Sidekick (3 page)

I should have gone for an escape when I had the chance. I shuffled even further behind the plant. I could tell the Sultana was losing the little
it
she had left. Things were about to go very bad.

“Was it you?” the Sultana shouted, standing over a teenaged girl clutching hands with her boyfriend.

The girl cringed. The Sultana waited for a moment then spun in a different direction.

“Or was it you?” she said to a woman with ice-blonde hair who looked like she had just finished a martini lunch with her besties.

Then she spun again, this time in the direction of the older lady. She walked slowly towards her, heeled boots clicking loudly on the marble floor. She stopped in front of the old woman’s head.

“Or was it you?” she asked softly.

The old woman still lay on the floor like everyone else, but she had her face craned so that she could look the cracked tattoo lady directly in the eyes.

“Why won’t you answer me?” the Sultana purred, tilting her head. “Are you frightened?”

The old woman said nothing, but stared back with the defiance of a Chihuahua guarding a couch.

“Where’s your Dark Ryder now?” the Sultana asked.

Suddenly she straightened and snapped her fingers again.

The contortionist rolled towards her and passed her a gun. I couldn’t help but wonder where she’d had that hidden.

The Sultana raised the butt of her automatic weapon high in the air, threatening to crash it down, right on the old woman’s skull.

“I’ll ask again. Was it you?”

The woman said nothing.

The bald man beside me leaned over and whispered, “Someone should do something.”

I stared back at him wide-eyed. “I don’t see you offering!”

He shrugged.

The Sultana’s muscles twitched. The gun jerked in the air.

“It was me!”

The room froze again.

Oh crap. Did I say that?

The Sultana turned her head in my direction slowly, like the most beautifully deranged owl ever.

“Way to go,” I said turning back to the man—except he was gone.

Terrific.

I peeked through the plant and watched the Sultana walk across the room in giant steps, her hair floating around her in an angry tempest.

Icy trails of sweat ran down my ribcage.

Maybe if I stayed very still, she wouldn’t see me.

“She’s right here!” a voice called.

I looked up, but not very far.

The bearded-little-person-lady stood a couple of feet away, finger pointed right at me.

“Thanks a lot,” I whispered to him, trying to sound cool over my jackhammering heart. “Sure, when the old lady says something, nobody turns her in, but you’re all over me, you…you…”

“You what?” he asked planting a meaty fist on his hip.

“Never mind,” I said sourly.

“No. What were you going to say?”

“No. I’m not saying anything,” I said, still whispering, as though that would really help. “You are one big, politically incorrect trap. Even if I don’t mean to, I’m going to say something offensive.”

“And how do you think that makes me feel,” he said shaking his head, “to never be treated like everyone else?”

“You want me to insult you?”

“Go for it!” he shouted, hairy arms opening wide.

I growled with frustration. “Fine! Um…nice dress.”

“That was pathetic.”

“Well, I’m having trouble focusing at the moment,” I said, my last word trailing off as I zoned in on the black boots on the other side of the plant.

“So you’re the Dark Ryder fan,” the Sultana said.

“Um, not really. You see, I’m new in town. I’ve just heard—”

“Oh, you’ve heard,” she said laughing quietly. “What you should have heard is that I’m the new game in town.” She walked slowly around the plant. “Maybe you can help me spread the message.”

Leisurely she lowered the gun so that I stared directly into its barrel.

“News of a dead body always travels fast.”

Chapter Three

Oh God. This was it.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the shot. Seconds boomed by in my head…but nothing happened. I cracked open one eye to see the Sultana’s face inches from my own.

“Wah!” I shouted, scrambling back.

Once I got a hold of myself, I recognized a very distinctive look on her face. A look I had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times, but didn’t expect to see here.

Recognition…and fear.

It was the look people gave me when they realized they were dealing with the daughter of Atticus St. James.

The Sultana licked her lips slowly. Her eyes never wavered from mine.

“She isn’t worth it,” she said suddenly, spinning away from me.

For a second, I remembered how to breathe.

Then she spun right back.

“Oh, but I forgot to thank you for your donation.” She wrenched the crumpled bills from my hand, which had somehow escaped its hiding place. “Our little spectacle only exists thanks to the generosity of our patrons.”

She walked back to her horse waiting at the center of the bank.

“It has been my pleasure, everyone!” she shouted out in her low musical voice. “But sadly, we must leave you!”

Suddenly, everything happened in reverse. The performers tumbled, stomped and rolled their way towards the front doors. Even the smoke seemed to follow them.

Then just before they completely disappeared, the Sultana turned.

Everyone on the floor, myself included, re-cringed.

She clapped her hands high in the air like a Flamenco dancer. The entire bizarre crew suddenly threw their weapons across the floor and then tumbled out the doors.

A man in a wrinkled business suit slowly got to his knees and picked up one of the automatic weapons. A dazed look came over his face.

“They’re loaded with blanks.” He looked up at the ceiling where the clown had fired. “They’re all fake.”

Fake?

Oh no way. No freaking way. I had just been robbed with fake guns? I was going to lose my fingers now because of some psycho circus with fake weapons?

Any drop of fear I had left in me steamed out the top of my head.

I jumped to my feet in flash and sprinted for the door.

I stumbled down the massive concrete steps, blinded by pure rage. The screech of motorbikes tore at my ears.

They were getting away!

Where was the cavalry? The police? The ambulances? What had she done with her horse? And where the hell was Dark Ryder?

I could feel my money screaming for me. I took off after the motorbikes on foot and ran smack into a wall of muscles.

“Whoa! Are you okay?” the wall asked.

“I’m fine,” I said struggling to get around him, but large hands descended on my shoulders, pinning me to the spot.

“Let me go! They’re getting away!” I could still make out the taillights fading into swirls of mist.

“I think you’re in shock. Just calm down.”

Frustration sizzled inside of me. Then before I knew it, my fist shot out, and I clocked him in the nose. Cartilage crunched against my knuckles.

“Hey! What did you do that for?” the wall shouted from behind his hands.

That was a hard question to answer. Two seconds into hindsight, it did seem to be a little bit of an overreaction.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” I took a moment to really look at the beast of a man in front of me. My eyes travelled up, up, and then up some more. “I also can’t believe that I was able to reach your nose.”

He was tall, at least six four, maybe five. Blond hair. Blue eyes. And yes, ridiculously muscular. He looked a little like the end result of a heated night of plastic passion between action figures. The only thing out of place was his bookish, but stylish, glasses that clashed with the rest of his superhuman genes.

“I’m not that tall,” he said through his hands still pyramided over his nose. “And, I think, I’m bleeding.”

Heat flared to my cheeks. “Well, you shouldn’t accost women on the street!” I shouted, moving out of the way of the people now streaming from the bank.

“Accost? I was trying to help you.”

“All you did was help them get away!” I yelled with a jump and a point towards the mist-filled street.

“What were you going to do? Chase the motorbikes? You’re wearing high-heeled open-toe sandals!”

A sudden realization came over me. Of course. He was gay. That’s why he was so muscular. And it explained the fashionable eyewear.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said more calmly. “I’m not gay.”

Oh.

“I have just always noticed women’s footwear.”

Ah…he was a pervert.

“And I’m not a pervert. I will admit high heels look good, but they seem so impractical…and expensive.”

Huh.

“Seriously, though, what were you thinking? Chasing bank robbers? Are you another Ryder Wanna Be?”

At the moment, yes, absolutely. All I had heard about, since moving to this city, was Ryder this, Ryder that. But she was not here to save my day. I was on my own.

Suddenly it felt like the plug had been pulled on my adrenaline. “They took my money…money that I really needed,” I said weakly.

“Are you in some kind of trouble? Maybe I can help,” he offered. “I’m a reporter…I’m not exactly sure how that helps, but I do know a lot of people.”

“You’re a reporter?” I asked, feeling pouty. “You kind of look like you should be at the beach in a flexing contest or kicking sand in somebody’s face.”

“First you punch me in the nose. Then you make fun of the way I look.” He furrowed his brow. “My investigative skills are telling me that either you’re traumatized or just not very nice.”

“I’m sorry. I really am…I think,” I said, kicking a garbage can before I remembered my open-toed sandals. “I’m not myself. It hasn’t been a very good day…or month really.”

His face softened as he dropped his hands from his nose. “I guess I can let it slide given what you’ve just been through.”

“I appreciate that. And I really didn’t mean to hit you…or insult you. Your muscles are…um….distracting.” I felt a new blush creeping up my neck.

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Don’t take it any way.” I waved my hand in defeat. “I have no idea what I’m saying.”

He looked at me with big, sincere eyes. “So do you need help?”

I took a deep breath then managed a smile. “I didn’t think people in this city offered help.”

“I’m willing to make an exception,” he said returning my smile. “You’re pretty distracting yourself.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or concerned. I could still feel a nose imprint on my fist. Was flirting seconds after a bank robbery normal behavior? But then again, did I really care? The man before me was gorgeous and seemed to be interested. At four o’clock I was going to be fingerless. I might as well enjoy any happy I could get.

Then just like that, it ended. I heard the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. Not good. The last thing I needed was anyone knowing where Bremy St. James now lived.

“Listen. It was really nice talking to you, but I have to go.”

“Wait, you can’t go. The police are going to want to talk to you. I want to talk to you…for a statement,” he said, looking down at me and pushing his glasses up his reddening nose.

I took a few steps back. “I really can’t.”

“Wait. You know, you look kind of familiar.” He reached a hand in my direction.

I spun on my heel.

“Can I have your phone number?” he shouted quickly. “I’d…I’d love to talk to you about what happened today.”

I couldn’t do that. I had to save the money left on my phone for Jenny.

He reached towards me again. Muscles strained against his dress shirt.

I shouted out my digits at warp speed.

“And your name! What’s your name?” he shouted to my back.

“It’s Bre…Brenda!” Right. Brenda. Of course. Because so many girls my age are named Brenda.

“I hope I get to see you again, Brenda!” I heard him yell as I high-heeled it quickly down the foggy street.

***

“I came, little Bremy. You were not home. Normally this would make a nice guy like me very mad. Mad enough to say snap your collarbones like little twigs.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at my clock. Seven. Well at least my landlord was a predictable kind of crazy.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Pushkin. I—”

“Please, Mischa. But then I turn on news, and what do I see? My little Bremy, in bank, being robbed by beautiful woman with tattoos.”

“You saw that on—”

“She took all your money, no?”

“She did. I was going to—”

“Then let me guess, the police keep you hours with their questions and questions.”

“Yes…the police.”

“Well, little Bremy, I don’t want you to think I am not nice guy. I am going to loan you this money.”

“Wow. That is so sweet,” I said straightening up in bed. “I can’t thank—”

“At a very attractive rate.”

“Oh.” I flopped back down.

“Twenty percent. But if you don’t pay me back at end of month, you are out.”

“Oh thank God,” I said laughing. “I thought you were going to say you would break my kneecaps or something.”

“I am. I was just joking. It makes conversation easier, no?” His thick laugh echoed around in my brain. “Of course I’m going to break your kneecaps. It is what carpet sharks do, no?”

“Loan sharks.”

“Loan sharks? Oh yes, loan sharks. So helpful little Bremy.”

“Well, thank you, I gu—”

“Not so with the fastness. I don’t like to make bad investment. You need job, little Bremy.”

“I know. I just—”

“There is
just
again. I talk to The Pink Beaver. You go there and you tell them Mischa sent you.”

“Oh I don’t kn—”

“I know. I know. You’re good girl. You don’t want to show beebies. You can serve the little drinks there. Wear little costume.”

It almost wasn’t a bad idea considering my options. It wasn’t like socialiteing counted as job experience.

“But little Bremy, you be careful. This man—his name is Mr. Raj—he is not a gentleman like me.”

***

I spent two hours face down on my bed trying to think of a way to make money that didn’t involve beavers. Unfortunately, inspiration didn’t drip out from the sagging panels of my apartment’s ceiling.