My guts knotted. “No.”
“Don’t freak out.” He gave me a little shoulder squeeze. “You’re going to be fine—this is a precaution only. It’s a nine millimetre, a little easier for a rookie to handle than the other one. It will not go off unless you pull the trigger, even if you drop it. That’s an important safety feature for you.”
“I hate you.”
“Hold the gun in front of you, away from me.” Shaking, I pushed out the metal. This one was lighter than the other one. “You need a firm grip, but not a death grip. You’re not strangling a Steak on a Stick.” I laughed a little, the tension seeping a bit from my fingers. “Hold the gun in your right hand, finger off the trigger until you want it. Wrap the left around the front of your right.” He stood behind me and moulded my hands on the firearm.
Sidebar—I think shooting would be much more popular with women if hot, naked guys did the instructing. Or hot, naked ladies for my lesbian cohorts. I am an equal-opportunity objectifier.
He continued, “Keep your knees bent and easy, that’ll help with the recoil. Use the sight with your dominant eye for aim. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.” My insides wobbled. “How many times have you fired this?”
“At a person? None.” He pushed my arm so the gun pointed towards the floor. “The penalties are so much more severe when you put holes in human beings. Let’s keep that record, shall we?” Too quickly, he pulled on his jeans from the day before—sans black boxers—and a fresh T-shirt. “See you later.”
Those mossy eyes raked over my body, caressing every curve, leaving a tingling trail where they touched. Nate grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me in for a hungry kiss. Putting his head atop mine, he held me for just a moment. “Please behave, you annoying woman.”
With that tender murmur, he left.
The door burst open again. I screamed and dropped the gun, which thumped onto the carpet, but did not go off. He gave me an ‘I told you so, idiot’ face. It involved a great deal of eyeball rolling. “Don’t touch anything.”
“You have real control issues, you know that?”
“Are we comparing psychological problems?” In my indignation, I got no more words in edgewise before he closed the door behind him.
I stood there butt naked for five minutes, waiting for him to burst into the room again.
At least I wasn’t at work.
* * * *
“Hi, this is Ellen—”
Shit! I’d got her voicemail.
“Leave a message—”
Was her cell being tapped?
“Or be square.”
Can they do that?
“Include your phone number!”
I decided to leave a super-sneaky coded message. I couldn’t leave my phone number, but her cell would record the incoming number.
Beep.
“Um, good day, Ms Rice, this is…Marlene’s Kitten Mart. We have the kittens you ordered. All six of them. You might need some litter boxes, too. Which we also have. Because we’re the Kitten Mart, so that makes sense. Call us back please. Okay. Meow. That means bye.”
We’d decided to open up a kitten mart one night whilst drunk. Yeah, baby—Samantha the spy, full of covert operations.
I was also full of coffee, so I had to pee.
Another mission accomplished—hey, sometimes small goals are the only doable ones—I found some of my clothes in my gym bag and put on a blouse and jeans. With a better bra than the beige one. He was getting condoms after all. Cute bras were just polite.
The idea of being with Nate again sent me to shivering. The sheer, gut-wrenching intimacy between us had been different than with anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, I was a girl who enjoyed her sex, but ours was a visceral connection I hadn’t experienced before, in or out of the bedroom.
What a disaster.
I sauntered to the couch and pushed the power button on the remote, but mashed it again before the picture even glowed. I didn’t actually want to see the news.
I should call my mother. Mom would worry, right?
Nate’s land line rang, making me jump out of my cute bra. It must be El Escorpión! Sheer terror gripped my heart like I gripped the sofa cushions. The Scorpion was calling to—warn me he was coming? Erm. Probably not. “Hello?”
“Are you okay? I’m calling from Sandy’s empty office. I ordered six kittens, eh? Sounds legit.”
“You are a fan of cats.”
“It’s in the spinster handbook. Guess what? The police have been here today talking to me. Talking to everyone. I think they think Scumbag Scott has kidnapped you.” Ellen talked so fast I almost thought I’d heard ‘Scumbag Scott’.
“Scumbag Scott? Are you serious?”
“He didn’t come to work today, and she—the cop, who is completely cute, so thanks—said Scott’s car got a ticket on your street the night you disappeared.”
WTF?
I paused. “The police are really seriously pursuing me?”
“Yes, Sam. You had better manufacture some awesome story or you’re going to be like that horrible woman who got engaged, disappeared and came back. And then the world thought she was a moron and hated her, the end.”
“It’s not actually a crime, though, right? I haven’t broken any laws. I’m in hiding because armed men, er, man, came after me.”
“I guess.”
“Well?”
Silence from Ellen. “Is he there?”
“No he went out for con—he went out.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Silence from me. And a grin I could not have prised off my face with a crowbar.
“I can hear your sex smirk, and I’m jealous. Except for the penis part. So?”
“He was—” I searched for words as I wandered to the kitchen. He was better than gourmet goat’s cheese. He was better than I imagined Jon Hamm to be. He was clichéd song lyrics. If he was wrong, I didn’t want to be right.
“What? He was what?”
“Amaaaaazing.”
“Damn.”
The line crackled.
I swallowed. “I should probably go. I’m hungry.” I popped a Dr Pepper.
“I bet you are.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm.”
“What is the plan?”
“Things are in motion. I’ll call you again.” Damn! Out of Hot Pockets. I closed the freezer door and peeked in a cabinet.
“Things are in motion? What the hell is that code for? And what—”
“Ow!” I held the receiver away from my ear at a crash-rumble-rumble from Ellen’s end.
“Sorry, I dropped the phone. The sexy cop just peeked her head in. I think she’s checking me out. I have to go. Be safe.”
“Good luck with her!” I hung up.
Closing the disappointing cabinet that contained only canned yams, I sighed. I was doing the right thing. Right? Right. After Oliver the Scorpion was arrested—and/or Scumbag Scott, was he Oliver’s accomplice?—I could emerge from hiding, triumphant, and blame him for coming after me. Right? Right. He’d attacked me at my apartment, so I’d run away and hidden. Logical.
I bit into a crisp apple. Ugh. Into an old and squishy apple. I spat the bite into the trash and wondered how much time Nate spent in LA.
A yawning feeling rooted around in my stomach. I abandoned food and flitted to the bathroom with my gym bag to brush my teeth and hair. I hurried, and found myself with nothing to do except think. Bad idea. My new life outlook didn’t involve ratiocination, per se. Not right now.
I went through Nate’s closet instead.
I shouldn’t have sniffed his shirts. They smelt wonderful. I shouldn’t have rifled through his pockets. But maybe he’d left a business card that would offer insightful clues about his real identity, or the probability that he’d be able to unscrew up the life of a failed actress-failed secretary-natural blonde.
No business cards. Although I did find a receipt in French dated three months ago in a coat pocket. I only took two semester
s of high school French, which boiled down to ‘Je ne parle pas Français’.
I wondered if Nate spoke French. I began imagining him saying dirty French things to me in bed and got very distracted.
Seeking out his drawers—the ones in his armoire—I found socks, boxers and one condom. Laughing, I threw it on the comforter.
I’d complicated things by sleeping with him. But as long as I remembered he was an underhanded lying thief only really out for himself, I would be okay. A sophisticated woman of the world was open to that sort of adventurous sex without emotion. I could do it, too.
I should call my mother. My actual mother. The one who ejected me from her womb a month early because I was already a disappointment and more gestation wouldn’t fix anything. That was probably why I was so short.
I didn’t want to call my mother. At fifty, she’d suddenly divorced her husband of thirty-one years and moved to Las Vegas. Why? She couldn’t take Dad’s lack of ability in the sack anymore. I shuddered, as I did every time I thought the words ‘Mom’, ‘Dad’ and ‘bed’.
As I shared my third muffin of the day with Captain Taco, I had a revelation.
Maybe Mom’s new hubby Diego was to Nate what Dad was to my last boyfriend Alex, the guy in that one Best Buy commercial.
Nate made all my lascivious dreams come true.
Best Buy guy lasted three minutes, then watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians with commentary about how fat they all were.
No wonder Mom ran away just like I was doing now.
My lips turned up ever so slightly. Perhaps my mother and I had more in common than I knew.
The front door opened and closed. I slammed the armoire drawer shut. A plaintive meow sounded from inside. I let Captain Taco leap out. He and his master must have taken stealth lessons together.
Where the hell was the gun? At this rate, I’d have to throw the cat at the intruder. As if reading my mind, the damn feline promptly dashed under the bed.
Nate stalked in the room and examined me from top to bottom. “Thank God you’re not advertising Xanadu.” He threw a plastic bag on the bed and proceeded into the bathroom.
Thank God he wasn’t El Escorpión. I made a vow to keep track of my guns more precisely.
Flush. He emerged quickly. “Red or brown?”
My brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I want to know what you’re talking about.”
His burnt orange T-shirt made his eyes dark. Very dark. “In the bag. We need to cover up that hair, Goldilocks. We should leave town—my sources tell me a not-happy Oliver is desperate to find your little blonde ass, as well as the dumbass who’s been helping you.”
His words spun around me like a tornado. “Shit.”
“Yes, shit.” He exited the bedroom. “Now, dye.”
“Is that what we’re calling your involvement? Helping me?”
A snort was his only reply.
In the bag sat Clairol semi-permanent dye. Feisty—red—or Mocha Minx—brown. I weighed them in my hands, taking my choice tremendously seriously. With red hair I’d emulate the awesome chick in that movie who ran all the time. What movie was that? Anyway, she was a badass. Red was for badass girls.
“Red,” I called out to him. He had disappeared. I took off my blouse and went into the bathroom to dye. Mixing the chemicals and getting rather excited about my new scarlet hair, I considered where to go.
Would Mom rat on me if we went to Vegas? No, Mom might be a lot of interesting things, but she’d help me. I think.
“Maybe we should try Vegas,” I called out. No answer.
I glooped red muck onto my pale, beautiful blonde locks while considering the millions of women who paid millions of dollars to get hair my natural colour.
“Vegas?”
Jumping towards his voice, I flung thick, gloopy dye onto Nate’s face and shirt.
He grunted and walked past me to a cabinet. Pulling down a towel, he growled, “Vegas? You have a soft spot for Cirque du Soleil?”
“No, but it’s close. Crowded. Loud.”
Nate finished wiping his face and peeled off his splattered shirt. “I’ll think about it.”
“You have a better plan?”
“My plan is for you to not get any more hair dye on me.” Backing away, he surveyed me—my arms up, hands in my hair, pert bosom swathed in lavender silk. He licked his bottom lip. “Be careful of your bra.”
I shrugged one girly shoulder at him. “You approve?”
Nate’s mouth twitched. But he said nothing, just watched, leaning against the door frame, his ripped chest rising and falling with his elevated breathing. I finished putting the dye in, adding a bit to my eyebrows even though the instructions said not to, and peeled the plastic gloves off. I couldn’t have red hair and invisible blonde brows. “Thirty minutes,” I read off the box. Looking back at him, I waited. “Is your next plan to stare at me for half an hour?”
Eye roll. “Wiseass.” He left, returning with a Rolling Stone for me to read. “Do not set foot outside that bathroom until you’re done.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured. As he went into the bedroom, I stared at the muscles of his back. My eyes stroked his shoulders, his butt, his chest as he sat on the bed—his nicely chiselled arms as he reached for the condom I had thrown there—his handsome face as he quizzically stared at it—his frown as he turned to look at me—his manly stride as he stalked the few feet back to the door of the bathroom—his fine hands as he held the small package to my nose.
“Where did you find this?” he asked evenly.
Oops. Go defence! Go defence! I tried to raise one eyebrow, but couldn’t, so I ended up flailing them both upward in an unconvincing expression of surprise. “Did you really think I wouldn’t go through your stuff?”
“I see.” He shook his head and crossed his arms in a show of being outraged. Pretty gallingly sanctimonious for a thief.
“You’d have done the same thing.”
“Find anything interesting?”
I lifted my chin and cocked my head. “Besides the condom you weren’t able to locate?”
“Are you complaining?” the dimple challenged.
I pursed my lips and stayed courageously silent. Courageously as in I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t overinflate his ego. Turning away, I sat on the side of the tub and found the Rolling Stone fascinating. I could feel Nate’s eyes boring into me.
“I found your diary.” It slipped out of my mouth before I had time to reconsider my gambit.
He sucked in an indignant breath. “I don’t have a diary.”
Examining an article about Lady Gaga, I replied, “Nope. Wouldn’t want anyone to get to know the real you.”
“Diaries aren’t for other people, anyhow.”
I shrugged.
He leaned against the door frame. “What do you want to know, Samantha?”
Was he kidding? I flicked my head to see if he was in earnest. His eyes shone wary, yet resigned, somehow. I tamped down the excitement blossoming through me. “Name something you believe in. For real.”
Shock made him blink. He turned his back to the wall and sagged into it, thinking. “I believe in you.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
He laughed. “Wow. The fact that you think so says more about you than it does about me.”
I stood, my mouth hanging open. I believed in myself, didn’t I? Or had I called myself a failure for so long that I’d put a down payment at Loser Estates Retirement Community? “It’s still a deflection. I want to know what you believe in.”
Eyes on the floor, he said, “I believe in karma, or at least the Western notion of it—what goes around, comes around.” He smiled. “That’s how I know you’ll be okay.” He held up the condom I’d rooted out. “I’ll remember this,” he intoned. With a flick, he threw it at me. It stuck in the goop in my hair.
My heart flip-flopped, but I didn’t smile. Much. Revenge was a dish best served naked.
I closed the door after him a
nd slowly sank onto the edge of the tub. Karma meant that I’d be fine, according to him.
What did karma have in store for a professional thief? Thieving from people like Oliver, though—was that really so vile? There were so many way eviler people in the world than Nate. Oliver being one of them, apparently. They succeeded all the time.
No, I didn’t really believe in karma. I lived in Tinseltown, after all. When your chosen profession’s meritocracy was based on facial symmetry, waist size and the casting couch, it became maddening to embrace ‘you get what you give’ as a life philosophy.
The fact that Nate did believe in it… I spent the rest of my thirty minutes pondering that rather romantic notion.
Chapter Eight
What Happens in Vegas, Happens in Vegas
The mirror squeaked as I swirled my hand over it, cutting through the steam. A stranger stared back at me. A cool, flame-haired vixen, blue eyes wide, her pale face a luminous moon.
“Oh, my,” I whispered to my russet-headed doppelganger. Gathering my red-streaked towel around my breasts, I opened the door and exited into the bedroom amid a dramatic whoosh of vapour.
Nate glanced up from his phone, upon which he had been concentrating anger, and stopped dead. His stare devoured me the way I went after a cheeseburger.
I clutched the towel and dripped on the rug. He glided towards me, but hesitated a couple of feet away. “You need to get dressed.”
My smile spread slowly. “What do you think?”
Nate opened and closed his mouth. He inspected the floor. “I liked you blonde.”
My face fell as I, too, stared at the riveting floor. “I’ll get dressed.” I meant to sound strong, but my voice had deflated. Why did I care, anyhow? Mine was the opinion that counted. And I considered myself awesome.
With a stiff turn, I went back to the bathroom, threw on clothing, and blew my disguised hair dry. Stuffing my few possessions into the gym bag, I strode into the living room. “I’m ready.” I sat on the couch and reminded myself that no matter how good he was in bed, no man’s opinion should matter over my own. Now smiling, I ran a brush through my new ’do. In the sunlight, it shimmered with a hundred different flaming hues, like a sunset on some tropical island.
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 10
