“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’t working 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 for that.
“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 poorly than 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 word terrible a 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 it wasn’t terrible?”
His twin let out a sigh/groan hybrid. “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,” he sniffed.
“And effective! Tell the truth, you haven’t gotten any farm tail, have you?”
A growl. “You are terrible.”
“Old news, big brother, and answer the question.”
There was a long, telling pause
Knew it! He’s not getting any!
and then: “I don’t deny having infrequent intercourse of late.”
“Knew it! That’s always Blakese for ‘major dry spell.’”
“By choice!” his so-horny-it-had-driven-him-clinically-insane brother protested. “I’ve been trapped on the desolate prairie, and the opportunities for intercourse have been rare.”
Brrrr. Where to even start with this? “Okay, first thing, maybe you’d have more frequent intercourse if you stopped referring to it as intercourse.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Hmmm.”
“Stop that.”
Got it. It’s not that he hasn’t been laid. It’s that he wants to get laid by someone in particular, and she’s not into it. “There’s a girl, isn’t there?”
“Of course not.”
Rake made a face. “Ugh, fine, a woman, there’s a woman stuck on the prairie with you.”
“There are”—ah, the familiar sound of Blake evading—“several. Of course I’m not interested in all of them, just Natalie Lane.”
Got him! “You’re sooooo easy,” Rake chortled. Delaney had noticed in a day and a half that people told him things they meant to keep to themselves. Blake had known that for decades but still made that same mistake. “So talk about Natalie Lame.”
“Lane, you imbecile,” Blake hissed. “And she’s wonderful. Smart and driven and fierce.”
That gave him pause. He’d never heard Blake use those three words in any sentence ever, much less in any sentence describing a potential romantic partner. Could it be? Was his big brother falling in love?
That … would be so cool. Like, the best thing ever. Teasing Blake about dying alone was one thing, but Rake had never actually wanted him to, y’know, die alone. But better not let him figure that out. Not yet, anyway. “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.”
Rake waited.
“And she has a lovely face. She’s Irish and Native American”—a goofy sigh while Rake tried to build a mental Etch A Sketch of this Natalie Lame person—“and has wonderful blue eyes and gorgeous cheekbones.”
“Nice.” Speaking of wonderful eyes, Delaney had a pair! But he wouldn’t discuss that now. Delaney was his sigh-inducing lady, thanks very much; Blake could stick with what’s-her-face with the cheekbones.
“She’s kind,” Blake agreed, “but she doesn’t think she’s kind. And she loathes me, of course.”
Rake, who had been scrunching into the pillows to get more comfortable, sat up so fast, he nearly tumbled off the edge. “What, ‘of course’?” Not this shit again! Blake was the worst, but that didn’t mean he was actually the worst. “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, slutty stick-in-the-mud like you is, screw her.”
“Thank you.” Rake could actually hear his twin smiling into the phone. “She sees me as an apathetic interloper who has contempt for her way of life, and she’s not entirely wrong.”
Fuck that. Fuck that twice. And with extreme prejudice. “You’re too hard on yourself.” Then, lest Blake think he was going soft, he added, “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.”
This again. His brother, who had once taken on three bikers and an elementary school teacher at a Vegas indoor BBQ, was terrified to put himself out there when it came to anything beyond getting laid. “Um, I dunno, because you like her?” Dumbass? “And she’d like you if you unclenched long enough?” Dumbass. “And it’ll make your prairie sentence go a little faster?” Dumbass! Then, lest he scare the guy away from it: “You don’t have to marry her, for God’s sake.”