The Love Scam - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,14

a hundred times longer than usual without his apps. You’re putting your name and password into a stranger’s phone, moron. Yes. He was. Whatever. He’d move everything but a thousand bucks, fuck it, let the kid take it. He’d never miss it.

Except.

“Fuck!”

The kid laughed at him. Rake supposed he couldn’t blame him. If it had been happening to someone else, he probably would have laughed, too. Or at least giggled.

The good news? No need to worry about being robbed when someone’s already taken all your money.

Ten

I might be in real trouble.

The thought had little weight. It was more like an intellectual puzzle, a mental Rubik’s Cube. He felt faint concern

(how am I going to figure this out?)

and sometimes his brain got stuck in a confused loop

(the money’s gone? the money’s gone? the money’s gone?)

and Lillith kept intruding

(what am I doing with this kid?)

but that was all. Like he was watching a movie. A great movie with a handsome yet cool star everybody rooted for, including him. Go, Team Rake! Was it because he was normally a cool customer, unmoved by the ups and downs of life? Someone who kept his head no matter what was going on, and thus could tackle any problem that came his way with collected, quick confidence?

Nope; that was Blake. Rake tended to roll with the punches (or drunken Lake Como shenanigans). Even now he kept thinking, I’ll just grab my credit card and— No I won’t. I can just use my phone to— No I can’t. I’ve got enough cash left to—No I don’t. His brain, used to using money to solve everything since he was a teenager, was having trouble keeping up with current events: There were no cards. There was no money. There was a kid, though. For some ungodly reason.

He explained this to Lillith, who was heroically unperturbed. “I told you,” she said. “I have money.”

“I’m not taking your babysitting money, hon.”

“I’m too young to babysit.”

“And I’m too old to take a loan from a kid.”

“Possible daughter,” she corrected politely.

He bit back a groan, found them a small bench in the Giardinetti Reali, and tried to think of his next move, tried to think past the drumbeat of your money’s gone your money’s gone your money’s gone, tried to squash the panic.

Okay. First. It probably wasn’t gone. His bank was half a planet away; it was likely an electronic snafu, or their system was down, or something that was completely explainable during business hours—what time was it in Las Vegas, anyway?

Whatever the problem was, he was worth about twenty million, and that much money doesn’t just disappear overnight, not for real. If nothing else, his mother and/or Blake would have warned him, since their names were on all the paperwork, too: When his father had died playing 9 1/2 Weeks foodie sex games with his cutie of the month,* their mother had overseen the trust until he and Blake came of age, and now they all shared the fortune. They weren’t all broke, ergo Rake wasn’t broke. Not for real. Not—y’know—permanently.

But what to do in the meantime? Borrow another phone (and oh God what fun that would be) and reach out to Blake for help?

Except Blake was one of the seven people in America who didn’t do Facebook. At all. Not even ironically. He barely did email; he sure as shit didn’t tweet. He preferred phone calls and—yeesh!—snail mail, and he’d only started texting two years ago, the goddamned Luddite. Thought social media “encapsulated all the ills of the world” and wanted nothing to do with it.

Okay, then: Mom.

Except his mother was stuck in Sweetheart, North Dakota. Yeah, he was stuck, too, but he wasn’t stuck somewhere that sounded like a place you were sent if you lost a bet, somewhere they’d outlawed dancing in the fifties, and where there was only one streetlight. She had problems of her own—boy, did she!—and he sure as shit wasn’t going to add to them. Was this selflessness? Or just the pure natural instinct of a grown man not wanting his mommy to know he was in such a weird dumb mess?

Hey, Mom, you know how I only call you when I need something, and maybe on your birthday? Listen, sorry you’re hip-deep in family problems, here’s another one: Someone stole all my money and I’m stuck in Venice. That’s Italy, not California. Come get me, Mommy? Bring cash and Snickers. Yeah, that was a whole world of no. Also, you’re maybe a grandma! Some