No! I know right where it is, it’s still at the bottom of the canal so now who’s the idiot?
Canal? Never mind. Thank you for eventually acknowledging my dozens of communiqués.
Ugh. Blake texted just like he talked: like no one from this century.
Only YOUR phone autocorrects communications. See? Mine didn’t. Where are you?
If you’d listened to any of your voice mails, you’d know.
Rake snorted.
And if you had a Facebook page like a real live boy, I’d also know. Where?
The fifth circle of Hell.
He reread the text, troubled. Blake didn’t just say things; there was always a double or triple meaning. If he was comparing something to Hell, that meant he was in the middle of something truly awful. Shit. Blake was supposed to help him, not the other way around.
So let’s see, since Blake loved to be literal, where was Hell? Or, more important, where did Blake think was Hell?
You’re back in Vegas?
No. The real Hell. Actual Hell.
Even more puzzling! But at least that narrowed it down a little.
What are you doing in L.A.?
Having an incredibly irritating text chat with my twin.
Ha! That was more like it. For a second, he’d been worried. He glanced up and saw Delaney watching with a tense expression. “It’s okay,” he told her, “he’s okay.” Supersweet of her to worry, though. Maybe he should be milking this. He affected a scowl as he texted.
Because I’m terrible? People have told me you think I’m terrible. Personally I don’t see it.
“That’ll get him,” he chortled to Delaney, who managed a small smile. “Hey. Are you okay? You seem kind of— Ha!” He showed her the phone, which had started chiming. “Blake hates talking to me on the phone. Hates it. Whatever’s he’s up to, it’s gotta be bugging the shit out of him, or he’d never call after a tiny text war like that.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She looked away as he got ready to answer.
Would it be crass to ask her out before he got his money back, or a few hours from now, when he’d be rich again? Because even though he’d soon be back to being able to afford any hotel in the city, he had no intention of just disappearing from her life. Though, in fairness, it’d be more like she’d disappear from his. And, worse, Lillith would. He’d never in his life met people more rootless (root-free? sans roots?) than himself.
It was exhilarating, and a little disconcerting. One thing was for sure, though: Pretty soon his troubles would be over.
Thirty-three
“Dude! Do you know what time it is here?”
“No,” came Blake’s answer, and it was always weird to hear his own voice on the other end. They were nothing alike, except in looks, mannerisms, voice, and love for their mom.
Time to tease. “Damn. 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.”
An exasperated sigh from Blake’s end; Rake grinned. “I cannot help you. And you’re a grown man who’s nearly thirty, stop using dude. Where are you?”
“Venice.”
“But you loathe California.”
“No, the other one.” Rake wasn’t quite the careless playboy Blake assumed, but it was fun, sometimes, pretending he was, and so he stuck it to him a little. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure? Even for you, that’s odd.”
Annnnd now to really jam it. “Venice is the one with canals instead of streets, right? And people speak Italian? And the Italian food is really good? And there’s gelato all over the place?”
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.