The Dimple Strikes Back (14 page)

Ha!
Someone
would be erect,
bom chicka bow wow
.

“What are you laughing at?” asked innocent Danny innocently.

“You’ll find out later.”

Oops—that sounded entirely too seductive. I needed to be smooth and cool, like a cigarette marketed to ladies. “Shall we begin on page seventy-two?”

He nodded and swallowed. His casual outfit of a cashmere sweater and jeans made my dirty thoughts sweat. I angled my knees towards his until all four bumped in a sensual collision. Without looking at the page, I said my line. “This was the worst idea you ever had, and I’m including the day you asked me to marry you.”

“Really? I counted my worst idea as the day I met you.”

“I count my worst idea as…you…also!”

“Say it a little louder, Jayde—we’re not in prison yet.” Danny leant forward, in full fight mode now. His intensity robbed me of my breath. Or maybe I was just panting for fun. “But it is lovely to be reminded how everything in the world is my fault. I really missed that since our divorce.”

“Oh, don’t worry—I’ve blamed you for plenty since then.”

Danny broke character and laughed. I smiled, flattered, and flipped my hair. “A little professionalism, please?”

“So terribly sorry.” He purred it in his accent, which made my dial go to eleven.

“Harrumph.” My mouth said ‘harrumph’, but my hips said ‘hump’. I leaned in closer. What? It was in the script! I continued the scene. “If we go down for this, I’m putting it squarely on your head. Your failed business is the reason we have no money to begin with, and then your only solution to our money woes is to rob the most famous museum in the world.”

He grabbed my forearm and yanked me until we were only inches apart. His warm breath spilled across my mouth like a Caribbean breeze—the kind that makes you want to strip off your clothes and skinny dip. “I did everything possible for us! As if anyone could make you do something you don’t want to do.”

“I didn’t want to end up penniless, thirty-five and divorced—but it still happened!”

“I worked hard.”

“So did I.”

“Well, sometimes things just happen.”

“I know that!”

“Then why did you leave me?”

I gasped and sat back. My heart leapt from its perch on my sleeve and wedged itself in my throat. This hit me much too close to home. I said, softly, “You didn’t seem to want me there anymore.”

Pain and regret creased his forehead and tugged at his mouth. Damn, he was a great actor. “I couldn’t stand watching you wallow in stress and disappointment. I thought you’d be better off without me.”

I set my script down, the better to fight properly. “I never said that, Chase.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I sagged backward, letting my character’s tense frustration and head-splitting confusion flow through me. This part of the job seemed like magic sometimes—stepping into another skin, putting your own emotions on an overlay with theirs. Experiences may be different, but humanity is universal. We all know what loss is, and I’d been having a brutal affair with the feeling as of late. The painful helplessness of ugly circumstances flowed through my veins as steadily as blood. I continued quietly, “So that’s why we divorced? Because you thought I wanted it? I thought you were eager to be rid of me, the five-foot anchor weighing you down.”

“Who knew anchors could be so noisy?”

“Who knew men could be so…so…”

“Handsome, sexy…”

“Arrogant, deluded…”

“Awesome, good at football…”

“Argh!” I threw my hands up, inspired by the smug look sliming across Danny’s face. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about what you were feeling?”

“Because we were better when we weren’t talking.” His stopped short, and his eyebrows rose. This was the point in the script in which he was supposed to pull me into his rugged arms and kiss the bejesus out of me.

The new spark in his eye told me he’d broken character, wondering what to do next. He grinned and looked at the coffee table. I should have been roiling in embarrassment—I’d never really been in a romantic role that required this sort of thing—but he’d done it lots of times. His shyness made him all the more attractive. Sam’s face swam in my head, but I took a firm hand and squished it somewhere between memories of having the flu and being yelled at by my mother, then piled it under some traumatic events from eighth grade for good measure.

“I guess we shouldn’t rehearse any further,” I said with a coyness so faux it was practically screaming “liar, liar, pants on fire.” My pants were on fire, and Danny was the hunky fireman sent to rescue me.

“Let’s save the awkwardness until we’re in front of fifty people.” He leant forward and squeezed my knee. I stared at his hand. He stared at his hand. The cat stared at his hand. “I’m so terribly sorry.” Danny snatched his wandering digits back while I made “it’s okay” noises.

But it wasn’t okay—the squeeze should have been at least ten inches higher on my thigh.

I sighed and accepted my fate as a lonely spinster lady. I already owned a cat, so check mark in that box. Did they carry boxed wine in England?

We began the scene again, this time standing, my mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. Had Sam and I really talked it out completely? Were there feelings he’d hidden from me on purpose? Perhaps he hadn’t seen a clear path for us, so he’d chosen no path at all. Everyone chooses the easier, less painful road sometimes. Cowardice or self-preservation—the line is a fine one. The thought made me heartsick. My stomach curdled like bad milk.

I dived into the scene with a fresh sympathy for both—fictitious—parties. Danny and I fought with the bitterness of seasoned lovers used to whipping out their baggage and boarding the train to Blametown at a moment’s notice.

“Arrogant, deluded…”

“Awesome, good at football…”

The intensity grew, swirling around a point no one was quite sure how to find. The anger in his face rendered it all the more sharp and painfully handsome. His brown eyes almost pierced through me, searching for more than I was ready to show. Searching for more than my
character
was ready to show, I mean.

I took a step to him without thinking first. He followed suit. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about what you were feeling?”

“Because we were better when we weren’t talking!” He grabbed me by both arms and pulled me close. I held my breath. His mouth opened and he leant down to close the space between us, fast. An inch away from me, he halted and a furrow creased his brow. I laughed a little, barely above a whisper, disappointed and glad both that he’d stopped what he was about to do. He flicked up to gaze into my eyes. My anxious smile widened. His lips softened into amusement, a
what the hell
? sort of smirk.

He kissed me.

I wasn’t at all prepared for it. I’d never dreamed he’d actually do it. Who the hell was I, anyhow? Nobody from nowhere! I thought of Sam, of guilt, of obligation, of professionalism. Finally, I thought,
Samantha, you are the biggest idiot in the entire freaking universe
. A hunky movie star is laying a fantastic liplock on you. Kiss him back—for America!

Danny was clearly talented at this kissing thing, as he’d been schooled by dozens of beautiful actresses—at the least. And he’d obviously taken his sexy training as seriously as his acting training, for his mouth played warm, firm yet soft, and definitely tried to coax mine into naughtiness. I wound my arms around his neck. His body felt solid and muscly, his hips angling against me in a slow, rhythmic way that made certain of my places respond as if we were already naked.

His hands crept to my waist and pulled me closer, if that was possible. He abandoned my mouth to kiss my neck, and I whimpered my approval.

My constant state of befuddlement broke through the haze of sex, and I put my hands to his shoulders to push him away gently. He took the cue, ever the gentleman, and eased his lock on all my throbbing areas. His eyes registered the same conflict that I’m certain was reflected in mine, but before I spoke, a knock sounded on the door.

Sam!

Who else could it be? I stepped back from Danny like he was on fire and nearly somersaulted backward over the coffee table. He caught me with a laugh that only mocked me a wee bit. “Thanks,” I said. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Our saviour, I expect. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. You’re quite sexy.” He grinned. “I mean…oh, whatever.”

“Please stop being so appealing. I obviously can’t control myself.”

God, this guy really was trying to melt my brain, wasn’t he? What even was my life right now? Two different sexy men…international jet-setting…people paying me actual money to do what I enjoyed… I wasn’t prepared for this. I needed a pamphlet from my guidance counsellor entitled
So You’re Not a Loser Anymore.

He gathered up his things and said, “I think perhaps we have the conflicted ex-lovers aspect of the film settled.”

I laughed. “Yuppers.”

The door-knock thudded again.

“Have a good evening, Samantha.” He hurried to the door, then turned with his hand on the knob. “Are you certain I haven’t offended you? I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I didn’t exactly shove you off.” I walked to him and gave him an arm squeeze. “We just got caught up in the moment. That’s what they pay us for.”

His eyebrows jumped to attention. “
That’s
what they pay us for?”

“Oh, be quiet and go away!”

He smiled, thank goodness, and gave a gallant bow before opening the door. My muscles clenched, terrified of what Sam would say to being greeted by Daniel Zhang at his ex’s place at night.

But it wasn’t Sam. A woman I’d never met before filled the doorway. “Samantha!” the tall, lovely chestnut-haired woman said. “It’s been too long!” Too long? Yes, I guess ‘forever’ is too long. She breezed into my place, and Danny waved before disappearing down the hallway.

Leaving my door open, I followed the crazy lady a few steps. “I don’t know who you are.”

“No”—she plopped onto the couch—“but we have mutual friends.” Her accent sounded like one of those generally-European jobs, at least to my ignorant Yankee ear, and she wore what appeared to be a vintage 1950s dress of mustard silk, an expensive one. My eyes darted until I found my cell phone. I needed to call nine-one-one. Or the British equivalent. Dammit, jet-setting was hard.

I grabbed the phone and pointed it like a weapon. “I’m calling the cops unless you leave.” Perhaps in a different life, I might have given a strange lady in my apartment the benefit of the doubt, but nowadays it seemed smarter to jump straight to “Ack, she’s trying to kill me!” mode.

“You’re not calling the police. Is she, Sam?”

Her eyes shot to the front door, where he stood, easy as you please, his hands in his pockets. The bastard smiled at me and closed my only means of escape behind him.

Just when I thought I was out…they pulled me back in.

Chapter Eight

The Word ‘Breakup’ Is Not Meant to Be Literal

A vortex opened beneath me, and it sucked my soul into the depths of hell and also made my tummy hurt. Here we go again—I fell down the rabbit hole so often I needed to take out a time share with the Mad Hatter.

“Okay, Sam…strange lady who probably wants to do me harm…out with it. No flamboyance, no niceties. Just go ahead and threaten me, please.” I slunk into the armchair and crossed my arms, waiting.

“Was that Daniel Zhang?” Interloper Lady asked.

“Yes.”

Sam finally said something. “Why was he here?”

“Because how else am I to screw him?” I delivered this lie with a shining smile. He heard it with tight lips and flared nostrils. Ha!

Interloper leant back on the sofa, holding court. “Oooh, I like her, Sam.”

I said nothing more. At least Daniel had got a look at her. He’d tell the police about her after I disappeared.

“I’m Valerie. I’m an old…friend of Sam’s. And a current one!” She laughed after this—a musical sound in the key of villainess.

“That was fast,” I said to Sam.

“I could say the same.”

Poor man—he sounded bitter. I smirked viciously and awaited more bombs.

“I want us to be friends, Samantha,” said Valerie.

True fact—no one who ever says “I want us to be friends” is a person you should become friends with.

“You know what? No.” I stood up. “Fuck your friendship.” I turned to Sam. “Fuck you for fucking her, and fuck the both of you for blackmailing me, or whatever it is you’re here to do. Just say it, already! Or, or…ne’er darken my doorway again!” Yeah! That was an awesome speech. About my ex betraying me. My heart sank all over again. It wasn’t supposed to do that—I’d been riding high on a cocktail of denial and braggadocio.

Valerie crossed her legs and flapped her foot, clad in a stiletto, natch. A pair of back-seam stockings hugged her long, slender calves. I do not have long calves. I have short chicken legs that teeter between ‘sorta-slender’ and ‘robust dock worker’.