“I can’t wait. Thanks, Sam.”
“It’s just a movie.”
“No, I mean—” The phone rattled for a sec. “I mean thank you for…everything. I think you’re pretty badass, too.”
My grin was swift and shit-eating. “Of course I am.”
“See you tomorrow night.”
“Okay. It’s a date!” I squealed.
“Cheeseball.” He hung up on me.
“What was all that about?” Ellen was either psychic, or listening to my call from outside the door.
I sat up and tossed the phone on the bed. “My husband remembered that I like movie theater popcorn, and I have a date with him tomorrow for a flick.”
“Sittin’ in the back, making out?” She nodded ‘aw-yeah’ style.
“I sure as shit hope so.”
I asked her for some fresh clothes to wear, and she ran off to take good care of me. I chose that moment to call the party planner and solidify the details for Ellen’s party. The planner had produced exactly what I wanted, and, as always, I marveled at how differently I lived now as opposed to back in the day. A party for Ellen five years ago would have been us drunk at the roller rink.
Speaking of drunk, after a refill of champagne from Ellen, I finally began to relax. Just a bit. I’d been on a rollercoaster of crap since the moment poor Sam had been attacked, and the Crapinator was finally, finally slowing. Taylor stewed behind bars. Sure, he’d probably be released on bail, but we had police protection now, and things were out of my hands. It occurred to me that Sam would likely have to testify or something, but I was praying I could stay out of it.
One refill, two refill, bubbly refill, too much refill. Me and Ellen got the burps, and spent a super fun night watching The Princess and the Frog and drunking.
* * * *
Ext: A swamp—night.
Angle On: Handsome Prince Sam falls to bended knee before Samantha the Frog, who is a frog. He lands in a brown puddle.
Handsome Prince Sam: Ugh, I just had these breeches cleaned! Why are you so short?
Samantha the Frog: I’m a frog. Well, right now. In reality, I’m a lovely princess who does movies with a lot of pratfalls in them.
Handsome Prince Sam: But you’re still short, right?
Samantha the Frog: Um…it’s hard to remember. Why don’t you kiss me and find out?
Samantha the Frog tries to shoot him a come-hither look, but frogs can only manage a ‘your lily pad or mine?’ face.
Handsome Prince Sam: See, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. There’s this other princess. She’s really pretty and fun, and I remember her from movies that don’t mostly involve pratfalls. Also, Princess Kerry Washington already has boobs.
Samantha the Frog: What are you saying?
Handsome Prince Sam: I’m saying she has boobs. And when I kiss her, it won’t taste of fly carcasses.
Samantha the Frog: I have to eat, okay? The evil wizard Taylor who turned me into a frog didn’t allow for chicken nuggets.
Handsome Prince Sam: I’m glad you understand. ’Cause there’s this other princess—Princess Katy Perry—and—
Samantha the Frog: Princess Katy Perry? Are you shitting me?
Handsome Prince Sam: Her boobs are covered in candy.
Samantha the Frog: I—I can’t really argue with that. I would be unable to resist candy boobs.
Handsome Prince Sam: Because they’re covered in candy.
Samantha the Frog: I only stopped eating stray candy off the ground when I was seven because my mother threatened to never let me watch Grease again.
Handsome Prince Sam: I think you’re a lot more comfortable being a frog than you let on.
Samantha the Frog: No! Please, just kiss me! I love you, Prince Sam, from my weird webbed feet to whatever this gland is on my head.
Handsome Prince Sam: So you love me three inches?
Samantha the Frog: You’re being really literal today.
Angle On: Handsome Prince Sam, who stretches innocently, makes nonchalant noises, then stands up.
Handsome Prince Sam: Well, this bog isn’t good for my shiny boots, and I have a kingdom to get back to. Serfs don’t oppress themselves. So I’ll just—
Angle On: Samantha the Frog leaps onto said boot and hangs onto the toe for dear life.
Samantha the Frog: Take me with you! I’ll do that sex thing I’ve always been leery of!
Angle On: Handsome Prince Sam begins to walk away, trying to flick Samantha the Frog off his shoe. Princesses Kerry Washington and Katy Perry appear. Kerry wears a garbage bag, flawlessly—only she could pull it off. Katy Perry is covered in candy, like a reverse piñata.
Princess Kerry Washington: Look at my non-frog boobs, Handsome Prince Sam.
Handsome Prince Sam: Way ahead of you.
Princess Katy Perry: Ew, you have a frog on your boot. I can’t possibly feed you the peanut butter cups stuck to my nipples in such a circumstance.
Angle On: Fairy Godmother Suzie, who appears in a ball of pink light to float next to Samantha the Frog.
Fairy Godmother Suzie: For God’s sake, Samantha. Offer to have a four-way with them! You will never catch a prince with monogamous frog sex! Here, let me show you…
Angle On: Princess Katy Perry kicks Samantha the Frog off Handsome Prince Sam’s boot. Samantha the Frog falls into a slimy patch of dead leaves as a shadow descends upon her from above. The last thing she sees is a high heel made of licorice before splat!
* * * *
I don’t know if I drunken stupor-ed the frog thing or dreamed it, but I concluded that I now harbored an anger against Katy Perry that seemed extremely reasonable. My brain festered on my hatred for a while, but I had to abandon these thoughts, for my head felt like broken glass and my heart overflowed with swamp mud.
Before I could even coffee, my cell phone rang. Local number, someone not in my contacts. Probably about Ellen’s party. “Hello?”
“Samantha!” said a familiar female voice. “The gates of hell have descended upon me! I need a friend on this plane of reality to help me through what these Philistines are doing to my poor Taylor!”
Billie sang these words in a continuous, wailing sob, and I think a chant there at the end.
No no no no—why had I picked up? Once again, the pursuit of fancy, overpriced speakeasy drinks had led an innocent lady off the garden path.
“Hi, Billie. Oh, no, what’s happened?” Yup, I’m a good actress, even at eight in the morning and with a stomach full of bats.
“I cannot say over the phone. They are watching!”
Wouldn’t they be listening, if it’s the phone? Maybe she means the ghosts…
She continued, “I have nowhere else to turn. Everyone in the city just wants something from me. You just want me, and I know our affair can withstand these slanderous lies. Please hold my hand and kiss the despair from my brow.”
I would literally never, ever do either of those things. My heart made a gagging noise. “Uhhhhhh,” was all I managed to grind out.
“Thank you, lover.”
Uhhhhhhh.
She wanted me to meet her for lunch at a super-cool West Village place where folks would definitely take our picture together. She was looking for public allies. Shit, it was probably all over the news this morning about Taylor. No no no no. I did not want to do this, but I was still in Taylor’s movie, and—yes, that was it! “I have to be on set today, Billie.”
“You haven’t checked your email yet, you thespian angel. The production is stopped until justice is obtained for Taylor.”
Shit fuck poopsicle damn! “Justice?”
“All will be revealed. I’ll pick you up in my car at noon. Do not speak to the press!”
I didn’t bother to feign ignorance about why I shouldn’t talk to the press, and she hung up anyway.
“Shitburgers!” I screamed.
Ellen hollered from outside the room, “Good day so far, Lytton?”
“Coffee and bitching, fiv
e minutes?” I called back.
“You make the coffee, I’m not your maid,” was the reply I received. “But bitching, yes, for I am your bitch.”
I managed a half-laugh, put my feet on the floor, then shuffled out to get to work making coffee. Loneliness for Sam smacked me in the face, and I wondered what he was doing right now. Probably sleeping. He was not an eight a.m. sort of person. I bet he looked so cute and soft, rumpled up from sleep, his hair all mussy. I bet if I gave him a kiss on that warm cheek, on that adorable place that had just barely turned salt and pepper at his ear, he’d wake up. He’d wake up smiling. And hard. He’d yank me the few inches between us and throw a leg over mine to keep me close. We’d cuddle for a few minutes, cozy and perfect. Then that cock would get the better of him, and he’d start moving his hips against me…
“Coffee?” said Ellen straight into my ear as my hands hovered over the ground beans.
“Sorry.” I measured the coffee into the thingie and pressed go with a pathetic sigh. I’d lusted myself into a hyper-aroused state. Must tell Ellen about Billie—that should deflate my everything. “Billie just called me. She wants to sob on my shoulder in public at lunch because she thinks I wanted to bone her.”
Ellen grabbed us coffee mugs. “And you said no.”
“She hung up before I could answer! I’m supposed to be fetched at noon.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Well, I’ll just go and listen to her prattle on about spirits—”
My BFF made a face and shook her head. “No, dummy! It’ll be seen as a gesture of support. And then, if you do get dragged into a trial, people will wonder about the hypocrisy.”
“Wait, what? But—if I get dragged into the trial, it’ll be everywhere that my husband and I propositioned Taylor and Billie.” Suddenly the world dimmed, and the edges turned green like vomit. I sank down the kitchen cabinets to land on the floor, hard, my butt now aching as bad as the rest of me. “Nooooooo,” I moaned as I tilted to the side, for lying prone on the floor was my only option. Wow, Ellen keeps her floors sparkly clean.
Ellen poured us both the good stuff and joined me on the tile. “Look—the FBI sent Sam into that apartment in the first place. I bet this whole trial takes place in a secret government court on an island that isn’t mapped on a planet they haven’t told us about. And even if it isn’t, I’m sure there’s a way Deborah Diaz—”
“Attorney to the stars TM.”
“Attorney to the stars TM could spin that shit. You’ll come out looking investigatey, sexy, or investigatey and sexy.”
I slurped my coffee. “I would like to think that.”
“Then do. Self-delusion is the only way anyone gets through life. When I get depressed, I pretend I’m from the planet Awesome.”
Slurp. Sluuuurp. Coffee…working. Brain…slightly less hurty. “Why do these things happen to me, Ellen? I’m a nice person. I give to charity, and I’ve never kicked a puppy. I’ve tripped over one, but I hope that doesn’t count. I apologized to it.”
“Your problem—it rhymes with Ham. Is he really that good at sex? Enough to make up for all these express trips to Crazytown?”
“Yes. His dick is literally magic.”
“A mighty wang, indeed.” She grabbed a wooden spoon, hovered it over her crotch, and swooshed it in a circle. “Orgasmium Explosia!”
I thumped against the cabinets, laughing. “Expecto Clitorum!”
“I would write such a good Harry Potter porn parody.”
“And I would star as Minerva McBangem’all, the stern, yet horny headmistress of Genital Warts School of Bitchcraft and Sluttery.”
Ellen pulled a face. “Genital Warts? I guess the Defense Against the Dick Arts teacher is always being replaced, to ill effect.”
I sat on my knees and bowed to her. “I’m not worthy.”
“No, not even a little.”
Sluuuuuuurp. “So, I’ll go talk to Billie in her car, say nothing in case she’s, like, wearing a wire under her caftan, and make her bring me home again.”
“No public endorsements.”
“Nope.”
“Bring pepper spray.”
I shuddered. “Taylor can’t be bailed out already, can he?”
“Better safe than hippie.”
Time seemed to fly between our dirty spell talk and the moment when I needed to walk to my place in order to meet Billie out front. I declined to go up to see Sam, because I didn’t want to tell him about meeting Billie. We didn’t need any more angst between us—the next time I saw him, we’d be on a date, and I’d be Headmistress Horny.
Perfectly on time—which I thought odd for such a day tripper—a limo painted burgundy pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment building. Ugh. That car looked like a depressed time-traveler from 1974. The back door opened from the inside, and I heard a wail of angst.
I sighed. I guessed that was my cue to be a ‘friend’ to Billie. I’d worn an outfit designed by Ellen to be completely unappealing—baggy boy jeans, difficult to get off sports bra, ratty T-shirt, and an enormous cable-knit sweater, the sort preferred by sea captains posing on fish-stick boxes. A tan hunting jacket topped all this seductiveness.
“Samantha! My angels told me to turn to you in this, my hour of needs.”
“Uh-huh.” Needs—plural? I didn’t want an hour of any of her needs. I declined to sit next to her in the very back, but chose a seat on the side. “I read about Taylor.”
She took out a pouch and began waving it around while chanting. Then she opened it up, scooped something from the inside, and sniffed it, tears in her eyes.
Oh. This was that kinda limo ride. I’d shared one of those with an aging pop star on the way from the MTV Movie Awards to an after-party last year. There had been a lot of drugs and crying. Not—shockingly enough—from me. No telling what amount of money I could have made from a video of that night.
Hmmmmm. I reached into my purse and pretended to fish for a Kleenex, but started the camera on my phone instead, to record audio at the least. When I emerged, I handed Billie a tissue. “I’m sorry for your troubles, but I’m afraid I can’t do lunch today. I just hopped in to tell you—”
Billie gave the driver instructions, and the limo took off. “I brewed detox tea.” She shoved a giant travel mug into my face.
It smelled like a combo of dead pigeons and buried hopes, with a hint of cinnamon. I smiled and told myself it would be over soon.
“We must flush this evilness from us. I always knew you would be Taylor’s second wife.”
“What?” A third of the tea flipped into my lap. I hissed at the heat, which was a pain better than the idea of being married to that asswipe.
“Drink, drink.” Her usually wan and pretentious face melted into an approximation of a friendly smile.
“I can’t stay long. I’m sorry for what you’re going through, though.” I actually was. I knew from crazy men and the havoc they wreak. My shoulders slumped, and a stab of real pity shot through me in that moment. I clanked my mug to hers and took a pull. It tasted way better than it smelled, thank the culinary gods.
She slid into the seat next to me and squeezed my knee. Her greasy braid totally touched me, and it was horrifying, like spending eternity at Coachella. My every instinct screamed to pull away, but I felt so sorry for my sister wife that I stayed. She kept talking, “Taylor knows how special you are. I know, too. When we found you in our bed, it was a wonderful day. It was a curse of fate that you had to leave so suddenly.”
Whose fate were we talking about? I nodded then took a drink of tea to avoid speaking.
The limo turned, definitely not toward the West Village. I knew a heart-thumping minute of panic, inspired by my cab kidnapping. I finally realized that he was circling in a few-block radius. I let out a parched breath—I’d said I couldn’t go to lunch, and she was respecting this. Shit, she was still talking. I yawned, trying to hide it, but obviously I wasn’t feeling too inspired by her weird diatribe.
&
nbsp; “…of course, Taylor has his problems with the fascist government of the United States…”
Fascist how? The man was born rich and continued to be rich through the wonders of capitalism and tax shelters.
“Jealous people have been after him for years, envious of his success. Even one of my very own angels tried to sabotage him because of unbridled envy!”
Did she know what an angel was? I thought they were ‘Shadows’? Maybe she meant Satan. He was an angel. Although—yawn…damn, I was tired—an upstanding angel might hate Taylor for very godly reasons.
The limo started to spin. Not turn, spin. I peeled off my hunting jacket, ’cause I was so hot all of a sudden. Jeez, leftover hangover is a bitch. Billie helped me pull off one sleeve, and her grin was so funny! I giggled and sniffed and yawned all at once. She ran a hand down my hair, saying, “You’re smarter than you seem, Samantha.”
“Thanks.”
Her head starting swimming in my vision. I pulled at the neck of my sweater—it was so thick. Stifling.
“You don’t need that in here,” she said, lifting it over my head.
I laughed and fell flat on my face with my arms trapped in a sweater over my head. The limo lurched, and I rolled onto my back, thunking to the floor. My heart pumped and pounded, my breath fast, fast. My mug leaked onto my shirt. Billie knelt above me, smiling. Laughing. I wanted to laugh too, but my eyes wanted to close.
She’d drugged me, I thought absently. I nodded. I tried to nod. Excellent, excellent, yes another kidnapping. I did laugh then, because I was good at those.
Chapter Thirteen
Worst Game of ‘Would You Rather’ Ever
The ocean. I shot upwards in the enormous bed and heard it again—the waves of the ocean. Somehow, my feet found the ground, and I stumbled to the curtained window in a room I’d never seen before. Fogginess clogged my brain, but my head didn’t ache as much as with most knock-out drugs.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 19
