Months before fucking Venice …
Rake rubbed his forehead and fought down a groan as his twin took the seat across from him. They hadn’t seen each other in months, which was good for all: the two of them, their mother, the population of Las Vegas, society in general.
He sighed and tried to straighten. The movement sent a wall of pain slamming through his brain. “Not that I don’t love being treated to your scowling face in the wee hours—”
Blake sighed. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”
“—but why am I here?” Beside his brother, who sat with perfect posture and was wearing a suit at oh-God-thirty in the morning (though he was his own boss and could lounge in jeans and a T-shirt), Rake felt distinctly rumpled. Possibly because he was distinctly rumpled.
Blake’s dark blond hair was meticulously trimmed, his blue eyes meticulously not bloodshot. Savile Row on the man’s back, Armani on his wrist, and no doubt something fancy on his feet. Rake slouched lower and looked: yep. Black and shiny. Definitely expensive. The two of them were a before-and-after picture.
Worse, Blake hadn’t insisted on a meeting at dawn so Rake could admire his twin’s dapperness. (That was a word, right?) Something was up.
He struggled upright. “Is Mom okay? Please say Mom’s okay. A hangover plus Blake plus Mom is just exhausting to think about.” He sighed and rubbed his temples. Sometime in the night, his tongue had been switched out for a wad of cotton. A dirty wad that tasted like booze. “My head is still attached to my body, right? It didn’t blow up or anything?” He gingerly felt his skull, worried his fingers would sink into it like bread dough. “My brain feels really explodey.”
Blake snorted. “Stop making up words, you hungover troglodyte.”
Rake nearly spit all over himself; probably wasn’t the best time to gulp his water. “I will if you will!” Wow. That didn’t sound childish AT ALL. God, why do I let Blake get to me like this? Why does he goad me? We’re almost thirty!
“Troglodyte is a real word!” Rake cheered up a bit to see Blake’s famously even temper was splintering.
“God, why do I ever reach out to you?”
“Dunno.” He did know, but would never say. They’d always been different, always fought, but underneath it all was something like love, or at least loyalty, or at least not hate. So Rake would think, but never say, You reach out because you’re lonely. Because you’re a stereotype—the uptight rich guy who needs tru luv to loosen up. And I’m your screwup brother who occasionally needs guidance but never admits it, because I’m a stereotype, too. And around and around we go. “But it makes you nuts, so I don’t know why you don’t quit it.” Rake finished his water, and now grabbed Blake’s. Ah, water, sweet water of life. Wait. Water of life?
“God help us when you become a father.”
“Back atcha.” At Blake’s uncharacteristic silence, Rake tensed. “Uh—do you know something I don’t?”
“Almost always.”
“Or someone I don’t?”
Blake waved away his brother’s sudden attack of paranoia. “You mean do I know you have a bastard or five running around?”
“You’re one to talk!”
“Fair point. But no. I don’t have personal knowledge of your hypothetical bastards. Nor my own.”
“Oh, thank Christ.” Rake was so relieved, he nearly swooned out of the booth onto the floor. “So why are we here?”
“Unlike some, I cannot simply jettison my responsibilities when they become tiresome. Not that I haven’t been tempted; surely I’ve done nothing to be saddled with you.” Blake was pontificating, and Rake gulped faster. Maybe he’d drown. Or belch! Blake hated pretty much every natural bodily function, especially ones made by Rake’s body.
“Did so. It’s your own fault for insisting on being born first. You probably elbow-checked me on your way out of the womb. Now c’mon, why are we here? Why’d you call? What couldn’t wait until our birthday?”
“Our mother is in Sweetheart and she needs us. She hates it, but she needs us.”
The sarcastic retort died and Rake sat up so straight, it was like someone had rammed a broomstick down his spine. “Tell me,” he ordered.
Blake did.