Danger, Sweetheart (18 page)

“I'm warming up to you a bit,” she couldn't help pointing out. “I don't spit on your shadow anymore.”

He looked wry. “From such small things dynasties spring. Regardless, I'd like to take you out to dinner.”

“Why?”

He nodded as if expecting her question. Like tall, broad-shouldered rich studs asked her to dinner all the time and what made
him
so special? She had to swallow a snort; what a world that would be. “So we can discuss—”

“Because you're in it every day, I gotta give it to you. We were just talking about it. But it's only been— What? Two and a half weeks?”

“Seventeen days, thirteen hours.”

She groaned. “See, that's the sort of thing that pisses me off. This isn't a prison sentence, you big goober.” When he didn't reply, she added, “It's not! Okay, maybe you can't help thinking of it like that. But that's the thinking that got you stuck here in the first place, right? So what's there to discuss?”

“Anything. Everything.”

Flattery was being replaced by glum anger. Slumming. That's what this was. He knew he wouldn't be here forever. He knew
she
knew that. But hey, make time with a local, maybe get some NoDak nooky, while away the hours until it was time to run back to Vegas.

“We can discuss anything you like,” he was saying, and then she lost it.

“Discuss what?” She was dumb enough to again be warmed by his interest, and stomped the warmth until it went away. “Your big plans for the farm you don't give a shit about? How you don't want to be here, but Mommy's making you? How the second you and your mom make up you're on the next flight to Vegas?”

“Actually, I'd take the train again; it was quite nice,” he replied absently. Then: “I'm confused.”

She snorted. “Got
that
right.”

“Are you angry because—”

“Oh, boy, I hope you cleared your afternoon. Because I've got a list.”

He shuddered a little. “No doubt.” They were at the kitchen door. The windows were open; it had been a mild day in the low seventies, no need for the air conditioner. The relative silence made for an excellent warning system: they could hear shouting and chairs being shoved around.

“Deuces
aren't
wild! They're never wild! I made that rule in 2009, for God's sake!”

“Except when we're doing Texas Hold 'Em! I made
that
rule in 2007!”

“Dear God, no,” Blake gasped, freezing in place even as he reached for the screen door handle. “Not the addendum to the Deuces Wild Incident of 2013?”

“They were playing each other online,” she sighed, “and only realized it about five minutes ago.”

He nodded once, decisive. “We'll flee.” Without discussing it, they started to circle around to the front porch. “We were discussing the reason for your dislike.”

“We were discussing the fact that it's a huge long list and you're not the only one on it.”

“Oh, I don't doubt it.” He chuckled. “Though how anyone besides me would be foolish enough to get on your bad side I cannot comprehend.”

“Aww. That's sweet.” It was!

“You could so easily end any of us where we stand. If you were a boa constrictor, your jaw would already be unhinged in preparation.”

She swallowed a groan. “Did you really just compare me to a goddamn snake?”

“It's an apex predator,” he replied, sounding
wounded
of all things. She squashed the urge to apologize, and was beginning to realize that was his thing. He'd make an absent comment that was the nicest thing ever, then immediately follow it up with something annoying.

“Do you dislike me because I'm not from here—”

“Maybe I dislike you because you compare me to predatory snakes!”

“No, I only just did that, and your animosity has been directed toward me for several days. So is it because I'm not from Sweetheart? Or North Dakota?”

“Naw. The gal who runs the bait shop/singles center—”

“Bait Mate?”

“That's the one.” Things that worked in other places weren't always suited to Sweetheart singles. Wine tastings were considered a waste of time when both town bars had adequate selections. There wasn't a sports bar, because the North Dakota Wizards left for Santa Cruz in 2012, they didn't have a team in the NHL, and nobody gave a shit about curling. Movie dates? Nobody wanted to drive an hour and forty-five minutes to see the latest
Transformers
explode-a-thon. And Starbucks had been run out of town within six months, nine out of ten residents refusing to pay eight dollars for a cup of coffee, no matter how dramatically sweetened or mixed or whipped or frozen.

But there were lots of fishermen/women in town, and a lot of them hooked up at the bait shop (pardon
le pun
). You could pick up a bag of smelt and get a date for the fishing opener at the same place.

“Yeah, her—she was from Atlanta and everyone liked her. Except Garrett Hobbes, but you know: Garrett.”

“Then is it because I don't wish to be here?”

“Don't flatter yourself. Kevin Sumner showed up to survey the place when they were figuring out where the new highway would go, and he never did get around to leaving. And everyone liked him, too—you should have seen all the locals at his funeral!”

Blake doggedly continued; she had to admire it. Or be terrified of it. “Or because my mother has frozen my assets?”

“Leave your mother out— Wait, what?”
This
was news. “You're not rich?”

“No. Nor is my brother; our mother controls the family's wealth.”

“But … you … I heard your father—”
Wait. Wait. Calm down. There's an explanation. If he didn't have money, he couldn't have signed off on the paperwork I saw.
Ergo,
he has money.

“Yes, the money is from my father's side, but he died when my brother and I were minors.”

“Sorry.” A knee-jerk social platitude, she knew, but it was true; she was sorry. She couldn't imagine her life if her father had died when she was a kid. Her earliest memory was of helping her father with one of his many experiments; their kitchen had as many Erlenmeyer flasks as forks. He still lived in the house where she'd grown up, and there were pictures of her late mother in every room, including the bathroom and basement laundry room. “That must have sucked.” She instantly cursed herself for channeling a seventeen-year-old girl.
Must have sucked? Really, Nat?

“The sucking was not as encompassing as you might assume.” Blake shrugged. “I never knew the man, though I understand he's a lot like Rake, so I don't actually mind not knowing him, because Rake is terrible.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Blake was almost pathologically obsessed with his brother's terribleness. It was at least as troubling as men who were obsessed with their mothers. Which Blake might also be. “Talk about the money more, please.”

They had reached the front by then, and he held the door for her as they went inside. “My grandmother didn't know about us until the reading of his will, and sought us out to both make our acquaintance as well as inform my mother she would be the trustee of his estate.”

“Okay.” Deep breath in, deep breath out.
There's money. Somewhere, anyway.
“So. Then?”

“Mom has always been generous until, ahem, recent events. She'd never tried to control how or what we spent, but legally she always had the option. She is now exercising it.” This last on a note so dry it could have smoked trout.

Natalie rubbed her forehead, willing back the instant headache. Nothing. This had all been for nothing. She'd been trying to figure out how to make Vegas Douche save Heartbreak when she “should have been working on Shannah Banana.”

“Shannah who?”

Horrified, Natalie looked up into his dark blue eyes, now wide with stunned surprise. “Oh my God. That was out loud? I'm so sorry. I was thinking too hard.”

“Nonsense, you were thinking just right.”

She groaned and clutched at his forearm. He stiffened but didn't pull away. “Please
please
don't tell Ms. Banaan I ever
ever
called her that. She hates it; the whole family hates it; she put Garrett in the hospital over it; now let us never speak of this again.”

“Nonsense!” He was as happy as she'd ever seen him, and it completely changed his face.
God, what a smile.
“It's brilliant; you're a genius. And henceforth Mom shall be known to me only as Shannah Banana.”

“No!”

“Don't worry; it will remain our dirty secret.” His grin was getting downright predatory, which was doing delicious and unwelcome things to her midsection.
Imagine him naked. Looking at you like that. Like he could eat … you … up … ummm …

“If you do this,” she said, trying for stern but whining instead, “then you're the terrible one. Not your brother.”

The grin fell away as if slapped off. “Do
not
say something you can't take back, Natalie,” he warned. And why was that
hotter,
for God's sake? “Now where is my phone? The taunting must start at once.”

No! What have I done? Time to leave town. Never thought I'd go unless someone stuck a shotgun barrel between my shoulder blades, but the alternative is a peeved Banaan.

Blake had by now darted up the stairs to the loft, Natalie plodding behind him. He all but lunged at his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. “Oh, Natalie, lovely Natalie,” he said cheerfully, waiting for the call to connect. “I shall buy you a new pair of gloves and perhaps also a collinear hoe.”

“Thanks, but I got one for my birthday.” Impressed in spite of her blossoming terror, Natalie reminded herself that two weeks ago Blake wouldn't have known a collinear hoe from a hula hoe, like some loser. “You've been paying attention.”

“Of course, I pay attention to everything you—damn. Voice mail. This is too good to leave on a soulless recording. I'll save it. Yes. Excellent.”

Then he scampered—scampered!—across the loft and swept her up in an exuberant hug, spinning her around and giving her a noseful of sunshine and cotton and dirt, all underlaid with the clean sweat of exertion.

She almost kissed him.

Days later, dialing for the ambulance she knew wouldn't make it, she wished she had.

 

Twenty-three

Finally,
finally
Rake began responding to his hexts and voice mails. Blake had dropped off to sleep savoring two wonderful memories: his mother's nickname and getting Natalie Lane in his arms for seven seconds. Given how alarmed she looked when he'd hugged her, it would likely be the last time he did, and he planned to treasure the memory.
Probably for the rest of my life. The farm foreman who got away.
His mother's nickname, on the other hand, he would use again and again, and he planned to treasure that as well.

He had also made up his mind about the nuclear option and decided it was past time to turn his key. He disliked the holding pattern he was in, and the nuclear option, while extreme, promised to put an end to it. Just as well Rake chose today to get back to him; he would need to be warned. As annoying as Rake was, even he didn't deserve to go into such a situation blind.

Blake's last thought as he dropped off was,
Natalie's hair smells like cherry blossoms, which is impossible. I wonder where she buys her shampzzzzzzzzz …

Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed, making everything on the beside table tremble, and he groped for it. A squint at the time told him it had been eight hours, not thirty seconds. He'd never slept so well or so long in his life. For the sixty million Americans who suffered from insomnia, Heartbreak was the certain cure. Side effects: sore muscles, blisters, suntans, pony sitting, unrequited crushes.

Christ Blake I thought my phone was going to blow up what's going on with you I mean jeez?

Blake snorted. Of course. He should have realized.
Did you lose another phone, idiot?

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.

Only your phone auto-corrects communications. See? Mine didn't. Where are you?

If you'd listened to any of your voice mails, you'd know.

And if you had a Facebook page like a real live boy, I'd also know. Where?

The fifth circle of Hell.

You're back in Vegas?

No. The real Hell. Actual Hell.

What are you doing in L.A.?

Having an incredibly irritating text chat with my twin.

Because I'm terrible? People have told me you think I'm terrible. Personally I don't see it.

Enough of this. Blake stopped texting and called.

“Dude!” Rake picked up immediately, in mid-yawn from the sound of it. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“No,” was Blake's truthful answer.

“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.”

“I cannot help you.” Rake could be anywhere. Staten Island. Rome. London. Walmart. “And you're a grown man who's nearly thirty; stop using ‘dude.' Where are you?”

“Venice, I'm pretty sure.”

Blake rolled out of bed and stretched, watching the sun come up while clutching the phone in his other hand. He instantly loosened his grip; his hands were sore. “Pretty sure? Even for you, that's odd.”