Kilty as Sin

by Amy Vansant

  Alain nodded. “I know you are.”

  “Right. So, I guess what I’m saying is, message received. Loud and clear. You didn’t have to do this. I would never have not paid you.”

  “I know this too.”

  Tyler nodded. “Right. Good. So we understand each other.”

  Alain crossed his hands on his knee. “You are new to ze games. I do not know you. Ziss ees necessary so that you know me. You understand?”

  Tyler laughed, his nerves pushing what he’d thought was a chuckle into an ear-shattering guffaw. “Absolutely. You can’t let any old slacker lose money and think they’re going to walk away.”

  “Exactly. I’m glad we are on ze same page.”

  “Me too. So, I’ll find my way back. No problem. I have to be on set Monday. I’ll have your money to you by Friday—”

  Alain clucked his tongue. “Friday? Oh no. I don’t sink you want to wait until Friday.”

  “I need to—” Tyler stopped, his brow knitting. Something about the way Alain said that last bit didn’t feel right. “Wait. Why?”

  “Eet’s a lot of words.”

  “Wads?”

  “Words.”

  “Words?”

  Alain nodded. “Oui.” He looked to Dez, who emptied out the plastic bag on to the counter as if he’d asked her to do it. Tyler heard metal clanking. Dez rustled around somewhere behind him for several seconds before walking into view holding what looked like a metal X-Acto knife. His mother used one very much like it for crafting back in Wisconsin.

  Boy, do I miss Wisconsin.

  The knife had a razor-sharp, pointed blade at one end and a metal, pencil-sized body.

  Tyler eyeballed Dez in her leather pants. She didn’t look like the crafting sort.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Eet’s how she’s going to write ze words on your body.”

  “On my body?”

  “Oui. We start with the thigh, no? No one will see that in your modest American swimming trunks. But next we move to your—what do you sink? Stomach? Back? Forehead?”

  Tyler shook his head. “Whoa, wait, you can’t cut my face—I’m an actor—My face is my life.” Even in his rising panic, Tyler knew it was the douchiest thing he’d ever said in his life.

  “Zen maybe you pay me een two days and we spare ze face?”

  Tyler’s head began to buzz with a high-pitched wail he couldn’t identify.

  Am I making that whine? Or does fear have a sound?

  “How can I get you money tied to a chair?”

  Alain shrugged. “I will let you make some phone calls.”

  “Phone calls? Who am I going to call? My parents don’t have that kind of money. I...I...”

  Tyler found it hard to breathe. Spittle flew from his lips as he stammered, searching for the words to pull him from his nightmare.

  “I’ll pay, but I need—”

  “What do you sink we should write first?”

  Alain acted as if Tyler wasn’t writhing in front of him. Tyler sobbed so hard he saw tears shoot from his face, as if his eyes were little cannons. If he wasn’t so panicked, he’d think it was funny.

  Clearly, Alain didn’t respond to panic. He had to calm down.

  Baseball. Sure, think about baseball. Breathe. Think about the Brewers...ohmygod I’m going to die...

  Alain looked at Dez, searching for an answer. “What do you sink?”

  Dez put a finger to her chin in a cartoonish gesture of deep thought. “Hm. That’s a good question. We could carve cheater?”

  Tyler nearly fainted. Why did she have to say carve?

  Alain shook his head. “No, I don’t seenk so. Zat would imply he cheated at cards, don’t you sink? Clearly he didn’t cheat, or he’d already be dead.”

  Dez laughed. “True. Welcher?”

  Alain pointed at her. “Zat’s a good one.”

  Tyler jerked forward, straining against his bonds. “Are you people insane? You can’t carve words into me. I’m a star!”

  Alain didn’t look at him. “How about I don’t pay my debts?”

  Tyler did his best to speak through his racking sobs, words spitting in staccato bursts. “That’s a… freaking…sentence...that’s four words...no, five—”

  Alain finally faced him. “At least I used a contraction for do not, or eet would be six.”

  “Ooh, how about deadbeat?” offered Dez.

  Tyler’s attention whipped to the woman holding the craft knife. “Stop sounding so excited. Stop it. Both of you, I get it. You made your point.”

  Alain nodded. “Oui. I like that best. Deadbeat it is.”

  Dez raised the blade. “The thigh?”

  “Oui.”

  Tyler shook his head so hard the chair rocked. “No, no, no, no. Bum. What about bum? Bum’s a good word.”

  Dez pushed up the left leg of his shorts and he wailed like a siren, unable to stop.

  “I didn’t get my phone call!”

  Chapter Seven

  So many chances.

  No more.

  No more coddling.

  Rune could remember the first time he realized his very presence improved the people around him.

  Somewhere around 900 A.D. in what was now Norway. He’d inspired a thief to return a cloth-wrapped package of salted fish to a vendor. It hadn’t been hard, and that first time, it had made him feel good.

  That feeling hadn’t lasted.

  He remembered one inferior person after the next thriving thanks to his strange ability to offer them hope, courage, patience, inspiration...whatever it was they needed.

  After watching undeserving men and women misuse their newfound inner fortitude, he realized the awful truth.

  People didn’t deserve his help.

  He was throwing off the natural order.

  In 1864, Herbert Spencer first used the phrase survival of the fittest. Of course, Darwin, quoting Spencer five years later in On the Origin of the Species, would get credit for the phrase in history.

  In that case, it was survival of the more widely published.

  Rune chuckled to himself. History only remembered the winners. Many of them horrible people, in truth. Some of which, he’d given a leg up.

  Not any more.

  He stared at Parasol Pictures’ front gate, tapping on the steering wheel of Fiona’s Lexus with his index finger.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  Rune realized the truth behind survival of the fittest long before Spencer or Darwin’s grandparents were even born. Survival of the fittest had become a sort of religion for him, and his faith was strong enough to change his very being. Weak people began to grow weaker around him. Soon, he could tempt the muddle-minded into doing anything. A few words in the right ear...very few had the moral and mental fortitude to withstand a pull towards an easier path.

  Very few.

  He was like the Wizard of Oz, if the Wizard had given the Scarecrow a brain, only to watch him use it to build a nuclear bomb.

  Idiots. All of them.

  Rune had found his calling. Using their own weakness against them, he would rid the world of all its stupid, vicious vermin.

  But his plans had progressed slowly. He was only one man, and he’d suffered some setbacks of his own.

  First, his own daughter had rebelled and ran away.

  Then Ryft nearly cut him in half.

  That was quite a setback. He had to be born anew. Had to grow up all over again.

  He looked down at the gloved hand resting in his lap and sent impulses from his brain to the circuitry there to wiggle his fingers.

  Born without an arm.

  But now he was back. Fiona seemed willing to rejoin him. The world could be controlled through a computer screen. Through a phone. Together, they could find a way to amplify their influence one hundred fold. Hollywood...social media...all they had to do was influence the right people and the world would collapse on itself.

  On its own miserable sniveling, selfish
self. Only the strongest would survive.

  Survival of the fittest.

  Rune caught movement through his windshield and looked up to watch a bearded man wave at the security guard as he walked through the gate and out of Parasol Pictures, headed for his car.

  Ryft.

  Rune pressed the ignition button and shifted into drive.

  Chapter Eight

  Catriona tossed the VHS tape on Sean’s desk with a clattering of plastic.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a video of an unconscious Tyler Bash being thrown into the trunk of a black Mercedes and driven away.”

  Sean cocked an eyebrow. “Please tell me this is some kind of new actor prank.”

  “No such luck. It happened outside Jay’s last night. I don’t know the guy carrying his shoulders, but the girl at his feet is Dez.”

  “Alain’s Dez?”

  “Yep. Tyler’s girlfriend confirmed he has gambling issues. He left to play and never came home. Robert Williams says Tyler was at the game and he was losing.”

  Sean chuckled. “Bob Williams. That old fox is still playing, huh?”

  “He said to say hi.”

  “Hm.” Sean sighed. “So the kid owes Alain money. You’ve run into Dez before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Careful. That little girl packs a punch. I once watched her beat a man twice her size unconscious.”

  “You didn’t stop her?”

  Sean shrugged. “He didn’t work for us and her bloodlust faded pretty quickly with me nearby.”

  It took Catriona a moment before she realized what Sean was telling her. “You influenced Dez to be a better person? Just by being there?”

  He nodded. “Though it works better if you concentrate on it.”

  “Hm. I’ll have to give that a shot.”

  Sean rocked in his chair. “We need Tyler back by Monday or this is going to be a real problem. I’ll call Alain. In the meantime, you two pack for Vegas. Even if I convince Alain to let him go, he isn’t going to deliver him.”

  “You think he took the kid to Las Vegas?”

  “More than likely. That’s his home base.”

  Sean found his phone and Catriona turned to leave.

  “Where’s Broch?” asked Sean as he searched for the number to dial.

  Catriona opened the door.

  “I left him talking to half a horse.”

  Sean nodded. “Tell him not to lend him any money. Go pack.”

  Catriona stepped outside to find Broch pulling a twenty dollar bill out of the leather sporran she liked to call his man purse.

  She hastened her pace and caught his hand before he could pass the money to a man leaning against the wall of Studio Three, smoking a cigar. The man wore the back-end of a sparkling pink pony costume.

  “Rick needs money,” said Broch.

  “No. Rick knows because he works on a kid show, people don’t immediately realize what an asshole he is.” She scowled at the half-man, half-sparkly pony. “Shame on you. Quit taking advantage of the new employees.”

  Rick frowned. “You’re no fun.”

  Catriona motioned to the cigar. “And you know Gustav hates the smell of those things.”

  Gustav was the magical pony’s head.

  Rick rolled his eyes and muttered a profanity to show how little he cared about the preferences of his better half.

  Catriona tapped Broch’s arm. “Come on. We have to pack for Vegas.”

  Broch shrugged at Rick and followed Catriona away.

  “Rick said his hoose burned down,” he said as they headed for their apartments above the payroll office.

  “He lied.”

  “He said he lost everything.”

  “He lied twice. If you’d given him that twenty, next week his parakeet would have contracted bird flu.”

  “Whit’s Vegas?”

  Catriona turned to him. “That’s a good question. I’m not sure I can explain Vegas to you. You sort of have to see it.”

  “Try.”

  Catriona hooked a thumb back towards Rick. “Picture that guy in half a sparkling pink pony costume as the most normal person here.”

  Broch frowned. “Whit?”

  “Okay, picture the Parasol studio lot, only everything is three times as big, three times as weird, and covered with lights, boobs and glitter.”

  Broch frowned.

  “I cannae. Yer tairible at this.”

  Catriona shrugged. “It’s not my fault. I told you you wouldn’t be able to picture it. You’ll understand when we get there.”

  The phone in Catriona’s pocket dinged and she retrieved it to find a new text message from Sean.

  Can’t reach Alain but you’ll find him at the penthouse of the golden tower.

  “The golden tower?” She winced. “That’s a terrible name.”

  Her phone dinged again.

  Get a blank check from Jeanie. Tell her I okayed it.

  Catriona grinned.

  Loose in Vegas with a blank check?

  “We’re going shopping,” she said aloud.

  “We are?”

  “No. Just kidding. Joke to myself.”

  “Och. Hilarious. Be sure tae shaur yer next private joke wi’ me tae.”

  She glanced at him. “You know, you’ve gotten a lot more sarcastic since you showed up here.”

  Broch muttered under his breath. “Ah wonder how come.”

  Her phone dinged again.

  Take the jet.

  “Really? This is like Christmas. We get to take the jet.”

  Broch paled. “Ah don’t lik’ planes.”

  “It beats driving four hours.”

  “Nae it doesnae.”

  They entered the payroll office and Catriona smiled as she approached Jeanie. The payroll clerk sat behind her desk in a turquoise scoop-neck tee and a necklace adorned with green plastic beads the size of credit cards.

  Jeanie grinned back at her. “Hello, you adorable things. How’s the most beautiful couple in the world today?”

  Catriona rolled her eyes. “We’re not a couple.”

  Broch nodded his head in Catriona’s direction. “She willnae marry me.”

  Jeanie’s smile collapsed like a Jenga tower.

  “Marry you?”

  Jeanie turned to Catriona and reignited her glee. Her expression skipped past the first-gear smile she’d donned upon their entry and slammed into a grin-gear somewhere past fifth. Catriona felt as if she was suddenly staring into the sun.

  “He asked you to marry him?”

  Catriona groaned. The last thing she wanted to do was explain to Jeanie that Broch had asked her to marry him so they could have legit sex under his archaic Scottish Highland marriage-material rules. Sure he said he loved her, but they’d only known each other for a little over two months...

  “I need a check.” She decided her best bet was to ignore the current topic of conversation entirely.

  “But—”

  “Check.”

  “But he—”

  “Blank check.”

  Jeanie huffed. “I swear. You’re about as fun as a butt full of cactus thorns.”

  Catriona watched as Jeanie took a moment to resign herself to her disappointment. After a few seconds of quiet, broken only by one dramatic sigh, she readdressed Catriona.

  “Fine. What do you mean a blank check?”

  Catriona drew a box in the air with her fingers. “An actual check. Blank. I need to give an actor a temporary loan.”

  “I can’t just give you a blank check.”

  Catriona held up her phone so Jeanie could see Sean’s message. The payroll clerk lowered her reading glasses from her head and peered at the screen, her lips moving as she read through the thread.

  “Hm. I guess I can give you a blank check.”

  Jeanie pulled out an oversized checkbook and detached one. “How are you today, my fine Scottish haggis, other than having to spend your day with this evil girl?”


  Broch’s expression clouded. “We’re tak’ing a jet.”

  “Well that’s fun, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “Na.”

  Jeanie held up the check, hovering it just out of Catriona’s reach. “For the record, Broch, I think you’re as sweet as shortbread.”

  Broch smiled and nodded slowly, eyes closed, looking like a solemn gentleman. “Thank ye, Jeanie. And ah think yer a golden ray of sunshine.”

  Jeanie blushed and pretended to fan herself with the check. “Why thank ye, me lord.”

  “For crying out loud.” Catriona plucked the check from Jeanie’s fingers. “Thanks Jeanie. I’ll let you know the amount as soon as I know.”

  Jeanie shook a finger at her. “You’d better.”

  Catriona and Broch headed toward the elevator and Jeanie called after them.

  “You’d better be nicer to Broch before I steal him from you. Say it Broch!”

  Catriona dropped her head into her hand as Broch cleared his throat. “Top of the morn tae ye.”

  Catriona could hear Jeanie giggling as the doors slid shut. For some reason the woman loved making Scottish Broch say a cliché Irish phrase.

  She glanced at Broch. “Don’t pack everything you own.”

  “Ah willnae.”

  “Put jeans on. No kilt.”

  He grunted.

  “Don’t bring shampoo, they’ll have that there if we need to stay.”

  “But ah lik’ my shampoo.”

  “Do not bring it. No soap either.”

  “But ah ordered a new one from the jungle and it smells lik’ coconuts.”

  Catriona shook her head. “I told you, Amazon is not a jungle. I mean it is, but not the one you order from.” She frowned. The Highlander had gotten way too good with computers. She’d shown him how to order things he needed from Amazon and her monthly bill had quadrupled. That was fine, since for the time being she cashed his checks for him, but at some point she really needed to untangle their finances before he ruined her with his hygiene-product budget. Growing up in filthy ancient Scotland had scarred the man for life.

  He did smell like a morning stroll through a tropical garden though. A really manly tropical garden.

  Her gaze drifted down to the veins in his arms roping down to the back of those large, beautiful hands—

  She cleared her throat and looked away.

  Back to business.