The Dimple Strikes Back
A Totally Bound Publication
The Dimple Strikes Back
ISBN #
9781781848777
©Copyright Lucy Woodhull 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright November 2013
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Totally Bound Publishing,
Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Totally Burning
and a
Sexometer
of
2.
This story contains 210 pages, additionally there is also a
free excerpt
at the end of the book containing 14 pages.
Samantha Lytton
THE DIMPLE STRIKES BACK
Lucy Woodhull
Book two in the Samantha Lytton Series
If you can’t beat them, join them…and then beat them.
Samantha Lytton, foiler of evildoers and roller-skate enthusiast, is back! What has she been up to since the events of THE DIMPLE OF DOOM? No big whoop—just being a movie star.
Samantha has just arrived in London to film her first leading role. Sam, would-be Picasso thief and lover, joins her to rev up her engine in the bad-boy way only he can. Life is full of sexy good times, money and prestige galore! What could go wrong?
Ha ha—everything.
After a kidnapping attempt, Sam nobly dumps Samantha for her own good, the jerk. No matter, for Samantha is a successful woman of the world now and (after only spending one day lying on the floor and sobbing on her cheeseburgers) she jumps back into actress-mode with her sexy co-star Daniel Zhang. Hot movie star equals best rebound ever. She barely even thinks about what’s-his-name—until his evil ex-girlfriend shows up and gives Samantha an ultimatum she just can’t refuse: steal a priceless artefact from the museum or die.
Is Sam in cahoots with the wicked ex? Can Samantha rob a museum and film a movie simultaneously? And why isn’t a lady allowed to marry both a gorgeous Oscar-winner and an equally alluring criminal? Find out in THE DIMPLE STRIKES BACK, book two in the Samantha Lytton series.
Dedication
To my husband, my love, my fan, my rock. Thank you for always standing by me.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Entourage:
HBO
Happy Meal: The McDonald’s Corporation
Hot Pockets: Nestlé S.A.
People
magazine: Time Inc
Pizza Rolls: General Mills
Plexiglas: Evonik Industries
Tater Tots: Ore-Ida
The Hollywood Reporter: The Hollywood Reporter
TMZ: EHM Productions Inc
Trapper Keeper: Acco Brands Corporation
Wall Street Journal: Dow Jones & Company
Chapter One
You Can’t Spell ‘Happiness’ Without ‘Pain’
No one would suppose, looking at me, little Samantha Lytton, that I am a sophisticated movie maven with an illicit thief for a lover. But that hypothetical lookie-loo would be wrong, and not just because I’m shorter than the average actress and/or gangster’s moll.
Outside the oval window beside me, clouds floated by on the vicious air currently bouncing my aeroplane to and fro. And taking my cocktail with it. “Shit!” I hissed. I swiped at my lap and accidentally splashed the puddle of vodka I’d dribbled there onto my seatmate’s sleeve. The businessey dude frowned at me and patted the offending liquid with a napkin.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hate flying. But I love vodka! And talking when I’m nervous!” A too-long peal of laughter floated out of me from parts unknown. I took a deep breath and fought for calm. “Okay, I’m done now.” I beamed him the smile that
Entertainment Weekly
called ‘charming and dorky’.
I’d like it noted that they totally put ‘charming’ first.
My fellow first-classer didn’t seem impressed by me. No matter—I was suspended over the ocean, high on Xanax and whatever booze I’d managed to get into my mouth, on the way to London to shoot my very first starring role in a film. A bona-fide
film-film
—not one of those budget shoots where the catering is a Happy Meal thrown at you after filming illegally in an alley while you wear Goodwill clothing all night.
In the last year,
People
magazine had called me ‘Clara Bow two-point-zero’, and declared me the only entertaining part of my first movie
I Cried Lavender Tears in Paris
. Well, except for the bit when Justin Bieber exploded.
After that, I’d won a small but memorable scene in a Judd Apatow flick, a sidekick part in a Tina Fey movie and a recurring arc on a TV show soon cancelled for being too clever for anyone to watch. I was an underground darling in that I was a funny actress who looked like an average woman—with better-than-average teeth. I’d accepted any project offered to me, and as they began coming out, I got noticed by the Powers That Be.
The Powers That Be are a group of male studio executives who base an actress’ worth on a calculation that goes something like…fuckability + sexiness * (hilarity + popularity on Twitter
2
) + (blonde * 10)
I score highly enough in the tits and hilarity departments—even though I am no longer blonde, but redheaded—that they have taken a massive risk on me with this new movie. Not for the first time, I clutched my stomach, terrified that I’d outpaced my abilities. In a few days, I’d begin shooting
What Could Go Wrong
?, a heist spoof about a down-on-their-luck couple who rob the British Museum with a group of misfits.
Now, Sam would tell you that he was instrumental in getting me this movie. He’s my illicit thief lover and yes, I had indeed learned about skulking and running and lying and truly superior oral sex from him. And about how you can drown in hazel eyes whether they’re mossiest green or deepest brown.
He also taught me that the dimple is the most savage of facial features, causing everyday ladies ‘brain paralysis’ so they throw off the shackles of their boring, secretarial lives and embrace an existence on the lam from cops and robbers alike. He’d used me to steal a Picasso. I’d turned the ensuing notoriety into the acting career I’d always dreamed of.
“Yup.” I slashed the air with my vodka cup. The dude beside me ducked and cowered. “Life is good,” I told him with a pat on the arm. “Sometimes storm clouds assemble and piss rain all over your head, but other times—ouch!”
My other seatmate had woken up. Captain Taco’s claw still clutched my ankle, his mournful feline cry echoing throughout the elite cabin. I tapped at his paw until he released me, then I pulled his carrier out from below the seat. My human friend muttered, threw down his
Wall Street Journal
—a paper one! Perhaps he was from the past—and stalked to another part of the aeroplane.
I stuck my head above the seat, periscope-style, to search for flight attendants. The coast was clear. I released Taco from his prison and took his bundle of feline black fluff into my arms. He actually did comfort me, the little bastard. He was an ex-pet of Sam’s, and it had taken some time for us to form a solid relationship, but we had finally meshed. I loved Taco to bits and cuddled him at every turn. He agreed not to murder me in my sleep as long as I fed him. I cradled him, belly up, while he gave me a glare of wild condescension.
The last year had been surreal, going from depressed secretary comforting herself with roller skating and Pizza Rolls—often together—to respected working actress. I considered pinching myself to make sure life was real, but Taco took care of that with a bite to my hand. I hissed and sucked on the already flaming pink wound.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid you cannot have an unrestrained animal out during flight.”
I smiled at the polite, frowning flight attendant whose pasty skin reminded me I’d soon be on an island where clouds battled the sun and often won. She offered to help me put Taco away, but I did it myself. No reason for the innocent to be mauled by eleven pounds of adorable rage. I’d given him kitty sedatives, but he didn’t seem to enjoy them the way I did.
The lady hung around, a smile creeping into the corner of her mouth. She leant forward. “I’m a big fan, Ms Williams. Love your new hair colour.”
Le sigh
. “I’m not Michelle Williams. I get that a lot, though.”
“Wait—are you the lady from the Tina Fey movie? What was it…
The World’s Worst Wedding
? You are! You’re so funny!”
She got me on the second try—I couldn’t have stopped the grin that split my face if I’d tried. “Hi. Thanks. Hi.”
“Meeeewwwwrrrrr,” said Taco. My resume left him unimpressed thus far.
She put one knee on the empty seat beside me. “I’m sorry, it’s just in case the cat gets free, you know? I don’t want her to get hurt.”
Taco hissed and swiped. I jerked my leg to safety. “Captain Taco is a he. He’s sexist, that’s why he thinks being called a girl is demeaning.”
The flight attendant laughed. “Can I get you some champagne? Perhaps a magazine?”
I held up the now-slightly-soggy-from-vodka script in my lap. Very professional. “I should probably keep studying this. Although champagne would definitely help.”
She sucked in a breath and gawked to read the title page. “Is that the Daniel Zhang movie? Oh, my goodness, he is so unbelievably hot.”
