The Dimple Strikes Back (16 page)

Samantha Lytton: Help! Heeeeellllppp!

A voice answers through the dark, open door.

Sam: Samantha? Is that you?

Sam dashes into the room and stands between Valerie and Samantha. He places his hands on his hips manfully, and his butt is perkier than a morning TV show host.

Samantha Lytton: I knew you and your wonderful bottom would save me!

Sam crosses to Samantha and strokes her hair. She leans in to his touch, her soul flooded with relief—

Sam: You smell like a farm animal. Valerie, I thought you were going to put those little shocker things on her nipples.

Samantha Lytton: What? No! You adore my boobs.

Sam the Dirtbag: Valerie’s are better. They’re so…thief-y. I always knew I’d return to the dark side of the Force.

Sam rounds on Samantha.

Sam the Dirtbag: Being good is just too hard—plus, those Jedi robes are scratchy as hell. Who wants to dress like a freaking Jesuit?

Valerie the Evil Ex: Look, Sam—her stupid little feet don’t even reach the ground!

Sam the Dirtbag: She’s so short is why. Short people are stupid. There’s a whole song about it.

Valerie begins singing the mean short people song. Samantha holds her head high. Well, as high as she can.

Sam the Dirtbag: Let’s feed her before we electro-shock her.

Sam leaves the room and returns with a take-out container. Samantha’s stomach rumbles. A lady of good taste simply can’t endure electric nipple clamps on an empty stomach.

Sam the Dirtbag: Here you go, darling.

He opens the box to reveal…

Samantha Lytton: A salad? No!

Sam the Dirtbag: With fat free ranch dressing.

Samantha Lytton: Noooooooooooo! What is the point of that useless crap? Full-fat dairy is my only reason for living, now that you’ve gone full Darth Vader.

Sam the Dirtbag: I’m not James Earl Jones Vader—I’m the new one.
Hayden Christensen
.

Samantha nearly collapses from the sheer terribleness of it all. Sam and Valerie laugh and laugh, and not in the nice way, but in the way that sounds terribly witchy.

Valerie the Evil Ex: Now we’re going to put on clown outfits and have sex in front of you while we force you to exercise. Follow my laser pointer as I demonstrate all the sexual intimacies I taught to Sam.

Samantha finally, mercifully passes out to the sound of Valerie eating the crummy salad.

My brand new assistant Sam greeted me on set the first evening of shooting after a day and a half of sleepless worry and fear. When I did manage to sleep, I dreamt of Valerie and Sam torturing me in the most insidious of ways. I don’t know why they always turned into clowns at the end.

I probably didn’t want to know why.

Thank goodness there were professionals available to eradicate my puffy eyes and bloom my pallid cheeks. It only pays to look like a zombie if you’re playing an actual zombie. And not even then, really, if you’re a woman.

“Thanks for getting me on the set,” dimpled Sam by way of greeting outside the security trailer. “Remember to call me Zack.”

I shrugged and continued inside the museum’s employee entrance. “I’m not calling you by yet another name. Why should I make any of this easier for you and
Valerie
?” I said her name like it made me sick. And so it did—my tummy gurgled in protest. I’d been so freaked out that even my favourite comfort, food, proved no help whatsoever. At least I wouldn’t bust the seams of my tight costume jumpsuit.

Sam yanked on my upper arm to make me stop walking three steps ahead of him in a lonely, behind-the-scenes corridor. “I have to get to set,
assistant
,” I said, frost shooting from my lips.

“None of this was my choice,” he said. His face held anguish and, for the briefest of moments, I wanted to run to him and squeeze forever. I took control of myself and removed his grabby hand.

“And yet here we are. Again.” I thrust my chin up and said in my haughtiest tone, “If this is to be my last film, I really need some freaking Maybelline. You see, some assturd has threatened my life and betrayed every trust I ever held, so I require the wonders of eyeliner to pretend to be normal.”

“I haven’t threatened—”

“Samantha!” Around the corner came Daniel Zhang, looking satisfyingly mouthwatering. If I would die soon, I’d at least torture Sam first. And then I’d haunt him. Forever. That man would never again have sex without a cockblocking, screeching ghost from the netherworld pointing at his dick and laughing. If Valerie thought she would out-evil-ex me, she had another poltergeist coming. I smiled, both at the notion and at Danny.

“Hi, honey!” I laid it on thick. I was a fine Southern lady from North Carolina, and we know how to bullshit no matter the situation. “Don’t you look gorgeous enough to commit a robbery with?” A tight T-shirt and jeans was never a bad choice on a body that ripped. A faint growling emanated from behind me. It sounded like the protestations of a scum-sucking rat, ha ha! “Do you want to help me pour myself into costume?”

Danny’s eyes went from
ooh
to
la la
. “How could I possibly say no to my ex-wife?”

I chuckled and trailed one hand across his bulging bicep, then into the crook of his arm. Thus entwined, we took off down the hall. Danny glanced behind us. “Who is…?”

“Oh, that’s just my assistant, S—Zack.”

Zack smirked at me in victory. Not for long. I continued, “But his American nickname is Loser. That’s what he enjoys being called. It’s a long, funny story.” I turned my head slightly. “One he won’t waste your time by telling or refuting.”

Holy crap, Sam glowered murderously in the first degree. “Nice to meet you, er, Loser,” said polite Danny. The redder Sam’s face got, the more I giggled.

Hmmm. This might actually be a little fun.

* * * *

Flirting outrageously with Danny made the night zip by, even as tired as I was. I seemed to feed on Sam’s existential despair—
I am siren, hear me screech.

Every time I received a break and stepped away from work for a moment or two, Sam would try and pull me aside to speak with me privately. Nope, too bad, so sad, Loser. He’d had many opportunities to
not
turn my life into a waking nightmare of terror and frustration—he didn’t get alone time. But Danny did. When Sam would attempt to corner me, I’d call to Danny and take lunch with him, or retire to his trailer for rehearsal or hanging out. Closed-door, thank you. This went on for several evenings. The more Sam scowled, the more I flirted. And Danny, well—he was a nimble dance partner.

Ah, the schadenfreude tasted thick and delicious on my tongue. I lapped it up instead of lapping up a man—boo male persons—or fried foods—pants still too tight, damn it.

And then Sam called my bluff.

I’d accidentally tripped Sam on the way to Danny’s trailer one evening—hey, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Two minutes after I’d sat down with Danny to go over our next scene, a banging knock shook the door.

The Loser lurketh.

“Samantha,” said Sam breathlessly as he whipped the door open. I’d briefly entertained the notion of forcing him to call me Ms Lytton, but decided that it would make me look like an asshole more than it would make him feel like one. “Samantha, there’s an urgent phone call from your mother.”

I scooted closer to Danny on the couch, raised a flinty gaze to Sam and replied, “I’ll call her back.”

“But she’s so ill,” said Sam, a better actor than the rest of us combined. “You never know when it could be the last time you ever speak to someone.” His eyes glinted ominously. I almost stood and applauded.

“Oh, no,” Danny said. He turned worried brown eyes to me. “I don’t mind—please, go chat with your mum.”

I gritted my teeth and acknowledged Sam’s small win with a nod. “I’ll be right back.” I rose and shone a beaming smile on Danny as I exited the trailer and took the steps.

We started towards my digs. “Should I even look at that phone? Because I’m pretty sure my mother will outlive us all, and then write an obituary about me saying how weak I was for dying.”

He took me by the elbow. Heat zinged from his hand through my arm and down places where I determined zings from him simply
would not go
. I mentally yanked the zings and plopped them back where they belonged.

“We need to talk,” he said, low and angry. “I’m getting pretty fucking tired of being run around.”

Ah, yes. I’d taken to sending him on long, annoying errands, and always doing it within earshot of several people so that there was never a good way to deny me. One time I’d sent him to fetch my dry cleaning from a chain store, but hadn’t said which one—a discovery he made after the first wasted trip. And then I couldn’t remember which one I’d taken my items to! Silly me. The fourth location stood the farthest away, and they were closed, anyhow—and I’d been so sure they were twenty-four-hour…

Oops.

After that, a wild craving for a British snack food called Chippie Chaws overcame me. I batted pretty fake eyelashes at him so sweetly, asking if he could please get me some. If the British crew who overheard looked askance at my request, it’s because Chippy Chaws do not exist, and definitely not in the elaborate red and purple bag I told him to search for. But that didn’t stop Sam from scouring every corner market in a five-mile radius for them before he figured it out.

Oops.

We settled at craft services and sat beside one another on a bench. “No more errands,” he hissed at me.

“You are my employee. I have the right.”

“I’m gonna dry-clean your…”

I giggled. His face reddened with disbelief. “You deserve every punishment I can concoct!” More laughter spluttered out of me, in waves and waves, and I flopped my head onto the table until I recovered. It was the first real laugh I’d had in days, and I finished feeling forty pounds lighter. Sure, my cast and crew were fun, but I hadn’t been my usual sunny self when the cameras stopped.

When I peeked up at him, he’d relaxed and was actually smiling at me. The dimple winked in due obsequience to my masterful gambits. His eyes sparkled with an intensity that was only for me. That look made my breasts tingle, heaven help me. Uuuunnnggghhh, he was always his most seductive when being clever.

“You never get to call me the liar again, okay Miss Chippie Chaw?”

I bit my lip to stop smiling—too late—and stood. “Let’s send my mom some flowers, shall we? Put it on your card, and I’ll reimburse you.” After I lobbed my parting shot, I sauntered away, knowing his gaze followed me.

Or at least followed my butt, which is good enough.

The fifth night of the shoot, I had time to spare. The film business is a glamorous, sweaty, uncomfortable game of Hurry Up and Wait. So I wandered the darkened rooms of the museum.

Truth be told? I was hiding from Sam, who’d manufactured a limp as a way to deflect my errant errands.

The cast wasn’t supposed to stray from where we were filming. Right now we were shooting the actual heist itself, which meant faux-liberating the contents of the “Coin and Medals” room. The upper floor lay completely open in the centre, so one might see over the railing to the rooms below. Wandering past the history of Britain, I ducked a security guard—it’s easy to hide behind displays when you’re a Hobbit—and continued on. I’d better practice eluding the authorities if I was going to steal the…

That was when I saw it, the object of my frustration. He stood in front of the Mold gold cape.

Sam turned, startled when I approached. His eyes, dark grey-brown, narrowed, but he said nothing and moved aside to allow me to admire the cape. Although ‘admire’ seemed a tainted word—how could I consider any object beautiful when I would probably be killed for it?

My downfall was truly amazing to behold—intricate, with small geometric patterns beaten into the gold in rows, all connecting together to make a mantle any living person would want to wear, and probably an ancient god or two. At least I would be smited on behalf of priceless beauty, which didn’t make me feel better in any way.

Next to me, Sam sighed and put a hand over his eyes, as if they hurt. For the first time in days, I took a moment to really look at him—awful. Sunken cheeks, uneven shaving, eye bags you could pack ten people’s vacation wardrobes in.

He was so beautiful it made my breath hitch, and I forced myself to turn away. I shouldn’t have to stare at pretty emo things I couldn’t own.

I began to leave the gallery when he caught my hand, gently. “She came after me,” he whispered. “Had a gun to my head before I even knew what hit me.” He gave a soundless laugh. “She wasn’t violent when I was stealing for her. Not at the beginning, anyway.”

“Or sleeping with her?”

“Is that worse to you?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Of course.”

He came closer. Close enough for me to smell the intoxicating man smell of his skin. As if a scent should be allowed to reach into your soul and tug. He wore a button-down with rolled-up sleeves—ugh, what that does to me. My already squishy insides turned full jelly. “I’m not sleeping with her,” he said.