Sam hooked an arm under my knees and actually lifted me up. I planted feet on either side of the door. Too bad there was nobody in this alley to enjoy the show. Or, you know, to help us.
Nothing to be done. I swiveled as best I could and punched Sam full in the face. Thud! I screamed at the spiking pain in my hand, and he fell back against the seat, blood spurting from his nose. Shit—I’d aimed for his jaw!
Aaaaaahhh, he was shaking it off and glaring at me now. No time to spare. I dove into my purse to pull out my pepper spray, cocked it, and shot a dose through the little air holes that separated the cab’s two compartments.
Now it was the cabbie’s turn to scream. I’d gotten him in one eye, for he’d kindly turned toward me the moment I began spraying him.
“Run!” I hollered.
Sam and I burst out of each of our doors. From the ground, I heard the sound of sneakers squeaking, and I looked over the trunk to see Sam wailing on the second goon. The driver’s door slammed into the brick building beside us, and I faced it, my spray already streaming. I got the cabbie’s face—yes!—and he dropped his gun to grab at his flaming red eyes. I dove down to retrieve the weapon, pointed it at Sam and friend, and screamed, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Everyone ceased to move—very gratifying. The cabbie whimpered in his seat, Goon Two dangled from Sam’s fist, and Sam faced at me with a look of such savagery that I became instantly aroused. Beating up people = wrong. Beating up Goon Two = sexy.
Sam threw his friend in the passenger seat and searched him. He took his wallet, and used the knife he found on him to slash both tires on his side. I trotted around to meet Sam and saw Goon Two out cold. The driver knelt on the pavement and held up his hands. “I give up!”
We ran. Actually, I hobbled, swiped off my heels, then ran. The sidewalk seemed extra stabby tonight against my feet, but my adrenaline high propelled me forward. We stopped briefly for Sam to pry the gun from me and shove it and the wallet in my purse, all without meeting my eye. He yanked on my arm, and we rounded another corner—to a street with actual people, thank God. Sam hailed us a cab of his choosing, and we collapsed into it. He gave our address and we drove—in the correct direction.
“I—”
That’s what I’d got out of my mouth before Sam gave me a glare of death that was all the more pissy for being accompanied by a purple nose. So I shut up. My breathing came fast and angry. I would give him the silent treatment. ’Twas his idea, but my execution, well, it was a thing of beauty that he totally didn’t notice because he was glaring out of the opposite window. But I chose to believe that he quaked with terror.
We’d been attempted-kidnapped on other dates before, but this was the worst. Finally, we arrived home, and our misery was done. Misery, Stage One, that is. I was pretty sure Stage Two would start once we began talking again. Our poor doorman lit with alarm to see the two of us, but another patented death glare from Sam shut him up, too. It’s okay. I’d avenge poor Oswald once Sam and I were alone enough to yell at one another.
The moment we set foot in the apartment, he rounded on me. “You punched me. You fucking punched me!”
“I’ve punched you lots of times, you just can’t remember,” I said that last bit with malice, and regret closed my throat the moment the nasty little remark had fallen out of it.
He stood there, his eyes huge and hurt, like I’d hit him again.
I rushed forward and took his hands. “I’m sorry! That was a shitty thing to say.”
Yanking his everything away from mine, he stalked to the bar and began pouring himself a drink. “Why didn’t you leave? Don’t you think I can deal with a couple of kidnappers?” Scotch at the ready, he said, “I dealt with a lot of shit before I met you. Have I ever told you about Lisbon?”
Fear curdled my stomach. “No.” He hadn’t ever told me scary stories about his past thief dealings. Funny tales, yes. But he’d self-edited the rest.
“There’s a reason.” He downed a pull. “If you’re the actress, and I’m the criminal, then listen to what I say when we’re in my wheelhouse.”
“I’m your wife! I’m not leaving you to get carried off and murdered!”
“I don’t want you murdered, either!”
“Even though you don’t remember choosing me?”
“Well, you’re good in bed.”
I sucked in a breath. So that’s what New Sam was doing—tolerating me because of sex. I spun on the ruined heel of my silk stockings and stomped to the bedroom. A series of breathless oaths sounded behind me, but I kept on walking. Almost at the door to the bedroom, he grabbed for my arm. I shook it off, took two more steps, then slammed the door behind me.
A scream of pain, a thump, then more curses. I opened the door. He was flat on his back, and the blood on his face was now a disgusting mixture of dark and old, fresh and bright. “What have you gob against my nobe?” he yelled.
I wanted to kneel by his side and help him, but he’d been so shitty to me, damn it! I rocked in place, a picture of hesitation, and he moaned, “Ice? Please?”
With an eye-roll that I knew he would see, I walked right over him to fetch his stupid face some stupid ice. There goes my theory that a second blow to the head would cure amnesia. When your best ideas come from old Bugs Bunny cartoons, you know you’re in deep Acme-Brand shit.
I hoped I hadn’t broken his nose. I liked his nose. And he already looked thuggish with his shaved head. The look worked for him. Kinda sexy. Dangerous. A lot sexy. I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, and a towel then made my way back to his pathetic form. He sat with his back against the wall, his unhappiness with me radiating through air molecules, time, space. The cat jumped into his lap and took his side, the both of them shooting narrow eyes in my direction. I threw the towel and the cold compress on the floor beside him.
He shoved the towel against his nose below and the ice pack on top then leaned against the wall again.
“Sam,” I said, my brain clear and my voice unwavering. “I don’t want a pity husband. I will defend you to my last breath. I will never leave you to your enemies. And I will never make you stay somewhere you don’t want to. You have to decide what you’re going to do. Right now, I want my bed. I’m really, really sorry I busted your face.” I turned to the door and held it as I went into the bedroom. “Twice,” I added with enough smarm for him to know that the fight wasn’t over, I was just calling a time-out.
I popped two pills designed to make one’s uterus behave and stop bloating that way, and ran as hot a bath as I could stand. He didn’t come in to talk to me while I reclined in the magical hot water. He didn’t come talk to me as I got in bed. At three in the morning, I awoke to find him not there. Memories of those first days, when I’d worried whether he would live or die, flooded my tired being, and I cried, really cried. I’d fooled myself into thinking that we’d just go back to the way we were. But he was a fundamentally different person now! Were we not the sum total of our experiences? And now—he had a hole, like he said. He had a me-shaped hole, but I didn’t fit there.
My body racked and writhed with the force of my weeping. Eyes hurting, chest burning. I thought I might throw up from it, but I couldn’t collect myself enough to do anything about it. The pain felt good, the loss of the semblance of control I’d never possessed to begin with. I wanted to be empty. I wanted to be nothing.
I calmed to a dull roar, the tears still coming, but a stream instead of an ocean now. The door clicked open, and I turned away from the sound. I felt pathetic enough—I didn’t want the object of my sorrow to see me like that. The bed sagged under his weight, and his heat reached out to me before his arms came around my waist and under my head. His hands wrapped up mine, and I didn’t pull away. My strength was gone. If he wanted sex from me, I’d give it gladly.
Maybe my strength wasn’t gone so much as my will to fight.
Maybe I loved him enough to be as much or as little as he needed me to be.
Maybe something was bet
ter than nothing.
Damn it, I’d finally gotten to the altar with this man. Someone up there throw me a freaking bone, not just a boner!
Sex wasn’t Sam’s purpose, though. He smoothed the hair from my forehead in the way I loved. I sagged into him. He pulled me even closer. “Please don’t cry, Sam,” he said. “You’re too wonderful to cry.”
See? If he had a memory of me, he’d know that saying things like that just makes me weep more.
* * * *
I let him sleep in the morning. His face—oh, hell his face. Double shiners, bloated nose. Guilt poked the back of my eyes with needles, and I at least felt some of the terribleness he’d experience when he awoke. At today’s wardrobe fittings and makeup tests, I’d be puffy almost beyond recognition. Ha ha, I bet my mother would definitely not make some commentary about that! If anyone believed that, I had an old lady to sell them…
I left Sam a note apologizing again for the injuries and giving the number for a doctor Ellen had recommended. When I left, the villain’s wallet and gun were nowhere to be found. Hopefully, Sam wouldn’t get into too much trouble today.
I hopped in a cab to work, where I was greeted by three lawyers who were making everyone sign a non-disclosure agreement. We’d already signed one about the script, but this one was for the benefit of Taylor and Billie. If we wanted to be in the movie, we could only say publicly or privately the precise things about them that they authorized us to say, which were not available to peruse. I’m guessing a great deal of lies, hyperbole and locally sourced cow patties would be involved.
Did these poop heads actually think that a freaking contract would prevent me from testifying against Taylor in the hopefully eventual trial? He seemed to believe so, for he shoved the contract at me personally.
“I’m happy to have my attorney look this over,” I said cheerfully as I took it, ignored the pen being poked into my hand, then sailed into wardrobe. If he wanted me off the set, he could have me removed.
He didn’t.
I performed my duties like a true professional, despite the hovering of my murderous director, despite the fight with my dear husband slash stranger in my bed, despite my darling Suzie. When absolutely necessary, I could behave like an actual adult—the gobs of money they paid me helped. I ain’t Mother Theresa.
I only cried once, in the bathroom, while simultaneously dying of cramps. Seriously, women should get a fucking medal for working through period pain. We should hobble upon the petals of flowers, and be offered heating pads by all and sundry. I guarantee if the world’s penises began spasming for one week a month, things would be different.
The only thing keeping me going was the knowledge that I would be breaking into Taylor’s place later that night in order to take his beardy face down. I nearly ran into our apartment at the end of the long day. The terribly dark apartment. I readied my anti-bad-guy spray and flicked on the lights. Nothing seemed amiss, but…
Paranoia was my name. Samantha Paranoia. ‘Why, what have you heard?’ ‘Who’s asking?’
“Sam?”
No answer. There was a note tented on the table by the door—
Samantha,
I’ve gone out to do what I do well. Back later.
S.
Damn him, damn him, damn him! Oh, if this stupid cute jerk thought he was ditching me for the critical mission, he had another thing coming. And that thing was my boot up his firm and excellent ass.
Chapter Ten
Taylor Made for Her Pleasure
I changed into all black and my comfiest boots, never out of place on a New York City street, or in crime. I stuffed my script into my cross-body satchel just in case I ran into Taylor along the way—an excuse to be in his house. Not a good excuse, but what the hell.
Fuming was not the word for what I did in the cab on the way to Taylor’s place. Mount Vesuvius-ed would be more fitting. When I hopped out of the car a block away, I saw both my cold breath and the steam shooting from my ears. I wasn’t even nervous—my stomach roiled instead with righteous indignation, which fueled my adrenaline. A smile broke out on my face, and I pitied anyone who crossed me.
I couldn’t go in the front way—the doorman would definitely know who I was. Around the back, a service entrance awaited me. I hovered near a handy stack of wooden crates and, soon enough, the door came bursting open. A maid walked out without looking anywhere but homeward. Heh. I knew that exit. It was the ‘I fucking hate my job, please let me get to my jammies’ stomp. I leaped and caught the door, cleverly smashing my fingers in the process. I sucked in a breath and hopped silently in place until the searing pain stopped—I didn’t know if the frozen stiffness of my digits made it better or worse.
Stairs. I took a deep breath then began mounting them, a black scarf covering most of my face. All those agent-‘suggested’ workouts really paid off right about now. Twenty stories hurt, but were doable. I passed another lady leaving work, but she didn’t give a shit about me. Thank you, disgruntlement!
I didn’t meet anyone in the hall on the way to Taylor’s door, which was, of course locked. I’d pick the lock, except that, whoops, my lockpicker had abandoned me. So I did the only thing I could—I texted Sam—
Sam, if you don’t come open this apartment door right now, I’m going to go downstairs and tell the doorman that my befuddled husband has wandered off, and I have reason to believe he’s in Taylor’s apartment.
I waited. He replied—
Jesus, you’re stubborn. You don’t want Taylor to find out I’m here.
I’ll just bribe the doorman so thoroughly that he’ll never tell. I bet he hates Taylor. How could anyone not?
Pain in the ass. You’re working against your own interests.
I don’t care! Let me in, asshole! I will hold my boobs hostage!
The door flew open. Sam’s face was as crotchety as I’d ever seen it, and he’d been calling me a pain in the ass for years. Also, it was black and blue and bleak all over. Guilt stabbed me in the ovaries. Or PMS. Maybe both. I said almost without sound, “Where’s Grandma?”
He pulled me in and closed the door behind us. “I drugged her Ovaltine.”
I stomped my foot silently. First Ellen and now Sam? If I actually did grow old—and not die via evil person—I’d have to watch out for these people.
His leather-clad hand strangling mine, he yanked me through the dark house until we reached the secret hallway. Once inside with the door closed, he turned on the light and said, “I can’t believe you came here.”
“That’s just because you don’t remember me. For better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, through break-ins and criminal trespassing.”
The dimple flashed despite its anger with me. “We didn’t really vow that, did we?”
“Yes.”
He rolled his eyes at my lie. Sighing, he ran a hand over his head. “I hope you brought gloves for yourself.”
I whipped them out and slid them on. “It’s not my first rodeo, obvs.”
“Did you just say ‘obvs’ as a complete word out loud?”
“Shut up and burgle!”
His gaze narrowed, and his mouth pulled askew, but he shut up and burgled. He pointed to a painting wrapped in paper closest to us. We began to unwrap it to find a truly breathtaking landscape by an artist whose name I didn’t recognize, but which made Sam whistle and abandon his mask of annoyance. He squatted and looked over the front carefully, meticulously, and I couldn’t tell whether he was admiring or examining. Probably both. After a minute or two of this, we turned it around, and he gave the same inspection to the back, which was covered in paper.
He rubbed his hands carefully over every square inch of the paper, his eyes soft and faraway in concentration. Next, he took out a black electronic beepy-stick-thing from the back of his pants and ran it over the painting. It chirped when it swiped over the metal hanging filament, and he adjusted something on it. Finally, he stood. “Wrap it back up, let’s go to the next.”
I
obeyed. There’s no way I could tell if one of these was fake or stolen, but I helped him, and the silent camaraderie even earned me a smile or two. After a long, quiet, stiff hour, though, we’d gone through ten of these damn pictures, all gorgeous, all vexatious.
We took out a medium-sized portrait of a woman in pink—by Mary Cassatt. I gasped and nearly clapped in glee, for she was one of my favorites. He grinned and squeezed my shoulder all too briefly. Again, it went—examine the front, flip it over, hands on the back. Toward the bottom, his breathing hitched. He used the wand thingie, and it beeped over the spot. I had no idea what the hell he’d found, but my heart leaped north somewhere over my head.
From his pocket appeared a knife. I squeaked and reached to stay his hand, but he sliced carefully through the very edge of the painting backing before I could stop him. He flicked a disappointed glance to me, punishing me for my lack of faith. He wiggled some fingers into the slit, slowly so as to not tear or crease it. I clasped my fingers together and held my breath. Watching those dexterous digits at work put me all a-flutter, for he approached me with the same nimbleness. But no time for sexy thoughts—he pulled his hand back, and with it came a flash drive.
My mouth dropped. His mouth grinned.
“Was that coming in or going out to persons unknown?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We won’t know that until we get a look-see.”
“We can’t take it!”
“I’m gonna copy it.” From yet another pocket in his army-green cargo pants, he grabbed his phone and a small black connector that joined the cell and the USB flash drive.
The phone lit his face, washing out the damage there somewhat. I stroked his cheek gently.
He said, “It feels worse than it looks.”
“You should see the other gal.”
His eyebrow cocked. “She looks pretty beautiful to me. Annoying, but beautiful.”
The Wrath of Dimple Page 14
