Loathsome brother,
I am being held hostage in our mother’s hometown and cannot escape the observation that this is ALL YOUR FAULT. She controls the keys to the kingdom, the money, and the nuclear option. Take a moment and think about what that means.*
“Oh my God.” They’d taken a vaporetto back to the hotel, which was awesome because nothing kicked more ass than a vaporetto. Any water bus instantly put any land bus to shame; it was the rule. Lillith, a sensible and wise child, backed him immediately. Then Delaney talked him down from where he’d perched, arms spread and yodeling, “I’m king of the worrrrrrrlllddd!” by promising he could use her laptop to charge his phone. And, even better, hop on iTunes and copy everything over to the new phone.
He’d been slobberingly grateful, which he expressed at the top of his lungs once he’d climbed down. She’d then sensibly/ruthlessly pointed out that he could have had a phone much sooner if he’d just opted for a cheap burner, and he’d retorted that even the poverty-stricken liked iPhones, and two days of manual labor and two of sporadic vomiting wasn’t the end of the world, and was she going to criticize how he spent all his money, or just when he used his money for phones?
Then the three of them sulked for a few minutes. (He had no idea why Lillith was sulking, but couldn’t ask because it meant breaking his own sulk.)
Back in the room, he’d plugged it in—how much joy the little things brought!—and Delaney watched like a hawk while he used her laptop. “What have you got on here, launch codes? Jesus, I can actually feel your hot breath on the back of my neck. That wasn’t a criticism!” he added as she backed off.
Then, as the thing slowly charged, it began to wake up …
(“It’s aliiiiiive!”
“You have no filter, do you? If it pops into your brain, it pops out of your mouth.”)
… and began rattling and chiming like it was trying to self-destruct.
“So many texts,” Delaney commented with a smirk. “The ladies must be missing you.”
He flushed, then was annoyed he flushed. He owed Delaney exactly zero explanations for his lifestyle. Besides, it wasn’t like he was some careless lothario—that’s what Blake called him, right, lothario?—who only cared about hooking up.
Oh, wait. I am some careless lothario who only cares about hooking up. Though I never mind if they stay for breakfast. Or want to come back after lunch. Oh, fuck it. “Well, if the ladies are missing me, Ms. Snoopy Pants, it’s no concern of yours. Also I need to download my ‘forever unclean!’ ringtone from The League.”
“It’s odd. I understand the words, but none of the context. How can you be fluent in six languages besides your own?”
“You and my brother would hit it right off,” he snapped back, even as the thought came to him.
(Blake’s hands, which looked like his but weren’t, on her ass; Blake’s mouth, which looked like his but wasn’t, on her lips, Blake’s dick no no no make it staaaawwwpppp!)
He shook himself, but, luckily, Delaney was used to it by now; it didn’t even muster a smirk. And God, when did he last get laid, anyway? Not once while he was in Italy, but definitely in—London? Near London? Somewhere that reminded him of London?
No. Paris. Three days before the flight to Milan, Carol Kennedy had met him in the lobby of Le Bristol, and they’d gorged on strawberries and truffles and ice-cold champagne (he didn’t like champagne or strawberries, but it’s what the babes like, and Rake Tarbell goes along with what the babes like), and they’d started in the impossibly long tub (strawberry seeds got in the weirdest places), and finished by bending her over the glass-topped desk in the other room. She’d been getting over a cold and kept sneezing at, um, inopportune times. Then she’d dressed, polished off the last of the fruit, waved
(waved?)
and disappeared into the mysterious Parisian spring night, which, in this case, had been Serge Lutens at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
That … that wasn’t good.
That really wasn’t good. Because standing in line at a FedEx hub, fully clothed and having a sex-free chat with Delaney while Lillith darted off to use the loo had been more fun than rich-guy banging at the Bristol with a former Miss New York who loved doing mouth and butt stuff.
Butt stuff, Rake? Really?
Shut up. I just need to get laid. I need to get ahold of Blake, get my money, do something nice for Delaney, and then get laid. I’ll feel better then. I’ll be back to myself then.
Yes, but is getting back to yourself what you—
“Shut up!”
“Are you yelling at your inner voice again?”
“No,” he grumped.
“Your pants are on fire, you liar liar.” And God, it sounded affectionate. Like when a normal woman would say “You’re so cute!” Wait, did he want a normal woman? No, he wanted Delaney. Wait, what? Wait.
What?
And now, in the midst of many weird feelings, Blake was sending him the mother of all texts. And/or had lost his mind.
You’ll recall we felt the best way to assist Mom would be to pay off the bank holding all the paper. This solved the immediate problem, but as a long-term tactic it was brought to my attention that it will prove to be a disaster. And so, though we are equally culpable in our mother’s perceived crimes against Sweetheart, I am the only one exiled. Because you are terrible.
Wait, what? Crimes against whose sweetheart? Paying off what banks? Was that why there was a money mix-up? Did Blake and/or Mom send the wrong money from the wrong account somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go? And why the hell had Blake brought up the nuclear option? They had a deal: Rake could joke about everything except the nuclear option, and Blake could bring up any topic except the nuclear option. Okay, not really a deal. A general understanding they usually stuck to while not acknowledging that’s what they were doing.
“Trouble?” Delaney sounded tense but was sitting like she always did: straight, shoulders back, comfortably alert. Like she could scope Cracked.com’s Five Villains Who Went Out of Their Way to Screw Their Own Plan, or leap out of the chair and stuff a hundred Easter baskets in under twenty, or nail an intruder in the ’nads. “Everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubbed his fingers through his clean but unadorned hair—soon he’d be able to buy product! Not that he used it. He just loved knowing he had the option of buying it. Lord, let me never be bald. “I haven’t talked to Blake in—uh, what month is it?”
“May.” This with barely veiled amusement.
“Don’t you give me that look,” he ordered. “People forget what month it is all the time.”
“They don’t, though.”
“Anyway, Ms. Asks a Question Then Changes the Subject, it’s been several weeks. See, our mom…” He trailed off. “Aw, you don’t want to hear it.”
She’d closed her laptop by now, the one with the absurdly long password that was at least twenty characters, including I and H and Y, and was giving him her full attention. She even scooted the desk chair closer to him. “I do, though.”
Damned if she didn’t seem sincere. “It’s rich-people stuff,” he warned.
She took a deep breath and leveled her steady gray gaze at him. “I can take it.”
He snorted. “Okay, the thing is, my mom’s been on her own longer than I’ve been alive. But a few weeks ago, she heard from her hometown, Sweetheart, North Dakota. And…”