The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton)

by Lucy Woodhull

  Outside, the cool desert air kissed my face and soothed the frazzled ends of my nerves. Anywhere was better than inside that mire-filled room. The street was still, empty. I hurried through the dirt to Luly’s Place and opened the cowbell-laden door.

  I plopped my head in my hand on the counter and waited for coffee. The waitress had not cracked a smile when I had asked for an IV drip of the caffeinated stuff. It wasn’t a morning for humour.

  The loud “Here’s your coffee” startled me awake. I panicked and blinked at the waitress, who repeated, “Coffee. Are you drunk?”

  “I wish,” I murmured. The balmy paper cup melted the ice encasing my hands. Six creams and four sugars went in, to the further disgust of the wait staff.

  A new spring in my step, I high-tailed it out of Luly’s. Street still deserted, I paused and looked across to the black SUV. Ghostly vapours escaped its tail pipe. I groaned. Another day of trapped, stiff silence on the road was almost too much to bear. Maybe we could play a game, like Punch Buggy. Every time I regretted a life decision, I’d hit him. I prised off the top of my coffee and smiled into the sweet brown liquid.

  “Is the coffee good?”

  The lid dropped into the dust of the driveway. I turned my head slowly and froze. A pair of grey eyes, puffing as tired as mine, peered at me from the face of the man who’d broken into my apartment. He smiled. I smiled.

  I ran, but never had a freaking chance. On legs much longer than mine, he caught me this time and shoved between my shoulder blades. Tumbling nose first into the gravel, I screamed, “You can’t do this to me, I’m an American!” Not my most heroine-like line.

  He flipped me over, his stinking hand clamped on my mouth. I threw the remains of my coffee at his head, the boiling contents erupting across his ugly face. His scream was cold, short comfort. Sharp pain exploded across my skull and tingling darkness sucked me down.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Into the Garbage Chute

  I awoke to the sound of the Backstreet Boys.

  I’d clearly died and gone to hell.

  Whiny man-boys jabbered at me as I blinked and wondered why, if I was dead, my head pounded with the force of a thousand jackhammers.

  Okay, maybe I wasn’t dead. I was in an unfamiliar bedroom. I remembered—the man from my apartment! I must’ve been kidnapped. Oh, this was too much. Kidnapped? Again? I really was making my own pathetic little Lifetime movie. Tiffani-Amber Thiessen would probably play me. At least the film version of me would wake up with blown-out hair and perfect makeup instead of sticky eyelashes and gross breath.

  Had they got Sam, too? A sick blast of sheer terror waved through me. Please don’t let them have hurt Sam, I prayed. I didn’t even get to have ‘sorry we’re about to be murdered’ sex with him.

  The bed I lay on creaked hard underneath me in a rusty-sounding chorus of springs. Or maybe that was the Backstreet Boys. When I sat up, the jackhammers multiplied, and their little jackhammer babies began playing jacks on my cranium. It must have been night-time, for no light peeped around the cheap, grey cotton curtains.

  Knowing the futility of my actions, I tried the small room’s sole doorknob anyway. Locked.

  I missed Nate suddenly, fiercely. Oops, Sam. Whatever. Liar Guy. At least he would wisecrack and call me stupid and make me feel slightly better than I felt now, which was lower than a snake at the bottom of a swamp.

  The entire place had been divested of anything useful, like a phone or a baseball bat or a lock-pick set. Only a bed, a child’s rocking chair and an empty bookcase remained. Creeping to the window, I pulled back one edge of the drape and peered out—at plywood nailed flat against the pane. So that was why no light shone in.

  I sighed and sat in the rocking chair. One good thing about being freakishly small—I was adaptable to almost all furniture. Special skillz—I has them.

  Why hadn’t Oliver the Scorpion just killed me? Don’t get me wrong—I was grateful to be a kidnappee and not something worse. Was Sam searching for me? Unlikely. Why would he? His annoying problem had been taken away. He was probably halfway back to LA, happy for the return of his Austin Healey, the only thing he really loved besides his dreadful cat, and he’d go and have sex with eight strippers in the back.

  No! Sam would never muck up the Healey’s seats that way.

  Suddenly I was aware that the music had stopped playing. I held my breath in the silence. The door handle squeaked. I leapt to my feet. Damn it, if El Escorpión estúpido was going to kill me, he wouldn’t find it easy. I prepped the rocking chair and hid behind the door as it slowly opened.

  “Samantha?”

  Scumbag Scott Coulter from Steak on a Stick! So it was true. Not only was Scumbag Scott the type to jam the copier and walk away, he was an evil, killer-kidnapper, too. Well, hopefully not killer. I tensed my arm muscles, ready to swing my rocker o’ revenge. He took two steps in and flicked on the light switch. I squinted as dingy illumination flashed from the avocado-green shade in the ceiling.

  “Samantha?” he repeated. A huge gulp of air flooded my lungs, and I bashed the chair over his asshole head. It splintered apart with a wonderful crack! sound. “Argh!” he yelled. His curses chased me as I sprinted down a hall, also awash in avocado green. To my right was what appeared to be the front door. I bolted through it and into the weak, dappled sunlight of late afternoon. I was in a neighbourhood. I trudged into the overgrown lawn, aiming towards the street and hopefully, a good Samaritan sent from heaven to save me.

  I flew forward and crashed into the wet grass, hard, stars exploding behind my eyes. Every breath I’d ever taken had ejected itself from my body, leaving me gasping. A heavy weight pinned me. A wave of nausea overcame me. The world reeled back and forth like a pendulum. The large person atop me stood and heaved me over his shoulder. I wanted to scream, to look around, get my bearings, but it was all I could do not to pass out.

  Large Marge took me back to the seedy bedroom, where Scumbag Scott stood beside the bed and rubbed his head. My captor threw me on the avocado-green carpet. Apparently I was in the Brady Bunch’s weekend/kidnap house.

  “Look at me, Samantha,” Scott said, voice full of aggravation. Well, join the club, buddy. Making me look at his stupid face was just insult upon my victimisation.

  Woozy, I sat up and focused on Scumbag’s watery blue eyes. Then I promptly threw up on him.

  * * * *

  After my vomit of victory, as I considered it, Scumbag Scott screamed and fled the room. His large minion cleaned the mess. I collapsed on the mattress and waited for the birdies to stop flying around my head, delighted that absolutely none of my puke had landed anywhere near me. That’ll learn him.

  Much, much later Scott returned, considerably less smug than the first time. He avoided coming close to me, ha ha. His wet shirt clung to his chest. I was almost glad to see him, seeing as he’d left me with nothing to do but be scared and count the ceiling sparkles.

  He leaned against the windowsill and glared in my direction. Ugh, he really was an odious man. Tightly curled red-brown hair clung to his pate—he had pubic hair hair. The thought made me want to hurl again. He might be considered nice-looking by strangers, but to me, the smattered array of freckles across his nose spelled I regularly cheat on my wife—and my taxes.

  During my first week at Steak on a Stick, he had flirted with me and hinted that, as the Vice President of Operations, anyone who slept with him would get ahead at the company. One trip to Human Resources, four corroborating stories and a month of sexual harassment training later, he didn’t like me so much anymore.

  Apparently he still held a grudge. Wait, wait—let me find my give-a-fuck bucket. Nope. Empty.

  I sat up and realised I no longer felt fear. Perhaps it had exited my body in the vomit. “I’m hungry,” I said.

  “The last thing I’m going to do is feed you.”

  I laughed. He frowned.

  “Shut up, you stupid bitch!” He started to come closer, but changed his mind
and backed away again.

  “Let me go.”

  His turn to laugh. “Samantha, you’re fucking irritating.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t even know that guy.”

  Shaking his head, he muttered, “I loathe females like you. You think you’re so damn smart. And why? You’re a stupid secretary.” He began pacing the room, tracing the walls on three sides of me, always keeping his distance. “I wish I could just kill you, but I need you to get my Picasso back.”

  “I don’t understand. Oliver has the painting.”

  “What you don’t understand could fill a library, sweet cheeks.”

  “Then enlighten me.” While he talked, I surreptitiously searched around for some way, any way, to escape. There was nothing. I knew a thug or several waited outside the door. So far my score was zero in the ‘Stupid Secretary vs Unwashed Minion’ prize fight.

  “Oliver is not my boss.” Scornful laughter emanated from his flesh-coloured lips. “Oliver works for me. Now he’s being followed by the FBI, as am I. I have you to thank for that. He can’t remove the painting from his office, and neither can I. In fact, Steak on a Stick’s corporate offices are locked down tighter than a feminist’s twat. And that’s a problem for me.”

  I giggled at the twat joke, although I was a feminist and had been rather loose with the old girl as of late. “The problems with you could fill a library, sweet cheeks.”

  Quicker than a viper, he stalked to the bed and slapped me. I clawed for him to return the favour, but he danced backward to the wall. I cradled my stinging cheek and hurtled malevolent looks that he returned, gladly. No Christmas bonus for me this year.

  “Move one more inch, and I’ll get the painting back without you and kill your short little self slowly.”

  My face smarting, I sat. Real fear crept into my consciousness again. Scumbag Scott was going from pathetic office joke to crazy, dangerous lunatic right before my eyes.

  “If you want to live, if you want your dear mother Suzie to live, if you want your lover to live, if you want your stupid friend Ellen to live, you will get me my Picasso in forty-eight hours. I have a buyer waiting for it.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that, if it’s being watched by the FBI? How do I explain where I’ve been?”

  “None of that is my problem. I’d rather send you to get it than one of my men. Good help is hard to find, but smarmy bitches are expendable. I had a great set-up at Steak on a Stick—a fantastic cover for my business, and you fucking ruined it by slutting around with my competitor.”

  He knocked twice on the door. It opened, and someone handed him my purse. I ducked as it came hurtling towards my head. With pure hatred etched into his features, Scott advanced on me and grabbed my hair, almost snapping my neck. An inch away from my face, he hissed, “In two days I expect you to have my painting. I will call to tell you where to deliver it. If you implicate me or Oliver Taylor in any way, I’ll murder every fucking person you ever knew. I swear it.”

  He threw me back on the bed, my scalp searing. I went cold all over. He was very, very convincing at giving death threats. When I found the courage to use my eyes again he was gone, and the door to the room was open.

  I was free! All I had to do was steal a multimillion-dollar piece of artwork amidst federal agents who were all searching for me, or else we’d all die in horrible ways.

  Oh, my God. What was I going to do?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gold, Frankincense and Mire

  It took me ten minutes to creep from the room to the street. Sheer, abject fear paralysed me—my wooden limbs only responded at the rate of millimetres per hour. The house was deserted, and the green, tree-dotted lane was similarly quiet and dark. I wasn’t in the desert anymore, but in the throes of wooded suburbia. Clutching my purse to my chest, I stood on the asphalt and gave in to unmitigated panic. When Scott had said he would kill everyone I ever knew, I’d believed him. I absolutely believed him. I fought to not whimper. I tried to consider what to do, but no ideas sparked in my sluggish mind. My chilled hand came up to cover my eyes.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. We were all dead.

  A rumble sounded from far down the long, straight street. A big engine coming my direction. Startled from my befuddled stupor, I ran back inside Hacienda Avocado. At the front window, I peered at the moonlit neighbourhood and watched an SUV stop at the next house over. I breathed a sigh of relief and slid down the wall to my butt.

  Obviously I had to return to Los Angeles as soon as possible. The question was, where the hell was I? I figured I would call four-one-one and get a cab to take me to the nearest major airport, fly home and formulate a plan on the way there. But they were probably watching for activity on my credit card, right?

  Oh, God. Oh, God. We were all dead.

  An ominous creak sounded from close by, and I leapt to my feet again. The front door handle turned. Shit! Why hadn’t I locked it? I really was the stupidest accidental thiefess alive. Scott had realised what a useless article I was and had returned to kill me. I grabbed the nearest object, a lamp. I clutched it for dear life as a dark form burst through the door. I struck whoever it was across the head with a clanking crash. The horrid light fixture died as it had lived—unattractively.

  “Owwwww! Fuck!” my lover screamed.

  “Nate! Oh, thank God, Nate!” He collapsed to the floor, and I fell onto him, hugging his torso with all my might. “What are you doing here?”

  He rubbed his head and rolled onto his back, groaning. “Don’t call me Nate!” Sitting up, he woozily added, “Sam. I am Sam. I’m here to rescue you.”

  “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?”

  He glared and managed to make it up to standing, pulling me with him. “At any other moment I’d really geek out to your nerdery, but for now, there’s no time to discuss this as a committee.”

  “I am not a committee!”

  “Shut it, Princess Dumbass.”

  “You started it.”

  “You, in fact, started it.” He gave me a grimace worthy of Han Solo. “What the hell is going on here? Are you alone?”

  “Yes. My captors left. Scumbag Scott kidnapped me.”

  “So we surmised.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “We—Janie and me. She borrowed a friend’s satellite and, after a while, we were able to determine what car you’d been taken in. We followed you here—outside of Colorado Springs. Why would they kidnap you, and then leave?”

  “Holy shit—Janie has friends with satellites? How does that work? You could see me from space? It was probably my hair…”

  “Samantha,” he ground out through tight jaws.

  “Yes, they kidnapped me and left. I have a lot to tell you. Scumbag Scott really earned his name today.”

  Sam took my head in his hands and turned his formidable green eyes to mine. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  “He slapped me, but I threw up on him.”

  He pulled me into his chest, squeezing the breath from me. “I thought I’d never see you again. Instead of being happy like I ought to have been, I felt the opposite.”

  “Oh, shucks,” I sputtered, willing myself to not weep all over his amazing, warm chest.

  “Do you still hate me?”

  “I never hated you. You’re too good in bed.” I nuzzled his neck and inhaled the magical, male scent of his skin. Then I did weep all over him, in a most un-heroine-like fashion. It was disgusting—Angelina would never have snivelled so.

  “Xanadu,” he whispered, covering my wet face in kisses. “I never used you, I swear it—well, except for getting in the office to see the painting—but not after that. I just couldn’t keep my hands off you. You’re too good in bed.” The dimple emerged from the depths of the lopsided smile, finally.

  “I know,” I sniffed, “All my many, numerous sex partners say so.”

  He laughed and picked me up clear off the floor.

  “Ahem,” sneered a sophisticated voic
e from the doorway.

  I dangled in the air as Nate turned us around. There stood Jane, shaking her head, yet looking slightly amused. “So, what does Scott want you to do?”

  I tapped Nate in the shin, and he set me on my feet with a grunt. “Is it too early for breakfast? I’ll explain everything when you feed me.” With an assurance born of ten per cent confidence and ninety per cent acting, I continued, “After that, you will supply me with a solution to my terrible problem, since you have access to satellites and other fabulous, millionairey technology.”

  “Fine,” Jane snorted. “It’s nine o’clock at night. I’ll feed you dinner, not breakfast. I suppose you could order bacon or something. You look like a bacon sort of girl.”

  That was probably an insult, but not to this bacon sort of girl.

  * * * *

  We ended up at a Colorado Springs Asian Fusion restaurant with a French/Thai name that I was pretty sure translated to ‘Holy shit, our dumplings cost thirty dollars’.

  No bacon on the menu. Could I trust these people to honour their word about anything?

  Once we had sat down and cocktails had been procured, I explained all. Jane looked grim. Nate looked determined. The spring rolls looked appetising.

  “So, we get the painting back and arrange a meet with Scott. Easy enough.”

  Easy enough, Jane said. I guessed lots of things were easy enough for a gorgeous, intelligent woman with gagillions of dollars and questionable morals. “Will you really help me?” I asked.

  “I can’t have Scott running about killing everyone who ever knew you. As I am a person who now, much to my chagrin, knows you, it would be suicidal.”

  “Plus, she likes you,” dimpled Sam.

  “We weren’t talking to you.” Jane narrowed her eyes at him and took a sip of her fancy French wine, whose name I’m pretty sure translated to ‘These grapes have more Facebook friends than you’. She continued, “Besides, I have no intention of relinquishing my painting. We shall meet with Scott, whom we suspected was the real Scorpion, and this business will end once and for all. I can go back to my fabulous life, and you can go back to your…” Her eyes widened on me. “…life as well.”