The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton)

by Lucy Woodhull

  “Follow us. Let’s get out of the open.” The stranger smiled at me and walked back to the SUV, which rested about two feet from the roadster. Ponytail sported an almost-scandalous pair of cut-off shorts. Somehow they befitted a cavalry of ours.

  Nate disengaged the brake and pulled the car to the side of the road, allowing the SUV to lead.

  I licked my lips with a tongue made of fibreglass. “Who? What? Why?”

  Nate squeezed my knee. “Calm down, Sam, it’s okay. It’s done.”

  “Whu—?” It was hard to relax when your internal organs had congealed into craven green Jell-O.

  “Friends of mine. Sort of. At least they don’t want to shoot us. I think.” The ‘I think’ was mitigated by the dimple reappearing in a face full of relief.

  “Who are those guys? Who is Shorts McGhee there? I’ve never seen an old hippie in cut-off jeans before. Not a male one, anyhow.”

  Nate wiped his hands on his pants again, less calm than he appeared. “That’s Jolly Roger. He works for the same organisation I do.”

  “Is Jolly his given name?”

  “By me.”

  “Ah. And the other one?”

  “That’s Wendy.”

  “Does Wendy have a clever name?” I scanned the dusty, suburban sprawl, knowing the bad car had wrecked, but neurotically checking for it anyway.

  “No.” Nate focused on me, his brows knitted. “Are you okay?” His voice was a gentle caress, and I began to unravel.

  “Yes,” I replied faintly, one tear surrendering down my cheek.

  Nate’s eyes grew wide, and he turned away to concentrate on driving. He took my hand and wound his fingers through mine until he had to shift. It was just as well. Tender looks and hand-holding might have caused me to liquefy and stain the seats of the 1963 Austin Healey 3000 Mark II Roadster.

  * * * *

  We pulled up to a little diner, built and decorated mid-century, left alone in all its pink and chrome glory. It protruded from the desert, incongruous and surreal—like my life since I’d met Nate. I cracked a smile at Nate’s penchant for old places and cars. Such unexpected sentimentality.

  A stifling gush of warm air poured over my already sticky skin as Jolly Roger opened the door for me. The desert heat followed us inside the restaurant, the aluminium ceiling fans swirling above offering little respite from the heat without and the kitchens within. Roger led us to the back where, under the watchful gaze of a black and white Rat Pack in cracking frames, an older woman sat with a small smile affixed to her delicate face.

  “No bullet holes?” the woman inquired of Nate.

  Nate grinned at her and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Jane, this is Samantha. Samantha, Jane.” Nate made introductions, bumping me on the hip to have me sit in the booth. Roger and Wendy made themselves scarce.

  I controlled the impulse to fan myself with the plastic menu while Jane—who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth—examined me. I felt like a splotch of primordial goo on a microscope slide—I probably resembled one, too. The stranger was so tall and majestic she might have been a model forty years ago, like Iman or Beverly Johnson. Jane was the woman Suzie only thought she was. Despite the temperature, her black suit lay pristine. She wore an expensive silk scarf in slashes of black, white and red. The natural, close-cropped white curls on her head accentuated cheekbones so sharp she could have cut me with a quick turn. She’d probably just stepped from a Vogue magazine shoot entitled ‘How to Make Women Half Your Age Feel Like Shit’. The cheap hair dye on my scalp retreated in embarrassment.

  “Hello,” I croaked through dry lips.

  “Would you like anything, Miss Lytton?” And already she knew more about me than I did her. Seemed to be the standard operating procedure for this den of thieves. As if beckoned by the sheer force of Jane’s awesomeness, a waitress appeared, ready to serve me on behalf of the royalty dining with us.

  I hid my hands, with their disgraceful, jagged nails, under the table. “Diet Coke.”

  “We’ll have two cheeseburgers,” Nate said. I gave him a did-you-just-order-for-me? look, and he added, “You’re going to eat it. You always eat. If you had a hobby, it’d be eating.” Oh, how I suddenly wanted to smack his grinning face. He put his arm around my shoulders conspiratorially and gave me a squeeze before jerking it away as Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Janie is my boss.”

  “Janie’s name is not Janie.” Jane threw a stare cold enough to freeze lava.

  “Thanks for the rescue.” Nate dimpled back at her.

  A sudden, stabbing pang of jealousy rocked through me. And anger. At him, at everything. I swallowed it with my Diet Coke, the syrup attempting in vain to soothe the jumping of my innards.

  “You’re welcome.” Jane cocked a glamorous eyebrow. “Why exactly is it you needed rescuing?”

  Nate’s cheeks coloured ever so slightly. “Well—”

  “Where is my painting?”

  “Um—”

  “Why am I in Nevada? I’m not really a desert sort of sister.”

  Nate flapped his mouth like a guppy and gave her hound-dog eyes. He arranged the silverware in front of him just so on the sticky, sparkly Formica table. “I thought if the painting stayed with Oliver, Samantha might not be in danger.”

  “Why is Samantha in danger?”

  “Because Nate used me to get into the office where the Picasso hung.” I forced the roasting air into my lungs. Nate drew his napkin across his forehead. We were in hell. Nate was probably friends with the proprietor.

  “Nate? Who is Nate?” Jane turned sharp caramel eyes to me.

  I snickered without humour. “Nate is”—I flourished my hand like Vanna White—“whoever this liar is sitting next to me.” Nate’s flush deepened, and he looked as if he wanted to crawl into a hole. It was pleasant and refreshing to actually see the man experience shame. He belonged in a hole. Preferably one containing various unpleasant insects. Stinging ones.

  Chuckling magnanimously, Jane murmured, “I see.”

  The cheeseburgers arrived. Nate dived into his as if it were the rarest caviar. Mine sat untouched.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Samantha?” The Boss leant back in the shiny vinyl booth, sipping coffee, holding court.

  I told her the entire story, warts, guns and all, leaving out anything rated PG-13 or higher. The way Jane peered at me, it seemed as if she had guessed that part anyway. I squirmed and sucked down half of my dripping Diet Coke. I finished my tale of paintings and charlatans with my stomach churning.

  While I spoke, I pretended to ignore Nate as if he wasn’t there. Nate stuffed food in his mouth as if it might save him. It wouldn’t.

  “Nate,” began Jane, who handled the name like it was oven-hot, “boy, what is wrong with you?”

  He flicked his eyes to hers and scowled. “Now wait just a fucking minute—”

  “Do not speak to me in that manner,” Jane ordered, barely raising her voice. Half the restaurant sat up straighter. “Your brilliant plan is to hope the police arrest Oliver before he kills you both?” She shook her head with pursed lips. “And what is this young woman supposed to tell law enforcement when this is all said and done, presuming she’s not dead?”

  Nate just stared at her with desperate brown eyes, withering under her attack.

  I put my head in my hands, wiping away small beads of sweat at my hairline. There it was in black and white—I’d been duped and seduced. No, not seduced. Damn it, at least I could claim that my sexual escapades had been my choice, for good or bad.

  My lover huffed heavily in and out, in and out next to me, containing his anger through sheer force of will. I turned my head away from the effort.

  “In addition to your mess,” Jane continued, “my Harlequin sits in that man’s office.”

  “I will make this right,” he said.

  Jane’s lovely face fell, incredulous. “You’d better, or you will deal with me once Oliver is done with you. If
there’s anything left.” She paused as her coffee was refilled, bestowing a small nod upon the cowering waitress. “I’ll take your car—it’s too conspicuous. If you argue I’ll sell it for a dollar just to spite you. You’ll drive the SUV and try to keep this young woman safe somewhere. I will deal with Oliver and the painting.”

  I finally looked up, thankful I had kept my weeping at bay, my small measure of dignity intact. Nate nodded, stone-faced.

  “You should eat something, dear.” Jane pushed a menu at me. “You have a long day of driving ahead of you.”

  In obedience to Jane, my belly suddenly ached with hunger. I ordered chicken and waffles, and sat in silence under her cool gaze, waiting for my fried comfort food. Nate had been honest about one thing—I did enjoy eating.

  Nate drummed fingers on the table and stared out at the restaurant. The dense air draped on us like an old wool blanket. Jane inquired after me while I ate, and I answered her questions politely. It did not pass me by that once again I was spilling my guts to a total stranger whose name was almost assuredly not Jane.

  As I dribbled one giant plop of maple syrup on my nipple, my day became complete. I dropped my fork onto the plate—it splashed more syrup onto me. “I’d like to get on the road, please.”

  Jane smiled, concentrating her eyes on my face. Nate turned to look at me and zeroed in on the syrup.

  “Of course,” Jane murmured.

  Nate tore his concentration away from my breasts and grumbled, “I’ll be in touch,” to Jane. He stood and, without glancing back, stalked to Roger’s table to get the keys to the SUV.

  Question marks bounced between Jane and me, but I didn’t feel like revealing any more weaknesses. The older woman took my hand and smoothly advised, “Watch yourself, Miss Lytton. Nate isn’t a bad man, but he’s a man.”

  I wasn’t sure what it meant when a criminal boss said her underling criminal wasn’t ‘bad’. Things were so relative in my life right now that I wouldn’t be surprised if Jane’s superior was the ghost of Albert Einstein.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Goons. Why is it always Goons?

  We drove east. Not into the sunset.

  I sat in silence, arms crossed, barricaded from the force of the dimple and its ensuing madness. Nate did not attempt to talk to me, but seemed lost in dour thoughts as well, elbow on the driver’s door, lips pursed.

  We stopped for gas in some microscopic town. I escaped the car into the heat haze to buy a magazine. The rickety service station smelt vaguely of old air fresheners and older body odour. Wrinkling my nose, I flipped through publications like Garden & Gun and Cosmo, the latter of which promised to show me the one definite way to a man’s heart. If that article had been in Garden & Gun, I would’ve bought it.

  I loitered against a concrete column advertising ninety-nine cents coffee and watched Nate pump gas. He stared into space, stony and remote, probably upset that he couldn’t drive his damn car. Ha! I liked Jane for taking his toy away. He turned his attention to me just then and frowned, maybe at the smirk on my face.

  “Ready?” he grunted.

  “Yes,” I grunted in return. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  After another hour trapped in a moving cauldron of angst so thick it could have been LA smog, I really wished I’d purchased any of the three-month-old magazines. “So, who is Jane?” I dared to ask.

  “My boss.”

  I ground my teeth, visions of me chopping up Nate with a chainsaw and leaving him scattered across the desert popping into my head. “Yes, you said that before. That is clearly not what I was asking.” I felt like picking a fight. There was nothing else to do.

  “I’m not stupid.” He sounded ready to go two or three rounds, too. “I just have no intention of telling you anything.”

  “Why don’t you spin me some more lies? Oh, that’s right, you already got me in the sack.”

  Nate turned his head and looked straight in my eyes for the first time in hours, his face full of hurt anger. “What?”

  I leant back in the seat, afraid of him, finally having pushed the wrong button.

  He pulled off the highway in a blur of dirt and white knuckles, slamming the brakes of the SUV and sending me flying into my locked seatbelt.

  “Damn it, that is not fair!” Nate threw the vehicle into park and sat there, hanging on to the wheel, wringing it as if were my neck. He swallowed something akin to a curse and set his forehead against the steering column.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my temple on the glass of the window, the guilt in my belly arguing with the self-satisfaction. As if I should be experiencing guilt at all. As if he had any right to complain about things not being fair.

  “How can you feel that way?” He sounded so very tired.

  A single tear fell down my cheek—I wiped it angrily away. “How can I not? Who has all the power here, Nate? I’m trapped with, with, with who? I don’t know. My life is in shreds! You keep saying you’ll fix it, but—” I threw my hands up.

  His forehead still against the wheel, he quietly asked, “Do you think I don’t care what happens to you?”

  How the hell did I know? I stayed silent, supported by my stubborn streak.

  Minutes ticked by as the only conversation was the whoosh of speeding cars passing and rocking the vehicle.

  Sitting up, Nate studied the empty horizon. “I know I should never have talked to you in that office, but I… I couldn’t not talk to you.” He paused while his jaw worked. “You must understand, anything I can’t fix, Janie can. We’ll keep moving, and then, when it’s safe, we’ll get you back to LA, and you’ll never see any of us again.”

  A yawning black hole erupted in my chest at the words ‘you’ll never see any of us again’. “Good,” I said aloud. I kept my emotions directed towards the window. It was safer. I felt him beside me, warm, solid. I so longed to reach out and touch him, even now. I really was the worst.

  “I did not use you for sex.” He tapped fingers on the airbag cover. “I’m a lot of crappy things, but I would never treat you like a… I hope you can believe that much. It was a huge mistake to get involved with you. And it’s Sam.” He laughed without smiling. “My name really is Sam.”

  I peeled myself away from the window and studied him. “Is that true?”

  He nodded at me, his eyes wide green pools. “I don’t want you to call me Nate anymore,” he added almost too softly to be heard.

  Sam pulled back on the highway as the sky burned orange.

  Sam. Too little, too late.

  * * * *

  Wilted, yellow light seeped around the closed motel drapes. Another motel. Another night with Nate. Sam. I was falling into a pit, a deep one—it was all I could do to not scream. The pillow scratched cold and stiff against my cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut. Not that I saw much in the darkness when I turned to look at Sam, anyway. He might have been on Mars, so far away was the other bed from me.

  The slap of failure stung.

  Slap, you’re a failed actress.

  Slap, you’re a disappointment to your mother.

  Slap, you have exactly nothing to show for your life.

  Slap, someone wants you to die.

  Sam sniffed, and I jumped three feet. Sheets rustled around him. I almost made him out, lying there. The way his hair fell over his forehead when he slept. Legs akimbo, relaxed. Although not now. He was just as awake as me and apparently as stubborn. A depressed lady could have heard a pin drop in that room.

  I turned away and punched the pillow into submission. No, I would not speak to him. He didn’t deserve it. At some point I had to choose to not be a complete moron. Yet still, all I wanted was to go to him, crawl beside his warmth and bury my head in his chest.

  “Samantha?” His whispered question hung in the air, thick as fog.

  I bit my lip hard enough to elicit a sharp pain. It felt good—better than the lump in my stomach or the ache in my chest. I shifted onto my back against my will. My traitorous body had a mind o
f its own.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him sit up, elbows on his knees, hands cradling his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “So am I.” He had no idea how sorry.

  Bitter laughter escaped him. “The difference is I’m sorry you hate me, and you’re sorry you met me.”

  I bucked upwards, untwisted my T-shirt and landed on my side again, facing Nate. With a start I saw he was closer. He sat on the edge of his bed, his invisible eyes boring holes through me.

  He kept talking. The darkness seemed to loosen his tongue. “But I’m not sorry I met you.” More self-mocking laughter. “You probably think I—I don’t know what you think. I probably don’t want to know.”

  He paused. Maybe for me to respond. I pulled my knees to my chest and lay in a ball. Every word from him made it simultaneously better and worse.

  “Samantha?”

  “I have nothing to say, Nate.” Yup, I could lie to him, too.

  The springs groaned on his bed. He lay back down and expelled a long breath.

  I spent what seemed like hours revelling in his tosses and turns. I was glad I kept him up all night, even if it wasn’t in the fun way.

  * * * *

  The overcast, blue light of morning chilled instead of warmed. Or maybe that was the icy tension in the hotel room. Nary a word passed between me and Sam after the six a.m. wake-up call. I’d had better mornings in the dentist’s office. At least I got drilled there.

  I washed my face in stinging cold water and emerged from the bathroom to find Sam standing in between the beds, watching me, waiting, his expression carefully mild and blank. I dived into my purse just to not look at him and said, “I’m going to go get some coffee from the diner across the street. Do you want any?”

  “No. Hurry.”

  I rubbed my burning eyes and sighed. Sam was no longer chatty. Probably because I had shut him down so decidedly last night. If I’d talked it out with him I’d have spent the wee hours in the heavenly circle of his arms. But if I hadn’t used my privates to think with in the first place I never would have been in this mess.