The Wrath of Dimple

by Lucy Woodhull

  Ellen huffed and said, “Have you considered that the bump on the head might have fixed him? Maybe he’s better now!”

  “Better than what?”

  “All the things wrong with him before.”

  “I’m hanging up now,” I threatened, yet did nothing.

  “Maybe you’re trying harder at sex now, and he’s rewarding you.”

  I adopted my outrage voice. “You take that back! I have a magic vagina that entrances men! And also one very enthusiastic bisexual female fan who somehow got my private email address.”

  “How is Cece?”

  “Oh, she’s good! She just got a promotion at work. Oh, and she wants to Dirty Chloe me. Is that a thing?”

  “I’ll ask at the next Screeching Lesbian Organic Cat Convention.”

  “Oh, okay. But rest assured—my vagine is amazing, and I have always been amazing at pleasuring my bed partners in a sexual way. Sexually.”

  Ellen’s phone made moving noises, and she said something to Nicolette, which I took to mean that she believed I was a sex goddess from the planet Satisfaction.

  “Gotta go. My woman made me food.”

  “Ah, but why? Did you sex her good last night?”

  “Only kinda,” she said ruefully. “Our periods synch, and we’re both crampy as fuck. No sex, but we did cuddle a lot and share a heating pad.”

  “Aw.”

  “And a vibrator.”

  “Those always help with cramps.”

  She giggled. “Among other things. I gotta go.”

  “Wait! I have more news! I think Taylor Monroe was the one who attacked Sam! Or ordered others to attack Sam—I can’t see Taylor actually making that much physical effort.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Just a feeling, though. I’ll report more as it’s discovered.”

  “Good.”

  “Ellen?”

  “Yes, Dorkus?”

  “The Screeching Lesbian Organic Cat Convention isn’t real, right? Because if it is, why have I never been invited?”

  “Maybe because you’re not a lesbian?”

  “I’m an ally!”

  “We don’t need your condescending ally screeching.”

  “Ah.”

  She giggled anew and added, “But I’ll speak to the Imperial Yodeling Calico.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Stop being a freak,” she advised before hanging up on me. That’s how most of our phone conversations ended.

  “Hey,” Sam said.

  I screamed and tossed my phone into the air. It bounced off the side of my head and felt eight hundred percent more pointy than a phone with no points should have. “Hey,” I replied, rubbing my smarting temple.

  Clad in gray jersey pants, he came over to me and gently patted my ouchie. “Head wounds are kinda my thing. If you have head injuries, how am I supposed to get pity sex out of you? And one of us has to know where we live.”

  This man… My heart fluttered like a wife in love with her husband. “It wasn’t pity.”

  He sat on the bed, his thigh snuggling mine. “No?”

  I leaned forward until we were forehead to forehead. “Nope.”

  “Samantha,” he said softly, romantically, toe-curlingly, “do you want coffee?”

  My toes curled even more. “Yes! A thousand times yes, my l—darling.”

  “I like a woman who’s easy to please.” He washed sweet coffee breath and kisses over my cheeks. “One coffee coming right up.”

  “I’ll come out.”

  “Stay naked.”

  Naked is not a great way to drink hot coffee, so I threw on a black satiny robe that could be removed quickly. It’s important to compromise in marriage, and also to wear easily accessible clothing.

  Sam fed me java so jumping it burned a hole in my esophagus. He also made bacon, pancakes—pancake-shaped—and orange slices—orange-shaped. All the while, I wondered at this sudden cooking spurt. When I’d eaten my—and several size-zero actresses’—weight in sugar calories, he wouldn’t let me help him touch the dishes. Maybe his injury had made him better. Maybe he’d start picking up his socks, or stop leaving puddles on the bathroom counter that Samantha then leaned against and that got water spots on her cute outfits, thereby forcing her to curse a lot.

  A half-hour later, he found me answering emails on the sunken couch. He pulled the tablet from my hand by way of greeting, and I glanced up to find him completely naked and jutting in front of me like a proud gangplank.

  “Hello, sailor.”

  “Hello, siren.” He climbed atop me and nuzzled the side of my neck. Several shivery, eye-crossing kisses later, he said, “Now that you’ve been fed, may I please go down on you?”

  Holy crap. This was like having an alluring robot to do all my bidding, except that he wasn’t cold, hard metal, he was hot, hard man and oh, my, he wasn’t waiting for my reply. It’s the rare day when I refuse oral, anyway. Cunnilingus was invented by Lady God to apologize for periods.

  He yanked on the tie to my robe, and the useless article fell away on both sides, exactly as it’s intended to do. I reclined on the couch entirely naked, feeling like Aphrodite, goddess of sofa sex. “You’re such a curvy little thing,” he said to me, accurately, and with the sort of carnal appreciation in his voice that makes girls sluttier.

  I arched my back to help his view, because I’m polite. “Your appreciation for my bubble butt is well known.”

  He rested one knee on the couch and put an absentminded hand on his cock. “Yeah, let’s see that in broad daylight. Turn over.”

  Yes, sir. I scooted onto my belly as gracefully as I could, only getting tangled up in my robe for a moment or two before he yanked it away and threw it to the floor. He grunted as his knees landed on either side of mine. With less gentleness than lust, he kneaded my bottom in both hands, and suddenly it was my turn to gasp and moan. His rough caresses traveled a path of pure pleasure from my ass to my pussy, and I felt myself getting wet.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured sweetly. “Over the back of the couch,” he ordered less sweetly.

  Thrills fluttered in my chest—I don’t really enjoy being ordered around unless I’m naked.

  I draped myself just so.

  “Spread your legs.”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” I moved to obey.

  He chuckled, all dirty and nasty. “I like that.”

  “Get it?” I wiggled my butt. “Drill?”

  A firm hand ran from my shoulders to my upturned bottom. “Yeah.”

  “I bet you’re gonna lick me with your heavy artillery.”

  His hands stopped.

  “And here I am…booby trapped.” I shimmied my chest helpfully to get my point across.

  With a sigh, he said, “What have we talked about, Samantha?”

  My butt sagged. “No puns during sex.”

  He swatted my ass, and I yelped. “Ow! Quit storming my right flank! I surrender!”

  “Enough! Or I’m gonna counter-attack.”

  I burst into giggles and fell over the couch. He spanked me again and joined my mirth despite himself. I jerked upward. “Wait!”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  I turned around fully and slid down into a squat. “You said, ‘What have we talked about, Samantha?’” My heart raced and pounded fit to leap out of my ribs. “But we haven’t talked about that…recently. I haven’t punned in bed in forever. Not since the power tools incident, which also, ironically, began with the word ‘drill’.”

  He flopped down beside me. “But—but that’s something that has happened?”

  “Yes!” I nearly screamed it.

  “I… I don’t know why I said it. I just felt it.” Half smiling, half staring into himself, he searched my eyes. “Maybe—maybe there’s hope.”

  “This is why I should always sex pun!”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  �
��Really, no. You’re not that cute.”

  “I am, though.”

  “Get on your knees again. You’re cute that way.” He grinned.

  “I agree.”

  He got on the floor behind me and caressed my backside with renewed vigor, playing over my hips, the backs of my thighs…but not between them. My pussy was exposed and open to him in this position, feeling terribly naked in the morning sunlight. He wouldn’t touch me, though. Not there. Not where I mentally begged him to end my torture, oh no. Kisses rained upon my ass. Strong hands encircled my legs and stroked. He slid them up my back and blew across my pussy.

  I whimpered, “Please?”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  “I won’t pun anymore?”

  “That’s it.” His hands on my waist, he pulled me back and placed one tiny kiss on my lips. I arched toward him, and he made Mmmmmm noises.

  Bam bam bam! sounded from the direction of the front door.

  Sam lifted his head away from me, which was the exact opposite direction of where his head should be.

  “Go away!” I screamed.

  He began laughing and sat back on his heels.

  Muffled shouts sounded from the outside hallway. They sounded suspiciously familiar.

  “Damn you,” I muttered. She wouldn’t go away—I might as well face her. Viciously, I grabbed my robe and tied it together again.

  “No, ignore whoever it is,” Sam begged me with pretty eyes and luscious lips. I knew where that pretty mouth had just been, and I hated her anew.

  “She’ll never go away. I know, because I wouldn’t either. You should probably put on pants.”

  “Oh, so it’s a fancy guest.” He wandered away.

  I sighed and stomped to the door, yanked it open, and said, “You’re interrupting things.”

  Ellen cocked her head, her ponytail swinging. “Things?”

  “Leave, or I’ll be forced to elaborate about what things.”

  “Please don’t,” Nicolette, in matching adorable ponytail, begged. “But I know some things you’ll want to hear. Things about”—she leaned in closer—“Taylor Monroe.”

  Sam yanked the door from my hand and opened it wider. “Hi, ladies,” he said.

  “Put on a shirt,” Ellen replied politely as she breezed in, her fiancée in tow. “We brought you a housewarming present.”

  Nicolette shoved a pink box into my hands, and I set it on the hall table to peek inside, Sam over my shoulder. Inside sat a gorgeous round cake with white frosting, purple flowers, and red writing that said Congrats on the Hetero Sex.

  Sam turned to them, dimple at full throttle. “Thank you. It was very heterosexual.” He picked up the cake. “Can I get the coven anything to drink or eat?”

  Three smiles lit up at him. “I like New Sam,” Ellen said. “I’ll have a beer.”

  Nicolette spluttered, “We just had breakfast!”

  “A mimosa, then.”

  “I think I can do that.” His face the picture of bemused resignation, he tottered off to do the coven’s bidding.

  I ushered my witches to the couch, and we sat. Ellen eyed my robe and said, “Did you holler at me to go away?”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot for the blue balls. Blue ovaries?”

  Nicolette let out a bark of laughter. “Blue ovaries. I’m gonna use it.”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m good for something. Now”—I leaned in conspiratorially—“what about Taylor the Hipster?”

  “He’s evil!” Ellen said.

  I nodded. “And?” I’d already figured out the evil part. That much bad taste can only come from the Devil unless you’re Dolly Parton, who I’m pretty sure is actually Jesus come to earth to delight everyone.

  Nicolette continued on without the hyperbole. “When you told Ellen a little while ago that you thought Taylor had attacked Sam, I got curious. I shouldn’t tell you this, but the case has been taken away from me anyway—and given to the FBI. Besides, I’m certain you’ll keep my secret, as I know far, far too many of yours.”

  It was one of the nicest threats I’d ever received, and probably the most deserved. “Of course.”

  She nodded once. “Taylor is under investigation by the NYPD and the LAPD for tax evasion and money laundering through his productions. We think his wealth is much, much more vast than he reports.”

  “Holy shit. How is he making the money he’s laundering? Drugs?”

  “That’s the big question. My guess is that the Feds sent Sam in to check him out from the inside once you got cast in his latest movie. Sam discovered something, or just plain got caught, ran, and someone tried to finish him off.”

  I slumped back into the couch. “That makes sense,” Sam said from behind me. He held a tray of four orange drinks and four pieces of cake, and had donned an olive-green tee. A tight one, mmmmmm. A tray? Who was this man? I hid my smile as he passed out the goodies. Now that I’m rich, I make it a point to have an enormous supply of champagne ready at all times, like Eddie from Ab Fab, sweetie dahling. Sam joined me and handed me a triangle of cake that had ‘Sex’ on it. This man was better on half a memory than most are with a whole.

  “So what do we do about it?” asked Sam.

  Nicolette frowned. “Your handlers haven’t advised you?”

  I said, mouth full of some seriously amazing sex cake, “They just came here with a bunch of dire threats—they think Sam stole whatever they’d sent him to search for.”

  Our cop raised one perfect, black eyebrow. “And did he?”

  “No,” we said simultaneously. Team Lytton-Pseudonym!

  “I have a plan,” declared Ellen as she stabbed into her post-breakfast dessert.

  Nicolette turned to her with pure ‘uh-oh’ on her face. Ellen looked everywhere but in her direction. “I’m going to infiltrate his house.”

  “Nope,” said Nicolette.

  “I was reading the stuff Nicolette got this morning from the case file.”

  “Nope,” said Nicolette.

  “I saw what service they use to hire maids, because they’re investigating everyone. I also saw that they lose maids right and left because Taylor is a handsy asshole, and his wife tries to get all the pretty young things to sleep with him.”

  “Ew,” I said.

  “Nope,” growled Nicolette.

  “And he’s a racist, so he tends to prefer white maids. I’m gonna show up and say I’ve been sent by the agency.”

  “That’s not bad,” Sam said, sitting back and stroking the stubble on his chin like a true master of subterfuge. He took a sip of champagne and held criminal court. “Do it with enough confidence and most folks’ll believe anything. Bring a business card with you with a fake number for the agency. If they want to call and verify, I’ll talk to them and be very helpful.”

  “That’s awesome!” Ellen squeaked, approving of Sam for the very first time.

  I took his hand and squeezed as pride filled me with warmth the way pizza does.

  “Nope, nope, nope!” said Nicolette, standing for emphasis. “This guy tried to kill Sam! You are not going to sneak in there and—”

  “You’re a police officer,” Ellen said. “It can be our sexy undercover operation. Besides, I’m working a plot like this into my latest manuscript, so this will be excellent research. My heroine’s a super-sleuth with super-powers.”

  Nicolette opened her mouth, but Ellen just shouted her down, “No, I don’t know what powers. And we’re not going to break any laws! I’ll get a job, avoid Taylor’s no-doubt skid-marked undies—”

  “I just threw up in my mouth a little,” I said, and everyone thought. I washed the image away with some booze.

  “—and wait for them to leave the apartment for the night. Then”—Ellen’s eyes had taken on a mad gleam—“I’ll invite you all over for a ‘party’, wink wink.” She tried to wink at us, but just blinked profusely. “We can search the place.”

  Ellen’s faithful fiancée returned to the couch and crossed her arms.
“You’re crazy. You’re all crazy.” She shook her head. “White people.”

  None of us whiteys could argue.

  “I can’t just sit back and wait for them to try to kill me again. They’ve tried twice.” Sam swallowed and pressed delicate fingers to his bandage. “I don’t want the third time to be the charm. The Feds aren’t helping me.”

  “Twice?” Nicolette sat up. “That’s not in your file.”

  “We didn’t tell anyone,” I said. “We don’t know who to trust, except for the deranged people in this room.”

  And there it was. We were a secret cabal of noble warriors, pulling plans out of our asses and pooping them into action! Or maybe a better metaphor! The point was, as my Dad would say, God helps those who break in and uncover evidence for themselves.

  “I’m in,” I said, sticking my hand out, face down. It had purple frosting smeared on it. Oh, well. This plan merited a hand like that.

  “Actresses are so melodramatic,” my husband said as he plopped his big palm atop mine. “But you know I’m in. In. Get it?”

  Ellen face-palmed. “Hetero sex puns.”

  “Wait! How come you can make hetero sex puns and I can’t?”

  The notion of a smirk flitted across Sam’s otherwise serious face. “What? I don’t understand—my brain is injured.”

  “At least he admits it. Okay—back to the plan. Fuck, yeah!” Ellen fist-pumped and stuck her hand on ours.

  Nicolette didn’t budge her disapproving arms, and said, “I’m too far away to reach, but my not putting a hand in there is an act of protest, not laziness. Maybe a little laziness.”

  “I’ll win her over,” Ellen said, side-mouthed, to me.

  “I hear you, batshit wife.”

  “I love you, sensible wife.”

  “Awwwwww.” I cocked my head and gazed lovingly at the both of them—my friends, my allies, my women-at-arms. “Now get the fuck out so my husband can rip off my clothes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Innbrudd Og Fiske

  Int: A rich douchebag’s opulent, yet equally douchebaggy home—night.

  Audio: A bouncy 1970s groove sounds throughout.

  Angle On: Samantha, Ellen and Nicolette, collectively known as Sam’s Angels. Their hair blows in the breeze that appears to be originating from nowhere. They are dressed in black leather hot-pants and tight tank tops.