The Dimple Strikes Back (9 page)

“Me, too.”

“What? How can you be nervous? You’re
Daniel Zhang
.” I said it as if reading off a marquee forty feet high.

We wound our way out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk. “I’m not
Daniel Zhang
. I’m Daniel Zhang. I get zits.” He pointed to his cheek, but I damn sure couldn’t find a flaw.

I stood on my tip-toes and pressed my lips to the imagined blemish.

Oh, I shouldn’t have done that.

My regret punched me in the gut with a fist the size of Texas. He smelt like sexy, woodsy cologne, with a vague undertone of man.

Oh, I shouldn’t have smelt that.

My mouth dry, I rocked onto my heels and smiled to cover my mortification.

He bent the long, long way to my face. His lips parted softly, and I meant to back away, I really did, and I put my hand to his chest to keep him at a distance. His pecs were hard and warm and
oh, no, why was I kneading my hand there
? Mayday,
mayday
!

He kissed me, gently, firmly and with just enough pressure to make my blood zing and cry
more, more, more!
My body from the waist down had somehow melted into amoral slush. Pulling back, he smiled, hopeful and sweet.

Oh, good Lord, baby Jesus and all the saints. My insides flailed and I tried to form actual words with my mouth, which was paid to make words and say things, but nothing spluttered out. I waved my hand goodbye like a toddler and bolted to the cab stand. Yup, running away with great, clomping steps was the only thing to do when kissed by a movie star.

I waved again from the window as we pulled away. He returned it, his entire demeanour relaxed and easy and sexier than a sexy man who sexes and
oh, shit fuck
what have I done?

* * * *

As per usual, I discussed my shame with food, which never judged me. My Indian takeout told me that
he
had kissed
me
. A very important distinction for the guilty. And that it had been one hundred per cent friendly. Like a friend. I’d given him a chaste smack on the cheek—why? whyyyyyy had I done that?—and he’d reciprocated in the more worldly European fashion. I wasn’t in Puritanical America anymore. This continent had told the Puritans to screw off so that everyone still left here could kiss each other on the mouth like buddies. That’s a history fact right there. I bet Daniel kissed everyone goodbye—pals, women, men…

And then I spent three minutes daydreaming about Daniel kissing a dude as my food got cold. And then I spent twenty minutes downloading that film he’d done in which he played the gay lover of an equally-hot football star. And then I spent thirty shame-filled minutes not watching the movie while I unpacked my suitcases finally and thought nice thoughts about Sam, still my boyfriend, maybe, and who’d brought me so much joy. And copious frustration. But more joy.

No, I would definitely
not
watch that sexy movie. I’d go to bed early to make up for the jet lag and the drunken fiestas, er, self-care I’d been indulging in for days.

Sleep overcame me—about twelve hours’ worth—and I awoke feeling like a new person. Ready to kick butt at stunt work. Ready to handle my men, er, man situation like an adult! Ready to open my email…

I read the note, sent from a Gmail burner account, twice through before I nearly dropped my laptop on my foot. I collapsed onto the floor of my bedroom and stared at the picture they’d sent until tears blurred my eyes so that I saw no more.

It was a picture of Sam, clearly used as a punching bag and tied up, holding this morning’s newspaper—the date was legible, even to me, although I didn’t recognise the language of
Het Laatste Nieuws
. Dutch, likely.

Because the note told me to travel to Bruges, or he would die.

Chapter Five

I Do My Own Failed Stunts

Int. Sleazy Hotel Room, Bruges, Belgium—day

Angle On:
Samantha Lytton
grapples in the dark with an
Unknown Assailant, Assumed To Be A Jerk Thief
. Samantha grabs the scumbag by the arm, twists her body nimbly and flips him across the room, where he falls to the floor.

Samantha Lytton: Cough him up! Where is Sam?

Unknown Assailant, Assumed To Be A Jerk Thief: Sam who?

Samantha Lytton: I don’t know!

Angle On: Samantha lunges at the bad guy. He jumps to his feet and dashes across the room, clearly trying for the door. She trips him by whipping out one sexy leg, and he collapses on the dingy carpet next to the bed. She grabs him by the front of the shirt.

Samantha Lytton: I know you have him. You told me to come here. Dammit, tell me where he is!

Unknown Assailant, Assumed To Be A Jerk Thief: Why do you want him back? He’s a liar. Once a thief, always a thief.

Unknown assailant has an Irish accent. It’s a clue! Or maybe it just sounds pretty.

Samantha Lytton: But…I love him.

Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: I guess you shoulda told him that more often.

Unknown Assailant sits up, cradling his busted head which has been very effectively pummelled by Ms Lytton, who is a total badass.

Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: Haven’t you been a little withholding? You can’t blossom in a relationship by assuming the worst. Love requires a leap of faith with both feet.

Samantha Lytton: I made a real commitment to Sam! He’s not in jail, is he? That’s ’cause of
moi
.

Samantha indicates herself by pointing both thumbs at her chest, in case the Unknown Assailant doesn’t understand French.

Lying by omission to the cops?
That’s
love.

Unknown Assailant With The Nice Accent: Yes, I know you’ve made some real sacrifices. It’s hard being away from your partner all the time.

Samantha plops down cross-legged next to the Unknown Assailant.

Samantha Lytton: It is. Always wondering if he’s okay. Or just plain missing him. I have needs.

Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: Of course you do. You’re a vibrant woman at the top of her game. And he should respect that he’s not meeting your individual desires.

Samantha Lytton: That’s all I’m saying!

Unknown Assailant puts a gentle hand on Samantha’s shoulder.

Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: You two must hash through these things openly and honestly. It’s the only way for love to grow into a mutually beneficial life together full of faithful trust.

Samantha nods, knowing that the Unknown Assailant is right.

Samantha Lytton: So…do you know where Sam is?

Surprisingly Insightful Unknown Assailant: Not really. I’m in charge of kidnapping wayward drug dealers, not art thieves.

I had no choice but to attend my stunt rehearsal, so I threw my entire body and soul into pretend-clobbering the character in the museum gang who turns on the rest of us. I tossed him across the room and faux-punched him in the face, all the while fantasising that he was whoever had taken Sam. It only helped for as long as I moved. The moment I took a break, hell broke loose in my brain.

I ping-ponged between terrified worry about Sam and palpable anger. Rage jettisoned through my veins and brought with it a sapping of my energy, a deflation of my spirit. My body hurt from a hurricane of emotions.

I’d forgive Sam anything if I’d only find him and we could walk away together, safe.

Until the next time it happened.

My entire life seemed like playacting. During the day, I masqueraded in front of the camera, and at night, Sam and I impersonated June and Ward Cleaver. I’d left it to my beaver, and thinking with my lady parts had got me into his messes from the very beginning.

After today, I’d have a couple of days off, plus the weekend before I needed to be back at the studio for rehearsals. I could do a trip to Bruges and back if nothing went wrong. Not knowing what else to do, I’d replied to the nasty email and told them I’d be in the city by tomorrow morning.

“Ha!” I said out loud.

Bruce, the guy I’d just faux-roundhouse-kicked, took my laugh as a sign of high spirits and replied, “Yeah! You’re pretty awesome for a wee thing,” in his adorable Irish accent.

I managed an almost-human smile and retired to the edge of the dance studio to find my phone. After wrestling all day with whether or not to tell anyone about my situation, I knew I had to tell Ellen. I was supposed to meet her and Nicolette after work anyhow—no way could I hide such a thing from my soul mate. Two different people had asked me if I was sick today based on my Gollum-like complexion. Danny had been shooting concerned glances my way, but at least my gross appearance kept further kisses at bay.

Only one more sequence to go through before I finished for the afternoon—Danny did his own stunts, but I was quite happy to let my stunt double, Missy, earn some cashola. Somehow, after fighting actual, bona-fide bad guys in reality, the fake version didn’t hold as much appeal.

I mopped my glistening brow with a towel and plopped on the floor to text Ellen.

Urgent situation. Pick me up at Trafalgar Dance Studio in an hour for a council of war.

An almost instantaneous reply shot through time and space to berate me.

WTF? I will kill that stupid thief of yours! I thought we’d dumped him! I have a nice girl all picked out for you. She enjoys eighties music…

I actually managed a giggle at that. A head-swirling amount of relief nearly knocked me over to know that I always had one friend on my side.

Not that I wanted to expose more people to danger. Shit! Shiiiiiiiiit. I slumped against the wall and replied.

Someone may kill him for you. Just swing by—I need more brains to help me decide what to do. But I don’t want Nic to do anything…police-like.

You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes at you.

Don’t hurt yourself.

I finished the day and, by the close, had performed with such dedicated vigour that the stunt coordinator cited me as a model student. While the friendly, joking group gave me a round of applause, I tried not to barf on the bouncy dance floor. Danny asked me if I wanted to join everyone in a drink nearby, but I begged off, using my friends in town as an excuse.
Dammit! I’d love to bond with my cast, but you know how it is—maybe-boyfriend being held prisoner by mysterious thugs
. After giving everyone a hug, I bolted out the front door and ran straight into Nicolette.

I righted myself and said, “I need a drink and a quiet place to talk. But mostly a drink.”

* * * *

We held the council of war at a pub near my apartment in case my place had been bugged. The suggestion that my flat was being monitored earned more of Ellen’s patented eye rolls. By the time the evening was over, poor Ellen’s eyes might pop out of her equally-aggravated skull. And then fly across the room to slap sense into me.

“Personally, I vote to leave him there to deal with the consequences of his life of crime,” Nicolette said. Ellen began to raise her hand to agree, but I kicked her under the table.

“Ow!” My BFF rubbed her calf and shot more lasers from her peepers. “You can’t really go to Bruges and what…kick down the door with guns blazing?”

“I learned how to kick in a door today, thank you.”

“Sam—”

“I’m going!” I slammed my beer on the table and pulled my sweater around me. This Cali girl was not used to sub-seventy-two-degree temperatures. Or perhaps my blood had run cold. “I’m just wanting advice about what to do. And no, I can’t call the police—I don’t know exactly where he’s wanted or why, but I have to assume it’s everywhere and for everything. Ugh.” I put my head on the mostly-clean table. “Nicolette, please tell me we’re off the record here.”

It was Nicolette’s turn to be kicked under the table by Ellen. The cop chewed on her lip then said, “Fine. I was never here. We never talked about this. I don’t know who you are. I wish I didn’t know who you are…”

“Thank you.” I peered up at her with eyes full of tears. “That means a lot to me.”

“You’re bonkers. You understand that, right?” She took my hand and patted it. “I urge you to contact the Belgium authorities. Him in jail is better than the two of you dead.”

“I’ll have them on speed dial.” I squeezed her hand and ignored the commentary in my brain, which was residing in the Land of Denial, on the Continent of LaLaLaICan’tHearYou. “But I’m hoping I can meet them publicly and offer money, or something. I mean, I have cash now, not that much, but some. I ain’t Tom Cruise.”

Ellen sucked down half a beer, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, burped and said, “This is stupid. So I’m going with you.”

“What?” Nicolette burst out.

“What? No!” I reached across and grabbed at her arm. “No fucking way. This is my problem. I—”

“I can go where I want!” Ellen pronounced this with such vehemence the two opinionated ladies with her actually quieted. She lifted her eyebrows in a ‘so there’ way and continued, “I just looked it up on my phone. Eurostar will get us into Bruges in three and a half hours. We go tonight, we trick the bad guys…somehow, and then we tour the city. I read that it features the most photographed place in Europe.”