You know, the things I’m a connoisseur of could really use improvement.
I yanked the drapes to the side to behold a dark night sky, barely visible white caps, and, closer to me, a brightly lit boardwalk stretching down a curving coast. I was maybe four, five stories up?
Where the hell had Billie taken me? This didn’t look like any city on the East Coast I’d ever been to.
The room gave me few clues, except that it was richly decorated, but also kind of quaint. Quaint as in a throwback to the 50s or 60s with atomic-style end tables, teal accents and a large picture-tube console TV in the corner. My grandparents had had one of those.
I still wore my tea-stained T-shirt and jeans. No purse, no cellphone. I crawled my hands over my body for signs of injury, but I didn’t think she’d…done anything to me. Ew. Ugh. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Was I pro- or anti-feminist in that I hadn’t suspected Taylor’s goofy wife? I’d thought of her almost as another victim of his. A bizarro, patchouli-stinking victim.
No chance they didn’t know about my true intentions now. At the least, I hoped the sexual advances were over.
The door handle turned when I tried it, much to my surprise. I stood there for minutes, a lot of them, circle-jerking my own brain about whether or not to leave and explore, or stay behind the door and pull my patented ‘bash them on the head with a lamp’ routine on whichever captor entered first.
I decided to take the lamp—sorry, you gorgeous mid-century pink glass masterpiece—and go exploring, too.
I was in a condo, looked like. I passed another empty bedroom, an adorable mint green bathroom, and a dining room. Had she kidnapped me to the past? Nope—the TV in the next room blared a Britney song. Living room, probably. I ran/tiptoed, uh…tip-ran, to the edge of the dining room and crept toward the arched doorway that led into the next room. The crackle of a fire sounded entirely too homey.
Hark! A wild Billie lurked. She muttered, “I dance a lot betta with a snake than this bitch.”
Number one— Snake-dance Britney is the best Britney, you horrid woman.
Number two— Where the hell had that Boston accent come from?
Number three— It sounded like she was alone! Only a few steps, bash her on the head, laugh about how it’s poetic justice, hope she gets Samnesia, then run away.
Yes, I would take the time to gloat. That’s a moral failing of mine when I get fucking kidnapped by the attempted-murderer of my husband.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, counted to three, then rushed into the living room, the lamp high over my head. Nobody there! I turned in a circle until I heard behind me, “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“No!” I slowly faced Billie who was, as her calm voice might suggest, pointing a better weapon at me than a lamp. Fear froze my skin, for I knew exactly what a gunshot felt like. I placed the lamp on the low bookcase beside me and put my hands on my hips. “Where am I?”
“Havana.”
“Havana!” I reeled, and the fright in my stomach expanded like a Magic Grow Super Snake, rendering my limbs rubbery. “We’re not allowed in Cuba, are we?”
“Private jets with well-paid pilots can go wherevah they want.” She sat on the marvelous mint sofa and gestured to an armchair. “Sit, Samantha. We should have a real conversation.”
Her voice no longer held that breathy rush, and her demeanor was focused and razor sharp. Jesus—she should have been the star of Taylor’s film. And I’d bought it hook, line, and stinker. “Cuba?” I muttered. How would I even get off this island without a passport?
She smiled when I sat. “You will call Sam now to tell him to recant what he said to the police. There’s a grand jury tomorrah, and that’ll be the perfect opportunity.”
“Or what?”
“Or the plane we’re going to take home will have a tragic accident.”
I let out a little squeal, and I shouldn’t have, it gave me away. But she knew by my face that putting me on a plane and crashing it was about the worst thing she could do to me. Naturally, she’d be listed on the manifest, but wouldn’t be there when the show went nuclear. And I highly doubted I’d be allowed my Xanax, which would be doubly rude.
She handed me my phone, which had about fifty missed texts from Ellen and fifteen phone calls.
“So, Billie—were you the spy, or Taylor? Or both?”
Her eyes narrowed, and I decided to play a hunch. “It was surely Taylor. He’s the genius, after all.”
“That asshole couldn’t genius his way out of a papah bag. The business was mine. He didn’t even write his movies! He pays young, overeagah screenwriters three hundred bucks for scripts and non-disclosure agreements. I used him for money and connections, and that’s about it.”
“Damn, that’s good.”
“Damn right. I own my own island, I’m about to spend a lot more time there.”
I pressed my hand over my belly to squash the washing machine spinning in there. “How did you catch Sam the first time?”
She smiled, small and tight. “If you repeat any of this, you know, it’ll be the worse for you.”
“Yeah, yeah—I’ve been threatened before.”
Before she started, she took my phone away again. Damn it—I’d been hoping to record a confession. “Your Sam’s a good burglar, I’ll give him that. Turned off the security system somehow. Howevah, he screwed up when he walked by the laptop in the office. It’s got a camera rigged to record movement, and the system emailed Taylor right away. So we made a call, sent some people ovah, and they chased him down. But he was wearing a mask, so my guys didn’t see him, and they didn’t have a chance to finish the job on him in the street. It wasn’t until we saw in the gossip that your husband had had his head banged up in the same spot that we put two and two together.”
White-hot rage suffused me, and I balled my hands into fists. This seemed to amuse her, and she chuckled. She passed my cell over. “Put it on speakah. Remember—Sam never found nothing in our apartment.”
“Then where did he get the super-secret plane plans?”
“Who the fuck cares? But I can’t have Taylor in jail. Hopefully the weak son of a bitch hasn’t given me up already.”
“I wouldn’t worry—he has an enormous capacity for self-delusion.”
She gave a pointed head-tilt of agreement.
I followed directions and pointed my shaking finger toward the first speed dial. Ring. I put the call on speaker phone. Billie stared a hole through me. Ring. Crackle of a pickup. “Samantha! Did you see? Taylor Monroe was arrested!”
Shit, I’d dialed my mother! I should never have made her dial number two! Dial six-sixty-six, yes—two, no!
Billie snarled, and I tried to find my voice, but Suzie barged on, “It’s really too bad—Diego and I were going to have drinks with him tonight. I got a bikini wax and everything! By the way, we discovered today that some men actually wax their nuggets.” She’d whispered ‘nuggets’ and followed it with a ‘tsk’. “Diego is a screamer. I didn’t scream.”
Finally, Billie did one thing right. She hung up on Suzie. We shared a moment of horrified, complete and total understanding. “No wondah you’re so screwed up,” Billie said.
I nodded, as this really meant something coming from her. “Would Taylor really have…?”
“Oh, yeah. He will literally nail anything. And give it genital warts.”
I didn’t know what was worse—that she referred to my mother as ‘anything’, or the wart part.
I shuddered and got back to the kidnapping at hand. “Sam is the first speed dial.”
“Maybe I should…”
“Yes, please do. I’m all thumbs for some reason.”
Sam picked up almost immediately. “Where the hell are you?” was my greeting. “Ellen is threatening me with bodily harm in the form of Nicolette, and Nicolette is considering it.”
“Aw, thanks Nicolette,” I murmured.
This earned me a dirty look from Billie, and one I could hear from Sa
m.
“Sam, you’re on speaker phone. Billie is here. She’s kidnapped me to—”
Billie snatched the phone away from me.
“I’m in Havana!”
She pointed the gun in my face and cocked it. But if she shot me now, she’d have no leverage over Sam, so I continued at a yell, “In a condo on the coast! I’m four or five stories up, and there’s a fireplace. Is that weird?”
Wham! The butt of the pistol connected with my jaw, and I involuntarily hit the deck. Blood dribbled from my mouth onto the hardwood, and Sam’s voice trailed down to me, demanding to know what was going on.
Billie told him, “You’re going to recant to the grand jury tomorrah, or she’s going to have a terrible plane accident.”
“Okay,” he replied.
“Don’t argue with me, Sam, or whatevah your name is. I’ll—oh, wait, you said okay?”
He sighed. Even in the most dire of circumstances, Sam could get annoyed. “Yes, whatever you want, obviously. I’m not the government—I’m happy to negotiate with terrorists.”
I made my way from flat on the floor to sitting on my bottom, a doily from the sofa pressed to my aching, split lip. The sad flop of lace reeked of dust. Heat from the fireplace behind me seemed to sear off my clothing.
Billie cocked her eyebrow and sat down. “You admit that you were in my house to spy on multiple occasions?”
A pause. “I don’t know what you mean. We were totally hot for you two until you pulled this kidnapping shit. Ghosts turn me on, baby.”
My face fought the snarky smile that leaped forth.
“Who are you really, Sam?” She settled into herself, curiosity tinging her conversation. “CIA? FBI? How the hell are you married to this silly thing here? I finally feel like I have an adversary worthy of me.”
“Really? It wasn’t that hard to get in your house.” He scoffed, as if her sloppiness personally offended his thief sensibilities. “You were overconfident.”
Her face hardened. “I told Taylor not to cast your stupid little wife. All she does is poke her nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I feel that’s a super unfair characterization of me.” Damn, did my mouth hurt. I could almost feel the purple blooming across my maw. “I was just trying to do my job in peace. You’re the ones who bashed my husband over the head and started this.”
“He was supposed to die.”
Sam didn’t like that comment at all. At least, that’s my guess, for he chose that moment to burst through the door, Nicolette hot on his heels and pointing a giant handgun at Billie. I didn’t know how they were here, but my ass hit the deck and cowered.
The hard, business end of a gun pressed to the back of my head. I wished I couldn’t identify that without looking, but I could. The special skills section of my résumé was a grim place.
I turned slowly to watch the drama—the villainess dressed like Stevie Nicks, gun ready to blast my brains out…the strong cop who’d risen through the ranks by defying the patriarchy aiming straight for her…and my lover the ex-art thief standing at the other point in the triangle, appearing as if he himself could spit bullets in the name of lust. It was the classic Havana standoff.
My insides flopped like Jell-O, I was so damn scared. Another couple of cops, local ones I guessed, hovered in the doorway, guns pointed at Billie, but also at me.
I held up my sweaty palms and squeaked, “I’m sure we can all work this out. Getting blood on this vintage furniture isn’t gonna help anyone.”
Nobody moved. Thanks a lot, assholes.
Nicolette said in her most authoritative tone, “Billie Taylor. I need you to drop that gun and surrender to me.”
“Eat shit and die,” said Billie.
I had liked Billie so much better when she’d talked nonsense to angels. She grabbed one of my arms and yanked, indicating that we were going to stand now. For a second, she fished in the pocket of the hippie maxi dress she wore, before emerging with a pair of handcuffs. One half for me, the other for her. Great. Was I being kidnapped more or sexually harassed? Why were these my only choices?
I met Sam’s eyes, angry and brimming with fear.
“We’re leavin’,” said Billie, pulling me out by the upper arm, the gun never wavering from its perch against my temple.
I tried to tell Sam I loved him with my gaze. To tell him that no matter what, he was my one and only. Then I realized that I could say those things out loud. “I love you, Sam! Stay strong, my darling one!”
Billie groaned. “God, your dialog is worse than Taylor’s.” She pulled me toward the condo door.
I yanked her backwards just as she was about to take a step. Her foot came out from under her, and she slipped, falling and flailing. Straight into the fire.
Chapter Fourteen
Saved by Chloë Sevigny
I reared to avoid being pulled into Billie, into the roaring fire. She screamed, and a flurry of bodies entered my vision from all sides. Billie leaped up from out of the fireplace, the end of her braid aflame. I pointed and screamed. Sam pointed and screamed. Nicolette grabbed a pillow and started toward Billie’s head with it, but the stupid woman bolted, taking me with her.
I don’t know if it was adrenaline or what, but she ripped me to my feet in about one second, and I started after her to avoid being dragged on the floor. She was like a dog running from its own tail. Wham! She flipped her braid onto a painting. Whack! Onto the door frame.
“Billie, stop!” I begged.
But she kept going, the fire flinging from her hair onto the furniture, the wall, and almost me. Nicolette crouched, itching to tackle her, but obviously not wanting to be set ablaze herself.
The bitter stench of burned hair attacked my nostrils, and I sneezed at the door just as her braid fell off. Miraculously, she appeared to be glowing with embers, but no longer on fire. She kept pulling me into the hall, and I smacked her between her shoulder blades to finish the fire-dousing. It may have been less ‘smacking’ than ‘punching the evil shrew, over and over again, until she started complaining’.
Nicolette finally tackled the both of us. The other cops were still inside the apartment and yelling something in Spanish. Billie’s gun skittered across the hallway, and Sam scooped it up. “Um,” he said, in a very ominous way for such a word. “The apartment is on fire.”
As one, we turned to see the doorway glowing with orange light, and the two cops beating feet out. While Nicolette and one of the cavalry grappled with Billie, I got up on my knees and strained to yank the door shut, for fire travels through open doors. I saw that in a safety video once. Or a cartoon. My fingers brushed the handle, but only succeeded in throwing it open farther. A growl from the depths of my bowels issued forth, and I strained to drag Billie…and Nicolette… Basically, everyone in the world was attached to my aching wrist. Nicolette saw my intention and slammed the door shut. “Call 9-1-1,” I gasped.
“That won’t work—we’re in Cuba.” Sam dropped to his knees, still pointing the gun at Billie.
I started to laugh, my terror morphing into complete uselessness. An old woman opened her front door nearby, peeked at the scene filled with guns, smoke and a hysterical actress, and promptly locked her deadbolt. Nicolette banged on the door with her fist and rattled off some very important-sounding orders in Spanish. “Let’s clear the building!” she said in English. Her buddies ran to save the populace.
Billie had regained her senses, and, as Sam rose to his feet, she kicked him in the knee and yanked the gun out of his hand from the business end.
I spat, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
She, once again, pointed the firearm at me.
“Billie,” I begged. “It’s over. Would you really rather be burned alive than in prison? Think of the books about Shadow-angels in prison that you could sell. People love crap like that!”
The gun against my head eased slightly. Sam’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. Nicolette was off running down the hall, knocking on doors and scre
aming the Spanish equivalent of ‘Holy shit, shit’s on fire!’
The hallway had begun to reek of smoke now. It crept down like the hand of God, and we all instinctively sank to stay below it. Words tripping themselves out of my mouth, I kept trying to talk sense into Billie, “What a redemption story you’ll be. You did nothing wrong but love your husband too much. I can see the movie now!” I sucked in a breath, then filled my voice with wonder. “I bet you’ll be played by Chloë Sevigny…”
The gun slipped to the side while Billie gasped, for Chloë Sevigny is the epitome of hipsterdom, the primeval source of all their ugly-haired power. Bam! I punched Billie smack in the jaw, my every knuckle infused with the rage that came from attacking not me, but my beautiful, perfect husband. Billie collapsed into a heap. Sam dove for the gun in her slack hand, and I scrambled to my knees over her recumbent body. Slam! I punched the witch again. Whack! Her nose burst into a spray of blood.
Sam yelled something, but I smacked Billie across the face with our connected hands, my rage far, far from spent. I screamed, “In the name of Xanadu, I’ll see you and your vomitous husband in the depths of hell, she-demon!”
Sam slammed into me and wrapped both of his arms around, pinning mine down. “She’s unconscious, Sam!”
“Good. Let’s see if we can go for amnesia,” I growled.
I struggled against him, but he wouldn’t let me punch her stupid face anymore. I’d never gotten to assault Taylor—I was making up for lost time.
“Stop.” He slid around and took my face in his hands. “I appreciate the sentiment, but hitting her won’t bring my memory back.”
“How do we know if we don’t try?”
His dimple burst through, and he laughed, even as his smile faded. “In the name of Xanadu? No, don’t explain it.”
Satisfied that I wouldn’t hurt our prisoner anymore, he searched her until he found the handcuff key hanging around her neck. Finally, my already-purple wrist was free, and I could stand. Which was a bad idea, for the smoke, oh, the smoke! I coughed and fell to my knees, pissed that I wouldn’t be able to kick her in the boob.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 20