Page 62 of The Love Scam
“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 theleastinteresting 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 troubleyou’rein.”
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’tworking 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 forthat.
“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 poorlythan 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 wordterriblea 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 itwasn’tterrible?”
His twin let out a sigh/groan hybrid. “Sheis 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.”
