I tossed my ponytail and did not deign to answer, while also hiding my smile about the compliment.
The drive finished downloading, and Sam crouched to put it back. Music blared from outside the little room. I rocked from surprise, and a hand clamped over my mouth. I nodded, letting him know that I wouldn’t scream, and we faced the door slowly.
A male voice just outside, saying, “Mutter mutter mutter, performance art is lost nowadays to blah blah blah authenticity!”
Taylor!
Sam said nothing, but his mouth formed a series of, ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck’s that were all too easy to decipher. He pointed at the Cassatt, and we wrapped it back up in its protective paper. As quickly and silently as possible, we arranged it with its friends exactly as we’d found them. The room appeared undisturbed. We, however, could not boast the same.
Sam flexed his hands into fists over and over again while going into a faraway ‘shit, we need a plan’ mode. I began sweating. Everywhere. Like a lady. Like a freaking petrified lady. He swallowed, lowered his hands in a universal gesture for ‘calm the F down’, and put his finger over his lips. I nodded. Now was not the time to break into the dulcet strains of Xanadu, although the desire to do so perversely overwhelmed me. I sang it in my head for distraction.
His ear to the door, he held my arm.
Billie said, from closer this time—maybe the kitchen? Shit!— “My art reality—reality, not performance—will have more knives. Just knives, everywhere! And wigs for the audience, who will, naturally, be nude…” Her voice faded out.
Sam turned to me, his face incredulous.
“Just knives, everywhere!” I mouthed.
He cracked a dimple. “We’re gonna go,” he said a hair’s breadth from my ear. “Stay close.”
How could I do anything else? His finger marks would likely be on my arm for a week.
He flipped off the light, plunging us into blackness. He squeezed my arm and slid his hand down to take my own. I shivered. A slit of light appeared—he’d opened the door. The sliver of bright slid lower. He’d crouched, and I did the same. Moments passed, and a trickle of sweat poured down my back. Finally, I saw what he was doing—he held a small, angled mirror on a stick, like what a dentist uses for your molars. He held it close to the floor to check for stray Monroes. He retracted it and pointed left.
We were off.
I held my breath so tight I saw spots. We crept from the door, and I closed it silently behind us. This hallway ran along the back of the first floor of the apartment. It would intersect with one that could take us out to the main entry room. Or maybe a rear door, wherever the hell that was. I hadn’t discovered a back way when we’d been here last, but perhaps Sam had, for he walked us down the hall and turned left into the dark library. Empty. I let out my ten-minute-old breath.
He rushed to the corner, where books lined every single square inch. Where the hell was he going? The only thing even close was a window, and my ass was not shimmying down twenty stories in January. Or any other time—I only played a superheroine in the movies.
Sam reached toward a book when I heard a voice—Taylor singing Coldplay. Oh, the humanity! Sam yanked me sideways, and we collapsed behind an enormous gilded couch. The lights flicked on, blinding and terrifying. Taylor burst into the room, still singing the horrible song. If he looked down and in our direction whatsoever, he’d see us, for the golden Rococo legs of the couch offered little cover. Our nemesis crossed straight to his desk, grabbed his laptop, slipped it in an over-the-shoulder man purse, then walked directly toward us.
Taylor approached the same area of books Sam had gone for. As he began to circle around toward it, we crawled as silently as we could to the other side of the couch, trying to keep it between us and him. The Benny Hill theme ran through my head, and I half expected a busty blonde in lingerie to join our stupid little chase.
Jackass yanked on a book. It didn’t move. He groaned and stomped his foot. He pulled it again, all the way. A dangling wire came with it. I glanced at Sam, who furrowed his brow and poised, ready to bolt. Taylor cursed and said, “Stupid thing is broken again.” He stomped his moccasin-clad foot. “Why is my life so hard?”
Sam and I face-palmed at the same time. But Asshole was on the move, coming back toward us. Sam and I shuffled double-time and backwards to behind the couch again, me falling atop him in the end, upended like a turtle, his hand over my mouth. Taylor left, not bothering to turn off the light.
“What the hell? Is that a Scooby Doo secret passage or something?” I asked.
“Yes. I…borrowed the blueprints for the apartment today. Damn it! That was my bright getaway idea.”
“Is there another exit?”
“The service exit is off the second floor. We’re not close to either staircase.”
“Shit!”
“Yup. We’ve got to try the back way, though. The living room is too damn big and bright. Ready?” He took my hand as he said it, not with impatience now, but reassuring. Husband-y. What a touching gesture. Just before we’d be caught and hauled to jail.
He put an ear to the non-secret door. Long, long minutes passed, or so it seemed. Finally, I got one hand squeeze, and we were out again, roaming the halls to find the rear staircase. A slam and footsteps, and we ducked into the nearest door. A bathroom.
Billie’s voice outside, saying, “I know what you said, Mortimer, but I’m involved with Priscilla, and I can only fully commit myself to one non-corporeal affaire de coeur at a time. You of the spirit realms are so unfailingly dramatic!” She paused.
I turned to Sam. He turned to me. A split second later, I slapped my hand over his mouth because he’d lost it.
“Mortimer!” exclaimed Billie. “The last time, you oozed ectoplasm upon my wicker!”
Sam and I slid to the floor, laughing, guffawing as silently as possible. I’d always wondered if Billie’s antics were an act, but she seemed to really talk to ghosts! Or had a very serious mental illness that should not be laughed at. I chose to believe that she believed her own bullshit so I could find amusement in hiding in her guest toilet.
Her voice faded, and Sam wiped his eyes. Then he winced, because his eyes were the color of Barney the dinosaur. “If we get pinched,” he whispered, “I’m Mortimer, and you’re his jealous dead ghost wife.”
“No, I wanna be Priscilla. Then we can fight over Billie.”
“I think I just lost the ability to get a boner forever.” He yanked me in for a mad kiss, and prized the door open. Clear. Of people and ghosts.
After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed us down a short hall, the end of which turned right—into the staircase! We silently high-fived and tiptoed the steps to the landing, peeked around for stray Monroes, tiptoed, peeked until we got to level two. A sumptuous, painting-covered hallway emerged to the left, and a door to the right. Figuring that the door was our best bet, he nodded, and I turned the handle.
Alarms. Loud. Alarms! Alarming!
I squeaked and ran smack into Sam’s chin. We fell backward through the open door, which was wailing fit to burst my eardrums. Sam jumped over me, grabbed my arm, then bodily lifted me to my feet. Voices from downstairs.
“Shit!” we hissed in unison. Alarm door led to a second door, which was barred by more fucking paintings! We were trapped!
The occupants’ voices came louder now.
OMG OMG OMG OMG. I really would go to jail this time. I’d be stuck in there with evil Valerie, who’d had a lot of time to learn how to make a shiv out of tampons!
I grabbed Sam’s arm and said, “I’m taking over this operation.”
He began to argue, but screw that. I ran back into the gorgeous hallway. Stomps on the main staircase, around the bend. I ducked into the first room I’d found and pulled Sam in with me. A bedroom.
“Get on the bed!” I said as I shoved.
He sat on it. I dove atop him, straddling him and smashing his face with a kiss.
“Well, well, well,” sma
rmed Taylor Monroe from the doorway.
Chapter Eleven
I Saw a Nightmare Like This Once
I sat up on Sam’s crotch and giggled. Wildly.
Too wildly.
You’re a professional, Lytton, get it together!
I giggled a proper amount and said as smoothly as possible, “Well hello, Taylor.”
Taylor waited for me to say more while he scratched his beard and stared from me to Sam. Sam fixed his wide, wide brown eyes on me and waited for me to say more. I didn’t. It’s always better to let the other person talk. Being confident and silent will get you a long way in life—take it from Dr Samantha.
Taking a few steps into the room, Taylor said, “You little vixen. I knew you were a tempestuous thing.”
Yes, this would do. I flipped my hair and ran my fingers lightly over my cleavage. “You caught us.”
A chuckle sounded from behind Taylor, and Billie floated into view. “Yes, he did. I, of course, could feel your presence.”
“Of course,” I said, flighty as air. “See, my character loves being caught having sex, like in scene seventeen. So…” I ran a hand down Sam’s chest and grinned at him. “I thought I’d walk on the wild side. I knew you would understand.”
Taylor shoved his hands in his pants and began fidgeting therein. “Completely. Utterly.”
“She’s lying,” Billie said.
My stomach knotted. Sam’s grip on my hip went rigid. I cocked my head and smiled softly at Billie, full of innocence.
Billie swooped in and sat beside us on the bed. “I know all, Samantha. I see all.” She reached out and patted Sam’s head.
I fought the urge to punch her in the boob. “The Shadows have told me what’s in your heart.”
Sam swallowed and said, “Yes?”
“You want to swap.”
My eyes bulged, and Sam’s claws dug into me, and my mind raced, and my stomach ick-ed, and my lunch came up, and oh, shit, why do these things happen to me? I nodded with a shrug, turning a dry, smiling mouth to Taylor, who’d already taken off his Nehru shirt.
Oh, fuck no.
No.
No!
Nein!
Nyet!
Whatever ‘no’ is in Klingon!
Sam sat up and wrapped his arms around me. “Suzie said you wouldn’t go for it, when we told her we were on the way here. But we knew better.” He purred it straight at me, but meant to for them. He was telling them that somebody knew we were here, so that nobody decided to just whack us immediately. Smart man. Bash his head once, shame on you…
A total lie, of course. There existed no mounted cavalry, just soon-to-be-mounted us.
“You two,” Sam said to our—gag—sex partners with challenge in his eye. “Strip.”
Sam’s face was close to mine, and I searched his desperate gaze for help. He searched mine for help. But no help came! I almost screamed for Grandma Monroe, but she was probably high on Ovaltine and reliving V-E Day.
Billie began dancing, all swoopy arms like every chick at an Alanis Morissette concert. Then the chanting started, and her caftan-thing slipped ominously to the floor.
My husband buried his face in my boobs. “Yeah, baby,” gurgled Sam almost convincingly.
I would have laughed if I weren’t dying inside. I felt like a teenager trapped in an after-school special about what happens when you try a marijuana cigarette.
Taylor put his hands on my shoulders. His. Murderous. Hands. I began shaking, from rage, fear, disgust—who can say? I stared straight ahead of me, and he said, “Relax, little Samantha. I’m a director. Just do what I say.”
My stomach roiled, and I knew what would happen very soon, for I had a terrible/wonderful history of vomiting on the bad guy. I had to stop this creeptastic charade.
“Ow, my period!” I screamed.
Sam bolted up, knocked his head on my chin, and we both splayed backwards like rag dolls. My head hung off the bed, eye-level to Taylor’s open fly. I opened my mouth and blood came out—I’d bitten the shit out of my lip, and my whole freaking head throbbed. I rolled to my side. Sam shoved my legs off him. I gasped while blood splurted from my lips. “My period! Oh, it’s starting!” I clutched my abdomen and kept rolling, onto my back, trying to appear as gross as possible.
I did an excellent job.
“Oh, no, honey,” Sam said, clutching my hand. “Her periods are just terrible. So…bloody. And violent. And gross. Just sooooo gross…with the menstruating.”
“Oowowww!” I screamed and convulsed into a ball, like you’re supposed to do during a bear attack.
Billie stepped forward. “I’ll help you feel better, my sister! I have a biodegradable vaginal cup. We’ll share. We’ll collect our moon time, together, and—”
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Sam stumbled to his feet. “I’m so sad we have to postpone our”—he narrowed his eyes and gathered courage—“tryst.”
Taylor began to pull his pants down. “I don’t mind a period. It’s nature’s lubricant.”
“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” I screamed while averting my eyes. Taylor’s penis was something I would never, ever be able to unsee. Someone save me from this horror porn. I’m sorry I disparaged the fish sex! “My ovaries! My uterus! My…”
“Fallopian tubes!” Sam supplied. “This is really too bad. I can’t wait to”—he reached for my hand and nodded toward the door—“t-tear the two of you apart. At another date. Sexually. With…so much sex.”
For the first time, I nearly saw Sam unable to utter a lie. I got to my feet, and Taylor handed me a rag to mop up the blood on my face. Oh, God, the thing he handed me reeked of BO and patchouli and oh, my God, was that a beard hair? It had better be a beard hair! “It’s one of my shirts,” Taylor said. “Think about me, little funny girl, and we’ll do this again.”
Bile. So much bile. It rose in my throat, and in my eyeballs, and I think there was some spewing from under my right rib. I managed a smile, and bowed to both of them, because why not? Billie bowed back, took my face in her hands, and kissed me, bloody mouth and all, her naked body pressed against mine.
At this point, I would have been happier to be on the way to jail.
Sam’s eye had begun to twitch, and I wasn’t sure which of the Taylors he was going to Hulk-smash first, so I pulled at him until we were blessedly out of the bedroom. I groaned and moaned my way to the top of the stairs, at which Sam picked me up, Bodyguard-style, and carried me down to the first level. “We’ll polyamory another day!” he said on the way out of the front door.
It closed behind us. He set me on my feet. I gaped up into his face.
We ran.
We ran to the elevator. We waited. It went ding! We ran. We waited, ghost-faced, Taylor’s disgusting tee dangling from two of my fingers. The doors opened, we ran. We ran down the street. We ran to a cab. We jumped into the cab. We slammed the door. Sam grabbed the shirt, opened the window, and tossed it into the street.
Slumping, Sam said, “Do you think they bought that?”
“They were naked.” I rocked back and forth. “I saw Billie’s naked nudity.”
He put his hand over his mouth. “Driver, take us to—fuck me, what just happened?—take us to the Plaza, please.”
I quirked an eyebrow.
“They have a good bar, and I don’t want to be found tonight. It’s a fucking miracle that we just walked out of that house. I’ll text the neighbor kid to feed Taco.”
I nodded and put my face in my hands. And I began to laugh. And laugh. I flopped back into the seat and gasped with my hysteria. “Fallopian tubes!” I shouted.
Sam started laughing, too. Soon, we were nearly crying while the driver gave us the stink eye.
“I have never been so happy about a period in my life,” Sam said.
“Me, neither. I’m gonna have a Martini the size of my face.”
“I’m gonna drink until I can’t see her—his—any of it. Where’s my damn amnesi
a now?”
I started to laugh again, and I did all the way to the hotel. I dug shades out of my purse and cleaned my face with old napkins I found shoved at the bottom of my bag. “Let me do the talking,” I told him.
His eyebrows raised, but he nodded.
Straight to the concierge I went, whipping off my sunglasses as I arrived. “Hi,” I said.
“You’re—”
“Yes. We want to check in, but there’s paparazzi chasing me. Can we do this in an office in the back or something?”
Of course we could! Everyone should be rich and famous. Life is better, believe me.
We were ushered to the GM’s office and offered a comfy couch. We handed over Sam’s black Amex, and they had an electronic key in my hand faster than you can say, ‘Ow, my period.’
The general manager said, “I’ve checked you in under the name Jane Davis, Ms Stone. We’re honored to have you here. Although you sound different in real life.”
Sam turned to me, his face a question mark. Yup, look at me, the famous Emma Stone. I didn’t really know how folks could make this mistake, as I was ten years older than she was, except that maybe he somehow recognized my face, but my name wasn’t on his lips. It was the hair.
“Thank you for your help,” I replied. This was better, anyhow. Now when one of the bell boys tipped off the real paparazzi, they’d be looking for the younger ‘me’.
The moment we got in the door to our suite, Sam headed for the minibar. We both took our little bottles of whiskey as a double shot, pouring them down our throats to try to sear away the mental images. I fell across a sofa, and a few moments later I heard him on the phone with room service. He ordered two cheeseburgers with the works, beer, French fries and cheesecake, and I loved him in that moment. I loved him even more than when he’d carried me down the stairs and out of the wife-swap house.
I loved him a lot, okay? The fact that we were, in fact, mid-fight had not left me. But we’d reached a sort of détente, and it eased my knotted heartstrings. The food ordered, I went to the bathroom and discovered that I wasn’t a liar. When I emerged, he sat up from where he’d been sagged on the bed.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 15