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 busine
ss 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.
“What do I care? You dumped me.” Oh, but I did care. My brain leapt into a dance of happiness, or at least of less-depressed-ness. “Besides, the whereabouts of your dick is not my biggest problem at the moment.”
His voice dropped even lower. “Can’t discuss that here.”
“There’s nothing to discuss! I’ve done my part.” I stared at a smudge on his shirt. The force of his will urged me to look up into his ruinous eyes, but I wouldn’t. “If you can find some way out of this for me, I would surely appreciate it.”
At least he didn’t lie to me—didn’t say things like, ‘She won’t kill us’. Once upon a heist, I’d believed in pleasant fibs. No more.
He still held my hand. His thumb traced soft circles into my knuckles. A million spiteful words flitted around my head like angry bees, but I couldn’t seem to line them up long enough to form a sentence. So close. He kept inching towards me. I could get on tip-toe right now and kiss him. He’d let me. He wouldn’t let me go.
I’d never wanted him more than right now, and I’d wanted him enough before to do some pretty stupid things. “I have to go,” I squeaked, my breath coming shallow.
His hand tightened on mine. “I would die before I let something happen to you.”
Oh, God, the tears in his voice… “Let me go, please.”
He did. I swayed on my feet, dizzy. His mouth opened to say more, but I fled, unable to keep my cool. If I cried half my makeup off, I’d have to explain why when they fixed me. I ran through three galleries before I collapsed against the wall of a fourth and willed my eyes not to spring forth.
He’d never be safe with me.
I’d never be safe with him.
How easy that made things. Especially once we were dead. Ta da!
I took out my phone and watched panda videos for a few minutes until I no longer remembered the way his neck smelt, or how his hands felt tracing my ass. Panda videos are an acceptable cure for adult-onset icky emotions.
I meandered my way back towards my trailer. Just when I reached the steps, a PA named Sophia ran up to me. “Ms Lytton,” she began in a charming Scots accent.
“Samantha is fine. Or just ‘Shorty’.”
“I can’t call you ‘Shorty’—I barely have an inch on ye.” She smiled and cocked her head. “Your other assistant is here, but I don’t see her on the security list.”
My eyes bulged. “Other assistant?”
I froze. She froze. Now we were just staring at one another with the same quizzical expression. I blinked and tried to smile. “I mean, yes, let me go meet her. I mean see her.”
Sophia took off in the appropriate direction, and I hugged my arms around myself, wishing I had a sweater in the crisp evening air that suddenly chilled me. Who the hell was this woman?
… Of course.
I gritted my teeth until they hurt. The idea that Valerie would invade my private work space at my house sent me into a vortex of demonic rage. I actually stopped walking and closed my eyes until the bitter haze left my vision. I didn’t know how long I could resist slapping the shiny hair right off her. You don’t threaten to murder me and also have slept with my love before he met me and expect to get away with it!
That was when I decided that I would definitely live, if for no other reason than to royally. Fuck. This. Woman. Up.
Chapter Ten
Bad Help Is Easy to Find
I arrived at the security trailer outside the back entrance ready to chew up Valerie whole and spit her onto the ground and then stomp on the Valerie-goo with my foot.
But it wasn’t Valerie.
“Are you Samantha Lightbrite?” asked a total stranger in an American accent. Cute woman in her twenties—medium height, red hair and covered in freckles from her hairline to her ankles. She wore a hoodie and sweat shorts, and the blank expression of disenchanted boredom I’d often worn at my old day job.
“Hi, I’m Samantha Lytton.” I reached my hand for her to shake it. She pulled a trail of bubble gum out of her mouth and stared at it. Eventually, she turned her attention me. She mashed her gum into her mouth and extended the same fingers towards me. I yanked my arm back and awaited her response.
She chewed.
I raised my eyebrows.
Finally, the mysterious, elegant lady spoke. “I’m Shelley.” ‘Shelley’, the way she said it, possessed four syllables. “The agency, wait, no…your agent sent me.” Her voice fell flat, like a limp sheet. She rolled her eyes into her head trying to remember what she was supposed to tell me next. “I’m your new mon-sore.”
“My new what?”
She reached out and mimed graspy gestures with her hands. I shrugged. She burst into a frenzy of chopping motions with both forearms.
Ah ha! “You’re my masseuse?”
“Yeah.” That word contained three parts. Pop, snap, pop! went the gum. “Your, um, agent knew you were real stressed out, so she sent me to help.” She glanced at the head of security, who was currently riveted by this bizarre exchange.
FYI, no one would accuse my extremely hairy agent Bruce of being a ‘she’.
Sh-e-ll-ey continued, “You’d better let me help. With your…stuff. Or else you’re gonna be in pain.”
Wow. Well, I guess somebody has to graduate Undercover Thief school with a D average—not everyone can be the valedictorian. Yet her dull, monotonous voice actually made her threats more compelling. I swallowed.
In a few moments, I’d worked things out with security to give Shelley no-last-name access to the set. My heart thudded and sank as I led She
lley to my trailer. When I arrived there, Sam awaited us on the steps, already giving my ‘masseuse’ the evil eye. We went inside and formed a three-way standoff.
“I’m Shelley,” said Shelley.
“Why are you here?” Sam demanded, giving her a once-over that was in no way sexual, but definitely ominous.
“To make sure she steals the thing.” Snap, pop!
I plopped onto the couch. “What thing?”
“The…art thing.”
Sam turned to me. “That narrows it down.”
“Good thing Valerie sent an expert.”
Shelley flopped onto the other end of the sofa. “You’re stealing it, not me. But if you don’t steal it, you’ll deal with me. That would be bad.”
Not just ‘bad’, but ‘baaaaaaaaaad’. Shelley took out her phone and began ignoring us. “This game is haaaaaaaard,” she said to no one.
Sam cocked one eyebrow and jerked his head towards the bedroom end of the trailer. I nodded and followed him. Shelley made no effort to stop us.
“Who the hell is that person?” I asked the moment he shut the door.
“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the payroll when I was on Team Valerie. I think a lot of things have changed.” He pursed his lips and looked me in the eye. “I guess we really have to do it now.”
“Who’s we? And didn’t we always?”
He sighed and leaned against the door. His brain was forming strings of possibilities behind preoccupied eyes, like one of those old machines that spat out stock ticker tape. “This is fine. I’ll steal the cape and try to keep Genius in there away from you.”
“Thanks so much.”
Squinting at my sarcasm, he took a step towards me. I automatically took one step backward and fell onto the bed, suddenly hyper-conscious that we were alone in a room together with a mattress. Not a comfortable mattress, but beggars can’t be spontaneously slutty.
We both blinked shifty eyes everywhere but towards each other. “Well, that was a great Blackmailed Anonymous meeting.” I stood to leave. He didn’t move. I sat back down and pulled the zipper of my jumpsuit a little higher. “So…when are you going to do it?”
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 12
