tupelev’s arrogance did doom his crew, although technically the explosion when the torpedo impacted the hull killed them, and if not that, then the water pressure, or they drowned. Whatever the official cause of death, it was, in fact, his arrogance that doomed them all.”
Rake missed phone cords. He could be halfway to unconsciousness right now if he’d started wrapping as soon as his brother mentioned the nuclear option.
“Seek help, Blake. Not just for being stupid and crazy enough to call Nonna Tarbell…” Although that was incredibly stupid. And extremely crazy. “But just in general. You’
re completely nuts.”
“Could be.” Blake was almost eerily calm, which was finally a mood Rake understood. Sometimes when you’ve pulled the switch, the relief is incredible: You’ve done the worst thing. You’ll live or die, but either way, things will change. No more suspense and dread. “But watch yourself, little brother. It’s probably genetic.”
“Great. Just keep my name out of everything. I’ll figure out my own mess on this side of the world, and you and Nonna stay over there on your side, and we’ll meet up in the middle during Christmas or something and, I dunno, shake hands or hug or something, and that’ll be fine until our birthday.” Rake shivered. “Assuming you even survive.”
“Yes, there’s every chance this will get me killed, and that’s only if I’m not dying at the bottom of a canyon.”
Huh? “Blake. Seriously. Call someone. You’ve lost it, dude.”
“Don’t call me ‘dude.’ Godere Venezia.”
Rake managed a smile, which was progress. Anything was better than free-floating dread. Messing with Blake was just a plus. “Sorry, what?”
A sigh. “It’s ‘Enjoy Venice’ in Italian.”
Sometimes he wondered if Blake was only pretending to forget Rake was octolingual. “Oh, shut up. Fucking show-off.” He heard a chuckle, and then Blake was gone.
He sat up and looked for Delaney, then realized she was gone, too. And in a hurry—she’d left her laptop.
Hmmm.
Thirty-six
She was reaching for the door handle to their room
(My room, dammit!)
when it opened and Rake filled the doorway. And boy, did he … those shoulders.
(Oh, Christ, stop drooling like a besotted teenager, please!)
“Come for a walk?” he said by way of greeting.
“Uh…” She looked at him the way she’d watched adults when she was a kid. You could keep an eye on them without them tumbling to what you were doing; peripheral vision was about 150 degrees. “Okay. How’d—how’d it go?”
“He wasn’t kidding about being cut off by our mother, and he’s tattling on her by activating the nuclear option.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “He’s calling our grandma.”
The Love Scam Page 16
