Danger, Sweetheart Part 14

Christ Blake I thought my phone was going to blow up what's going on with you I mean jeez?

Blake snorted. Of course. He should have realized. Did you lose another phone, idiot?

No! I know right where it is, it's still at the bottom of the ca.n.a.l, so now who's the idiot?

Ca.n.a.l? Never mind. Thank you for eventually acknowledging my dozens of communiques.

Only your phone auto-corrects communications. See? Mine didn't. Where are you?

If you'd listened to any of your voice mails, you'd know.

And if you had a Facebook page like a real live boy, I'd also know. Where?

The fifth circle of h.e.l.l.

You're back in Vegas?

No. The real h.e.l.l. Actual h.e.l.l.

What are you doing in L.A.?

Having an incredibly irritating text chat with my twin.

Because I'm terrible? People have told me you think I'm terrible. Personally I don't see it.

Enough of this. Blake stopped texting and called.

"Dude!" Rake picked up immediately, in mid-yawn from the sound of it. "Do you know what time it is here?"

"No," was Blake's truthful answer.

"d.a.m.n. Was hoping you did, because I'd kinda like to know. I can't tell if the new phone is right and when I use the hotel phone the guy on the other end won't speak English."

"I cannot help you." Rake could be anywhere. Staten Island. Rome. London. Walmart. "And you're a grown man who's nearly thirty; stop using 'dude.' Where are you?"

"Venice, I'm pretty sure."

Blake rolled out of bed and stretched, watching the sun come up while clutching the phone in his other hand. He instantly loosened his grip; his hands were sore. "Pretty sure? Even for you, that's odd."

"Venice is the one with ca.n.a.ls instead of streets, right? And people speak Italian? And the Italian food is really good? And there's gelato all over the place?"

"Yes, you dolt. Italy is seven hours ahead of the Central Time Zone, so that should help you narrow it down." He shuffled over to the toaster, stifling a yawn. He had carefully cleared one of the bookshelves of the Little House series and several Carl Hiaasen novels and kept his dry goods there. Now he popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. "You are in Venice."

"That's a relief. It sucked, not knowing where I was."

"Wait, you weren't making another tiresome joke? You just woke up in Venice?"

"See? You're not the only person having a weird month. Not to belittle your woos or anything-"

"Woes."

"-but I'm neck deep in my own s.h.i.+t; I promise."

"Your s.h.i.+t is not as all-encompa.s.sing as my s.h.i.+t, I a.s.sure you."

"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, and I don't know where my pants are. Doesn't that make you feel better?"*

"It does," Blake admitted. "What's her name?"

"There are four of them, I think."

"Good G.o.d."

"Now I just have to figure out which one is responsible for my being here. And what I have to do in order to get the h.e.l.l out of here and get back home."

"Rake, I know exactly how you feel." Blake could not recall sympathizing more. "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."

"Anything sounds bad," Rake whined, "when you put it like that."

"You are terrible. And it gives me genuine joy to tell you I have no money, either." He stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth while Rake muttered various epithets on the other end. After spitting and rinsing, Blake added, "Like me, you've brought this on yourself."

"You know I hate listening to you spit."

"There are far worse places to be stranded than Venice."

"This is true." Rake sounded cheerful again and Blake approved of his brother's effervescence, though he rarely shared it. You could knock Rake down, but he never stayed p.r.o.ne for long. "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? Like this?"

"G.o.d, 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."

"Uh, that's good, I guess? Not really sure what you're wanting to hear from me on this one..."

"Our great-great-grandfather built it."

"He did?"

"Or was it our great-grandfather?"

"Are you serious with this s.h.i.+t?" Rake sounded incredulous. Blake could relate.

"Completely. 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? 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."

There was a long silence, which Blake enjoyed as he munched dry toast. Finally, a tentative Rake asked, "You use the word 'terrible' a lot. They gave you a horse?"

Leave it to Rake to seize on the least important part of that list. "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."

"Sorry, did you say it wasn't terrible?"

He sigh-groaned. "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."

"And effective! Tell the truth, you haven't gotten any farm tail, have you?"

"You are terrible."

"Old news, big brother, and answer the question."

Blake paused, swallowing the last of the toast, then admitted, "I don't deny having infrequent intercourse of late."

Rake's crow of delight came through as though he were standing beside Blake. "Knew it! That's Blake-ese for 'major dry spell.'"

"By choice!" he protested. Which wasn't the whole truth. Ava had broken it off, and he'd been unable to take the other women up on their generous offers of s.e.x, since they were in Vegas and he wasn't. "I've been trapped on the desolate prairie, and the opportunities for intercourse have been rare." Except not really. On his trips into town he'd run across several men and women who made it clear Blake could come over and play farmhand whenever he wished. And at any other time, he would have taken at least two of the ladies up on their blunt, friendly offers.

But it wasn't any other time. He'd seen Natalie Lane on his first day here, and that was that. He wanted Natalie Lane, he would never have Natalie Lane, he wouldn't settle for someone who wasn't Natalie Lane, the end; ad infinitum. Rake was terrible, but Blake was a fool.

"Okay, first thing," Rake was yammering, "maybe you'd have more frequent intercourse if you stopped referring to it as intercourse. Just a thought."

"It's accurate," he protested. And distinctly unromantic, his brain supplied. Terrible Rake, making the occasional good point.

"Hmmm."

"Stop that." Rake's hmmm usually meant he was stumbling over a truth Blake had no intention of discussing, or even confronting.

"There's a girl, isn't there?"

"Of course not." Natalie Lane was not a girl. She was a woman, an extraordinary, complex, puzzling, lovely woman who smelled like cherry blossoms hundreds of miles from the nearest cherry tree.

"Ugh, fine, a woman, there's a woman stuck on the prairie with you."

"There are several." Evade, evade!

"Good for you, s.l.u.tty Mcs.k.a.n.k."

"Of course I'm not interested in all of them, just Natalie Lane." G.o.d dammit. Blake knew he was smarter than Rake, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was able to do this nearly every time! It must be his native cunning. Jackals could occasionally outwit lions, after all.

"You're sooooo easy," Rake chortled. "So talk about Natalie Lame."

"Lane, you imbecile." It was always tricky at first, speaking through gritted teeth, but Blake eventually remembered the technique. "And she's wonderful. Smart and driven and fierce."

"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." And it was wonderful to watch her arrive and leave. "And she has a lovely face. She's Irish and Native American and has wonderful blue eyes and gorgeous cheekbones."

"Nice." Rake actually sounded impressed, but he could have been referring to the room service menu.

"She's kind," Blake agreed, "but she doesn't think she's kind. And she loathes me, of course."

"What, 'of course'? 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 s.l.u.tty stick-in-the-mud like you is, screw her."

"Thank you." Blake meant it, because he knew Rake was, in his own way, being kind. Rake could be, uh, not sweet, exactly, but loyalty was something the Tarbells had in common. Rake and Blake kept their distance from each other, but that didn't translate to indifference. "She sees me as an apathetic interloper who has contempt for her way of life, and she's not entirely wrong."

"You're too hard on yourself," came the instant response. Blake waited, and Rake did not disappoint: "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."

"Um, I dunno, because you like her? And she'd like you if you unclenched long enough? And it'll make your prairie sentence go a little faster? You don't have to marry her, for G.o.d's sake."

If only. He sighed. "Thank you for the advice. I'll consider what you've said."

"Uh-huh, Blake-ese for 'You're full of s.h.i.+t, but I'm way too cla.s.sy to tell you.'"

"Yes."

"So let's talk about something we can agree on, namely, how we can get back control of our money."

"Excellent question. And it's fortunate you chose this week to acknowledge my messages-"

"I woke up in another country, you self-absorbed jerka.s.s! Without pants!"

"-because you need to understand: I have employed the nuclear option."

Another long silence broken by Rake's whispered, "Don't even joke about that, Bro."

"I would never, because I agree. It's not a thing to joke about."

"You didn't. Right? 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."

From the phone, a tinny, hollow groan: "Oh, G.o.d."

"And if nothing else, 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. "Really good, but you didn't really do it, right? The nuclear option? You've eloped with Natalie Lame instead-"