Samantha Lytton: But…I love him.
Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: I guess you shoulda told him that more often.
Unknown Assailant sits up, cradling his busted head which has been very effectively pummelled by Ms Lytton, who is a total badass.
Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: Haven’t you been a little withholding? You can’t blossom in a relationship by assuming the worst. Love requires a leap of faith with both feet.
Samantha Lytton: I made a real commitment to Sam! He’s not in jail, is he? That’s ’cause of moi.
Samantha indicates herself by pointing both thumbs at her chest, in case the Unknown Assailant doesn’t understand French.
Lying by omission to the cops? That’s love.
Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: Yes, I know you’ve made some real sacrifices. It’s hard being away from your partner all the time.
Samantha plops down cross-legged next to the Unknown Assailant.
Samantha Lytton: It is. Always wondering if he’s okay. Or just plain missing him. I have needs.
Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: Of course you do. You’re a vibrant woman at the top of her game. And he should respect that he’s not meeting your individual desires.
Samantha Lytton: That’s all I’m saying!
Unknown Assailant puts a gentle hand on Samantha’s shoulder.
Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: You two must hash through these things openly and honestly. It’s the only way for love to grow into a mutually beneficial life together full of faithful trust.
Samantha nods, knowing that the Unknown Assailant is right.
Samantha Lytton: So…do you know where Sam is?
Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: Not really. I’m in charge of kidnapping wayward drug dealers, not art thieves.
I had no choice but to attend my stunt rehearsal, so I threw my entire body and soul into pretend-clobbering the character in the museum gang who turns on the rest of us. I tossed him across the room and faux-punched him in the face, all the while fantasising that he was whoever had taken Sam. It only helped for as long as I moved. The moment I took a break, hell broke loose in my brain.
I ping-ponged between terrified worry about Sam and palpable anger. Rage jettisoned through my veins and brought with it a sapping of my energy, a deflation of my spirit. My body hurt from a hurricane of emotions.
I’d forgive Sam anything if I’d only find him and we could walk away together, safe.
Until the next time it happened.
My entire life seemed like playacting. During the day, I masqueraded in front of the camera, and at night, Sam and I impersonated June and Ward Cleaver. I’d left it to my beaver, and thinking with my lady parts had got me into his messes from the very beginning.
After today, I’d have a couple of days off, plus the weekend before I needed to be back at the studio for rehearsals. I could do a trip to Bruges and back if nothing went wrong. Not knowing what else to do, I’d replied to the nasty email and told them I’d be in the city by tomorrow morning.
“Ha!” I said out loud.
Bruce, the guy I’d just faux-roundhouse-kicked, took my laugh as a sign of high spirits and replied, “Yeah! You’re pretty awesome for a wee thing,” in his adorable Irish accent.
I managed an almost-human smile and retired to the edge of the dance studio to find my phone. After wrestling all day with whether or not to tell anyone about my situation, I knew I had to tell Ellen. I was supposed to meet her and Nicolette after work anyhow—no way could I hide such a thing from my soul mate. Two different people had asked me if I was sick today based on my Gollum-like complexion. Danny had been shooting concerned glances my way, but at least my gross appearance kept further kisses at bay.
Only one more sequence to go through before I finished for the afternoon—Danny did his own stunts, but I was quite happy to let my stunt double, Missy, earn some cashola. Somehow, after fighting actual, bona-fide bad guys in reality, the fake version didn’t hold as much appeal.
I mopped my glistening brow with a towel and plopped on the floor to text Ellen.
Urgent situation. Pick me up at Trafalgar Dance Studio in an hour for a council of war.
An almost instantaneous reply shot through time and space to berate me.
WTF? I will kill that stupid thief of yours! I thought we’d dumped him! I have a nice girl all picked out for you. She enjoys eighties music…
I actually managed a giggle at that. A head-swirling amount of relief nearly knocked me over to know that I always had one friend on my side.
Not that I wanted to expose more people to danger. Shit! Shiiiiiiiiit. I slumped against the wall and replied.
Someone may kill him for you. Just swing by—I need more brains to help me decide what to do. But I don’t want Nic to do anything…police-like.
You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes at you.
Don’t hurt yourself.
I finished the day and, by the close, had performed with such dedicated vigour that the stunt coordinator cited me as a model student. While the friendly, joking group gave me a round of applause, I tried not to barf on the bouncy dance floor. Danny asked me if I wanted to join everyone in a drink nearby, but I begged off, using my friends in town as an excuse. Dammit! I’d love to bond with my cast, but you know how it is—maybe-boyfriend being held prisoner by mysterious thugs. After giving everyone a hug, I bolted out the front door and ran straight into Nicolette.
I righted myself and said, “I need a drink and a quiet place to talk. But mostly a drink.”
* * * *
We held the council of war at a pub near my apartment in case my place had been bugged. The suggestion that my flat was being monitored earned more of Ellen’s patented eye rolls. By the time the evening was over, poor Ellen’s eyes might pop out of her equally-aggravated skull. And then fly across the room to slap sense into me.
“Personally, I vote to leave him there to deal with the consequences of his life of crime,” Nicolette said. Ellen began to raise her hand to agree, but I kicked her under the table.
“Ow!” My BFF rubbed her calf and shot more lasers from her peepers. “You can’t really go to Bruges and what…kick down the door with guns blazing?”
“I learned how to kick in a door today, thank you.”
“Sam—”
“I’m going!” I slammed my beer on the table and pulled my sweater around me. This Cali girl was not used to sub-seventy-two-degree temperatures. Or perhaps my blood had run cold. “I’m just wanting advice about what to do. And no, I can’t call the police—I don’t know exactly where he’s wanted or why, but I have to assume it’s everywhere and for everything. Ugh.” I put my head on the mostly-clean table. “Nicolette, please tell me we’re off the record here.”
It was Nicolette’s turn to be kicked under the table by Ellen. The cop chewed on her lip then said, “Fine. I was never here. We never talked about this. I don’t know who you are. I wish I didn’t know who you are…”
“Thank you.” I peered up at her with eyes full of tears. “That means a lot to me.”
“You’re bonkers. You understand that, right?” She took my hand and patted it. “I urge you to contact the Belgium authorities. Him in jail is better than the two of you dead.”
“I’ll have them on speed dial.” I squeezed her hand and ignored the commentary in my brain, which was residing in the Land of Denial, on the Continent of LaLaLaICan’tHearYou. “But I’m hoping I can meet them publicly and offer money, or something. I mean, I have cash now, not that much, but some. I ain’t Tom Cruise.”
Ellen sucked down half a beer, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, burped and said, “This is stupid. So I’m going with you.”
“What?” Nicolette burst out.
“What? No!” I reached across and grabbed at her arm. “No fucking way. This is my problem. I—”
“I can go where I want!” Ellen pronounced this with
such vehemence the two opinionated ladies with her actually quieted. She lifted her eyebrows in a ‘so there’ way and continued, “I just looked it up on my phone. Eurostar will get us into Bruges in three and a half hours. We go tonight, we trick the bad guys…somehow, and then we tour the city. I read that it features the most photographed place in Europe.”
Nicolette plopped her forehead on the table. It was a common gesture for this particular evening. “I’ll go,” she said, “but only to guard Ellen.” She whipped her head up. “Your boy is your problem.”
Guilt, fear and anger swirled in the cauldron of my stomach as if stirred by a witch named regret. I butted, “But—but—”
“But me no buts!” Ellen pointed in the air majestically. “I do what I want to do—I love you, and I’m going to help you. The three of us are smarter than some douchebag art thieves.” Nicolette quirked one eyebrow in doubt. “Well, at least two of us are.” She let that dangle. Of course, she meant me and herself.
Of course, she meant herself and Nicolette. I was the moron charging into danger for the sake of a criminal, when I could be meeting a nice lesbian who enjoyed terrible eighties hits. But I already had one of those, God bless her crazy self.
Into the fray! My only hope was that the heroines would not piss their pants in terror.
Oh, and not die.
Chapter Six
Belgium? I Hardly Know Him!
With a hastily-packed suitcase and a slump in my step, I boarded the train to Bruges, connecting through Brussels. The scenery probably would have been lovely had it been daylight, or had my eyes seen anything but worry and Sam’s face. I sprang for the first class car, and we sat at a foursome of seats facing inward towards each other. We situated ourselves as far away from the other passengers as possible. The only plan was to get there, rush to the little hotel Ellen had spontaneously booked for us then email the bastards again to find out what to do next. I figured the possible scenarios were as follows.
One. The rat bastards wanted money, and I’d be able to supply it. They’d give Sam back to me.
Two. The rat bastards wanted me, and I’d walk into a trap. They’d demand money from the movie studio. Studio would pay for me, then fire me. I’d never work in this town again.
Three. The rat bastards wanted me, and I’d walk into a trap. They’d demand money from the movie studio. Studio would not pay for me. The story of my disappearance would make a fabulous Lifetime movie.
Four. The rat bastards wanted me, and I’d walk into a trap. They’d kill me and Sam. Ellen and Nicolette would take a beautiful picture in the most scenic spot in Europe.
The odds were not in my favour. I was Katniss Evermess.
About an hour into the journey, a woman plopped down beside me, scaring the bejesus out of us and causing me to scatter my bag of potato chips. I gritted my teeth, as the chips were the only thing keeping my anxiety at acceptable levels, i.e. not barfing in public. She was an Amazon, six foot at least, and Nordic-looking, as if she could carve a boat herself and sack England with it. “You are famous actress Samantha Lytton, yes? You match picture in magazine.” She showed us an English tabloid. “I am big fan.” She stated these things in a flat, accented voice—the most underwhelmed fan encounter I’d ever had, and that included the countless times someone had thought I was Emma Stone and only realised the mistake up close when they saw my wrinkles.
“Yes,” I replied. I gave her a smile as half-hearted as her enthusiasm. “How are you?”
“I am have gun and you say nothing or I shoot you friends.”
Well, that woke up the table.
She peeled back her coat to show us the gun. Ellen appeared outraged. Nicolette went calm—cop mode, I guessed. I took a deep, shaky breath and laughed.
“What funny? Why you laugh?”
“What accent? Why you talk like?” Really? I was being kidnapped—fucking again!—by cartoon Natasha. I couldn’t believe anyone actually spoke like that but, then again, I was a stupid American who only spoke one language. My mangling of French likely sounded as idiotic to the entirety of the Gauls.
The lady whipped out the gun and held it under the table. “I am here to watch you. I am take you to meeting place in Bruges. Give me purses.”
We complied. The kidnapper glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, then proceeded to go through our stuff and remove every piece of electronics.
“Great,” Ellen said. “Do you have a name, stretch?”
“My name is not stretch. I am Dina.”
“Dina…” I leant back to see the gun. It was pointed at Ellen. Oh, God. “Let my friends go. Please. I’m the one you came for.”
“No. You all come with me, even Blacky.”
Nicolette’s eyes nearly bugged out. “Did she just call me ‘Blacky’?”
Ellen grabbed her girlfriend’s hand and pulled it into her lap.
“And why ‘even Blacky’? Like it’s my honour to be kidnapped with the White folks? Like I need to be sent to the back of the kidnap bus?”
“Quiet!” Dina nearly yelled this and pushed the gun into my side. I hissed out the remainder of my breath and retreated to the window as far as I could. Not far enough. At this distance, there would be little difference between ‘blew her head off’ and ‘blew her neck and head off’. I mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to Nicolette, who nodded and pulled Ellen closer. How pathetic I was—apologising for the ignorance of our kidnapper.
Why? Why’d they come with me? What was I even doing here? I’d landed an amazing job! I had good hair!
Cosmo had lied to me. The world told me that if I were rich and successful and lost ten pounds, everything would be okay. Everything was most certainly not fucking okay!
We spent the next ninety minutes staring at each other in silence. I’d never wished I was an X-Man so much—capable of telepathy, or of making some ignorant woman’s head explode with my brain.
Impotence became my new best friend. I couldn’t do anything to Dina—if I did, Sam would likely die, and they’d probably find me all over again anyhow. How easy it was for them. My vulnerability made my armpits sweat. This must be what testicles feel like. How did men live like this every day, wondering when a swift kick would come? And why do we pretend that balls are much stronger than a nice vagina? Vadges take a licking and keep on ticking!
At Brussels-Midi station, Dina ignored Ellen and Nicolette and kept close to me like a large, Russian skin. I kept my sunglasses on inside, eager to not be spotted by friend or foe, although that last part was too little, too…whoops. We boarded the next train, which would take an hour to get into Bruges.
Being kidnapped on a train was nothing like they make it out to be in the old movies. No Gene Wilder to be seen. No madcap porters. Just the numbing anonymity of modern-day hurry up and wait, with a side of heeeeeeelp!
As tour guides go, Dina performed at a C- level. We hurried out of Bruges Station and into the Belgian night. A white van awaited us, and I reared back for a moment before a decisive shove from Dina sent me sprawling. Nicolette helped me to my feet with a reassuring arm squeeze. Her presence simultaneously flooded me with confidence and regret. I didn’t recognise the driver of the transport, a blond guy, but the creepy white van itself reminded me of another that had picked me up as I fled on roller skates. Jane had orchestrated that particular kidnapping.
So many snatch-and-grabs. If I were kidnapped twice more, would I get one for free?
Jane. She was supposed to leave us alone. Such was the mutually beneficial bargain Sam had struck with her after I’d saved her from certain death by being highly functional in the aforementioned skates. She was Sam’s ex-thief-boss, and we’d parted ways by promising not to tattle on each other. Sophisticated, elegant and smarter than hell, Jane reminded one of the great Black supermodels at Studio 54. I simultaneously wished she’d give me life lessons, and that I would never see her again.
I got neither of my wishes.
We arrived at some part of the old
, medieval city—tall rows of houses with gorgeous façades of brick. The streets of stone glittered in the evening sprinkle of rain. Between the darkness and the mist, the city appeared to have been unchanged by the past six hundred or so years. The fresh smell of precipitation lingered strangely in my fearful nose—it was too comforting a scent. A canal sparkled besides us, beautiful for an instant before they hustled us into a door beside a chocolate shop. Up a narrow stairway we went and into an apartment. Dina pointed to a brown 1970s couch, and the three of us sank into it simultaneously.
My psychic instincts were four steps behind, naturally, for in breezed Jane, resplendent in a white pantsuit. Relief almost flooded me because Jane wouldn’t want our brains or blood splattered all over that designer masterpiece.
Then again, Dina looked as if she accessorized with vile substances all the time, and she still pointed the gun at us.
Nicolette said, “Lady, your racist associate here could do with some education.”
Jane whipped her head towards Dina, currently gnawing on her fingernail. “She’s local help. You’d think Europe would be more advanced than America, but unfortunately…”
Well, at least no one would die because of skin colour, or sexism. One step forward…
“Jane,” I began as nicely as I could manage, “to what do I owe this latest unwilling, yet charming, visit with you?”
“I’ll let Sam tell you, so that you understand this is his doing.”
The blond dude brought in Sam. I clapped my hands over my mouth to see him bound and bruised, his face blooming in shades of black, blue and a charming reddish-purple. He squeezed his eyes shut at the sight of me, and swore when he took in Ellen and Nicolette.
“The feeling is mutual, asshole,” Ellen snipped.
Sam grimaced at Ellen, but turned his attention to Jane. “Jane, why the hell are you doing this? We had a deal.”
Jane ran her hand across her short, stylish white hair. “You broke it, not me. You went to the Feds.”
He blinked, shades of confusion, not denial, shaping his face. “Neither your name nor your…anything has been given to any law enforcement.”
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 7
