Danger, Sweetheart (5 page)

“Sure.”

While pleased by his brother's unexpected attack of sense and cooperation, Blake paused and, because he was a masochist, asked, “So when would that be, exactly?”

A shrug of leather-clad shoulders. “Fifteen minutes early to work out the script. Say quarter to ten?”

“She is trapped in the Central Time Zone, Rake.”

“Right. Center means more toward the middle. Noon is the middle. So she's two hours closer to the middle: ten
A.M.
”

“I don't understand.” As Rake opened his mouth to explain more of his demented logic, Blake continued. “You have a high school diploma. You have a college degree. You're a polymath.”

“Not anymore. The doctor gave me some antibiotics and it cleared right up.”

“Very funny.” Argh, his jaw hurt. Forcing words past clenched teeth was harder than it looked. “You are not a complete imbecile.”

“Awwww. So sweet!”

“How do you not understand how time zones work?”

“Christ, Blake, will you back off my dumbassery for once?”

“But it's so fascinating. Like studying a new mold spore no one knew existed.”

“Aw, jeez.” Rake had forgotten his bruise and rubbed his eyes with a wince. “Just tell me what time to be at your place.”

“Five forty-five.” To be certain, he added, “In the morning. Tomorrow morning. Morning is the opposite of evening. Not today. Tomorrow.”

“What?” Rake straightened and the motorcycle jacket was just a hair too big, so he looked like a horrified turtle popping out of its shell. “But I'll have just gone to bed!”

“So assist me with our mother, and
then
go to bed!” Blake snapped. “It's not rocket science!”

“You're just saying that because you studied rocket science! You're forever running around telling people this isn't rocket science, that's not rocket science. Nobody elected you the namer of things rocket science!” A pause. “What's wrong? Why is your face doing that?”

“I have no idea. I can't see my face.” He swallowed another sigh. “Either I'm getting a headache or my brain is trying to eject from my skull in pure self-defense.”

“Bummer! Need some Advil?”

“Advil,” he said, rubbing his temples, “is not what I need.” He glanced at his brother's face, then away. “You all right?”

Rake shrugged, then indicated the puffy flesh beneath his eye, which had swelled slightly smaller than a Ping-Pong ball and displayed an impressive range of green bruising. “It's just sore.”

“I assume whatever damsel you rescued was appropriately grateful?”

Another shrug. “I dunno. Never got the chance to ask. I saw a couple of assholes harassing the kiddo, and when I rolled up one had her purse and the other was about to have her. So … you know.”

He did know. Rake had their mother's quick temper, as well as an inability to tolerate an unfair fight. When they were eleven, he'd grabbed a Wiffle ball bat and rushed to defend a classmate trying to hold her own against two high school students from the next trailer park. If it had been a real bat, he might have killed them. As it was, both boys had odd Wiffle-shaped welts all over their backs and legs and fled, yelping, never to be seen again. Because Rake was terrible, but most people were even worse.

“She took off before I could make sure she was okay. The way she was moving, she was probably okay.”

“If you're going to let people smack you, you might at least tend properly to the injury.” He waved the waitress over. “Could I get a clean washcloth and—”

“Blake—”

“—a bowl of water? And some ice?”

“First off, they're not bringing you bowls of water and cloths. This is not business class on a flight to Tokyo. Second, this happened two days ago. Anything you do now will be window dressing.”

“And some duct tape for my brother's mouth,” he finished, then turned to Rake. “If you sit still and take care of this, I'll schedule the call to Mom for an hour later, so you can get a nap first.”

“Awwww. You
do
care!”

“Shut up.”

“I feel safer already.”

“Stop talking.”

“Such big, strong arms! To go with your big, strong feet!”

“I hope you get blood poisoning and die.”

“No, you don't.” Rake was positively radiating smugness. It was as sickening as it was (slightly, very slightly) amusing.

“No,” Blake sighed, waiting for the bowl and the ice and the cloth, “I don't.”

 

Five

Amtrak wasn't horrible.

Blake had expected to dislike a twenty-hour train ride through the vanilla-bland Midwest. Instead he had been pleasantly surprised; the countryside was beautiful, the food wasn't dreadful, and the sleeper cars were equal parts efficient and interesting.

After a pleasant night, he felt refreshed and ready to solve problems as the train slid into the station. He pulled down a bag for the thirtysomething redhead in the seat opposite his and automatically flirted back when she made appreciative noises. He counted the freckles sprayed across her nose while they chatted, and instantly thought of many more uses for a sleeper car. The slow glide, the gentle rocking back and forth while the cars wound their way through the countryside as he figured out where to touch and when, and how gently or … not gently. He walked with her off the train and bid her farewell, not a little reluctantly.

Business first,
he reminded himself as he found himself in Sweetheart, North Dakota.

Well, not exactly. Amtrak didn't go to Sweetheart, but the good people at Enterprise understood and were happy to rent him a sober, sensible vehicle with excellent gas mileage.

Well, not exactly.

“I don't understand.” It was an hour later, and he was in a near-empty parking lot with an unstable stranger. He eyed the thing he was expected to drive with no small amount of trepidation. “This is not a car.”

“Technically,” the unstable stranger agreed, “that's correct. It's a truck. A Supertruck!”

The thing that wasn't a car was the largest vehicle he had seen outside of a Greyhound bus. Tall (
very
tall; he would have to stretch to reach the handle)) and long (
very
long; he had never seen a truck with a four-door cab before), it was deep blue with a pattern of waves streaking the paint all along the side. On purpose, apparently, and doubtless to give observers the impression that, even parked, the Supertruck was a vehicle to be reckoned with.

“You promised to rent me a car and I promised not to destroy it.” He dragged his horrified gaze from the Supertruck to look at the woman foisting said Supertruck on him. “Those were the terms of the contract we just signed. This”—he pointed, since she didn't seem to be getting it—“is not a car.”

“I thought you might like to take advantage of our free upgrade,” the out-of-college-maybe-a-month agent explained cheerfully, her “Hi, I'm Dara!” name tag twinkling in the early-morning sun. Despite her extreme youth, Blake was seriously considering seducing her solely to get a car upgrade (downgrade?). He ought to be ashamed. He tried not to be so coldhearted about his bedroom trysts. It was something Rake would have done (he'd once seduced the manager of the local fried chicken eatery for free wings, and when Blake pointed out he was whoring himself for chicken Rake just laughed at him). “And look! There's a little bitty ladder, right here, to help you climb in.”

Blake eyed the little bitty ladder with trepidation. “The wheels come up almost to my thighs.”

“I know, right? Isn't it the best?”

“No.” He took a slow step back from the vehicle. It would never due to appear as if he was fleeing. He must not show fear! “I'd like a car now, please.”

“Look, I can't.” The overly cheerful attitude vanished, and in its place was an overly harassed attitude. “The Great Outdoors Band is in town and this is all I've got.”

“Who? Never mind. Would you like to get a drink somewhere?”

“It's nine
A.M.
”

“I'm aware of the time,” he replied grimly. “Listen, Dara, it doesn't have to be drinks; I happen to be—”
Stop. Stop, you heinous douche! Were you really about to blurt,
I'm a big-city millionaire and not exactly hard on the eyes, please let me make love to you so I can drive a sedan
? Wow, stay classy, Blake.
He hated when his internal voice sounded like Rake. He forced a cough and tried again. “The thing is, this, ah, vehicle isn't—”

“And I didn't charge you extra for the upgrade.”

“I would hope not.“Then: “It's
not
an upgrade.”

“You should definitely gas up at least twice before you get there.”

He gaped at her, impressed yet annoyed that a young woman barely of drinking age (if that) was dominating him so completely.
Once more unto the breach.
“Listen, forget about drinks. It may be possible you don't understand what a contract is, so I'm going to take you through ours, step-by-step, until—”

“Enjoy!” Exit Dara. Cue the agony of defeat.

He sighed and tugged on the door handle, which was almost nipple high, then put a foot on the ladder and heaved himself inside. The Supertruck swallowed him and he managed to yank the door shut with a grunt. At once he felt like he was on top of the planet, staring down at everything else on earth. Was this how God felt? Did God, in fact, drive a Supertruck? Per the contract, which had been crumpled in his fist during his Dara wrangling, “Supertruck” wasn't a description; it was what the thing was called. One word. He shuddered; he couldn't help it.

Never mind. He and the Supertruck had work to do. He started it, then began to familiarize himself with the instruments. Thanks to trysts with Ava, he'd seen the cockpit of an airplane, and the Supertruck's was bewilderingly close to that. He leaned across the wide seat and managed—barely—to open the glove compartment and extract the manual. A quick skim, some prudent test-driving, and he would be in Sweetheart in no time. By lunch, at the latest.

Fear not, Mom! The Supertruck and I are here to help. Now then, I can skip the index, I think, since time may be of the essence.… Chapter One: “Understanding Your Supertruck” …

*   *   *

The countryside was impressive. What little he had heard or read about the Midwest had left him with the impression that it was like a desert with grass and trees and very few people. Except in North Dakota, where there was only grass.

Patently untrue. Grass, yes, trees, yes, even hills. Farms and small towns and big cities, trains and trucks and commuters and kids. The third time he had to stop for gas, he asked the attendant what the huge building shaped exactly like a carton of milk was. He got an eloquent look (
How dumb are you, exactly?
) and a reply (“Grain elevator.”) that wasn't as helpful as the attendant no doubt believed. Still, the thought of a three-story carton of milk stuffed with grain was almost enough to make him chuckle.

In short, he was pleasantly surprised by not only the abundance of greenery and farms but also the wildlife. He had never seen so much roadkill in his life. Deer, raccoons, skunks, possums, and once even a beaver: all were easy prey to cars and Supertrucks. He had slowed to observe a bald eagle with a six-foot wing span perched atop a dead fawn, enjoying breakfast.
I have no idea how to feel about this. It's my first live bald eagle. Majestic bird! But it's devouring a dead baby deer. Revolting bird!

And in this way

(someone hit a beaver? beaver, why were you even trying to cross the road? the lake is right behind you!)

the time whipped by. He was almost sorry to pass the
Welcome to Danger, Sweetheart!
sign.

He knew his mother was staying at the UR A Sweetheart! bed-and-breakfast (
ugh
), and the fact that she had family in town yet wasn't welcome to stay with any of
them
would be addressed later, when he was sure he wouldn't smack anyone.

Thoughts of vengeance, however juvenile (“You were mean to my mommy”!), were for another time. Meanwhile, thanks to the good people at Google Maps, he found his mother's temporary home in no time, a three-story rambling white Victorian perched on the east end of town.

The outside of the B and B was standard, the de rigueur white with black roof and shutters to be expected. He was surprised it was so long—the few Victorians he had seen were tall, not wide. The UR A Sweetheart! (yes, complete with exclamation point) B and B was exceedingly wide, almost fat.

He also hadn't expected the sight of people in various somber-colored suits bustling back and forth. Some sort of fancy business-dress family reunion? Was the B and B under audit?

One young woman in particular caught his gaze—though from this height ants could conceivably catch his gaze—because she wasn't scurrying like the others. She was lurching like Frankenstein's monster. It took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing: she was staggering under a load of manila folders, each bulging with breeze-caught papers fluttering. She had caught her sensible heel on something and was trying not to pitch forward and be doomed to spending the rest of the week catching and refiling at least two reams' worth of minutiae.

Anxious to prove chivalry wasn't just a collective hallucination from centuries back, he lunged for the door and leaped out. Well, not really. He fell out, forgetting he was driving a vehicle that required the use of a ladder to embark and disembark. The fall was so high that if he had planned he would have had time to do a full somersault on the way down. As it was, it was only high enough for him to do an unplanned half somersault.

He felt the air leave his lungs in an explosive gasp, and everything from his shoulders to his knees went numb. “My coccyx,” he groaned, staring up at the gorgeous midwestern sky. He had the vague suspicion the clouds were laughing at him. They sounded like Rake. A chorus of cumulous Rakes.