Samantha Lytton: You don’t mind that I blamed you for the incident in Oliver’s office that was totally your fault?
Sam Accountant: Your crankiness only enhances your raw sexual charisma. I also enjoy you without makeup and when you wear sweatpants. And the bloating? More of you to smush!
Angle On: Samantha Lytton totally getting lucky with Sam Accountant, who has a huge—
* * * *
What was that?
I awoke on the couch. Disoriented. The evil elves in my head protested and banged on my skull. Pushing a plate of cold Pizza Rolls off my belly, I sat up, groaning. Had I heard something? I yawned and teetered to standing. Maybe it was the TV. That stupid Jim Carrey movie where he yelled a lot blared through the speakers. Well, one of those stupid Jim Carrey movies where he yelled a lot. How dare he interrupt my wonderful sex dream! Dreams were the only way I got any.
After arriving home from the newest-most-terrible-office-Christmas-party-ever, I had buried myself in junk food, pity and boxed wine. I was thirty-two, which is ‘just die already’ in Hollywood years. I’d moved from North Carolina to Los Angeles a decade ago, fresh-faced and reasonably attractive, to break into the movies. I’d broken my bank account, countless pairs of heels pounding pavement, my spirit—but film fame eluded me. Correction. I did a pickle commercial, so I was famous at two a.m. on channel eighty-seven.
Tonight had been the icing on the crap cake. I should have moved back home to find a nice Southern boy a long time ago. Only Mom and Dad were divorced, and there was no home, save for Los Angeles. Which was not a home. Besides, I still harboured the hope that someday, someday I might actually succeed. At something.
Cheap frozen food helped me bury the shame of failure most evenings, but tonight the twisting knot in my stomach had remained until sleep—and perhaps the wine—had quieted my should-have-beens.
The TV remote silenced the obnoxious Carrey movie with a click. Sighing, I plunked down on the arm of my shabby-not-chic couch. Maybe I hadn’t scared away The Accountant. A smile crept onto my face. Sam, the only really good prospect to come along in a while. I still remembered our first conversation. It had happened in the copy room, the whir of the machines whirring a tender love song. Bedecked in a sunny yellow shirt, he had blessed me with that dimple and given me a once-over with lazy brown eyes. I had asked, “Are we out of toner?” He had replied, “Yes.” Magical.
I puffed into a cat stretch, remembering making him laugh at the party tonight. I tingled as I relived the kiss. And the other kiss. And the quick feel-up on the couch. Probably the only grope I’d get, since I’d been bitchy to him on his last day. I held my aching head. It was an indignity that the older you got, the more you needed your liquor and the worse it settled in your aged stomach.
Time for bed. Standing too fast, I wobbled and grabbed at the sofa, banging my knee on the magazine-scattered coffee table in the process. “Ow,” I groaned, rubbing the afflicted area, which featured a permanent bruise. Desert-dry contacts blurred my eyes. I tripped over a sea of clean laundry on the way to the bedroom. After three tries, my hand found the light switch.
A man stood next to my broken bedroom window.
I froze and stared, open-mouthed, at the apparition. The floor glittered with moonlight reflected in shattered glass. It looked like snow. For a split second I met his eyes. My mouth turned to dust. A knitted cap topped his craggy face and he, too, froze—taking me in. In that moment, I understood with perfect, cold clarity he was there for me in particular.
He narrowed his eyes and lunged at me, immediately tripping over an enormous pile of shoes. He righted himself far too quickly.
Finally, a blood-chilling scream ripped from my lungs. This seemed to startle him.
I ran.
Rapist? Thief? What the hell could anyone steal from me? My collection of eighties Smurf glasses?
Continued crashing from somewhere behind me spurred me to more speed. At my front door table, I scattered two weeks’ worth of mail and grabbed the horrendous pink frog key-holder my mother had given me. I wound the pitch. Strike! It hit him square on the forehead and knocked him backwards onto the floor. I made a grab for my purse, thankfully on the same table, and bolted out of the door.
I raced down the concrete apartment walkway, blessing the fates for my having fallen asleep in sweats and bunny slippers, as opposed to my usual attire of granny panties. Pound, pound, pound thudded my heart, unused to this kind of horrible excitement. I opened the gate and released a scream to peel paint off walls. It echoed throughout the empty street, but nobody came to my rescue in the damp, quiet night. This was LA—no one cared.
I turned around. The man—a proper villain dressed in black—caught sight of me from the sidewalk. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I considered the life I’d only a few minutes earlier disparaged—it didn’t seem so terrible now. I tore myself out of a dangerous numbness and bounded into the street at full steam. There was a hospital not three blocks away. They’d have a cop on the premises for sure. I took off down the middle of the road—and ran smack into Sam.
Sam?
With a whump! I bounced off him. Pain exploded through my backside as I collapsed on the asphalt.
“Stay down!” he ordered. He pulled a gun from the back of his pants.
A gun?
The man in black dashed through the gate. Sam fired in the general direction of the air. His hands shook. Wouldn’t it be more effective to aim at the bad guy? I cowered at Sam’s feet and put my palms over my ears. The gun thundered again.
“Run!” Sam said. I prised myself off the road and leapt to action. His footfalls echoed behind me. He followed me around the corner and down the block until we jumped behind the low stone wall of a church. Thank God pagan Los Angeles still had churches. I needed sanctuary tonight.
Sam landed beside me, heaving huge gulps of air. I clutched my chest and scooched away from him.
Why was he at my house?
With a freaking gun?
Scurrying to his knees, Sam flashed his eyes over the barrier. “The guy is gone,” he panted. He sat again and cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not an accountant.”
“No shit.”
“My name isn’t really Sam.” He managed a small smile. That damned dimple began to flicker, but my scowl made it retreat. “It’s Nate.”
“Oh, good.” I cradled my head, for it seemed to be floating away. “The Sam/Sam thing was weird, you know?” A giggle escaped me. “Among other things.”
“Are you okay?” He took my arm—I kept right on shaking. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to steady me or himself. “Come on. Let’s get out of here, and I’ll tell you what’s happened.”
“Wait a goddamn minute.” I tore my elbow from his grip. “A man breaks into my apartment and chases me, you show up and shoot him—I’m not going anyplace with you!”
Nate’s eyes bored into mine. “I’m an FBI agent. We believe your boss, Oliver Taylor, is the international art thief known by the nickname ‘El Escorpión’, The Scorpion. The painting you showed me tonight is stolen. He now knows that you know, so he sent a man after you.”
It was official—I’d boarded the last train to Crazyville.
I threw my hands in the air. “He now knows I know what? I don’t know a damn thing! I know I won’t kiss any more weird men at the Christmas party.” I stood to put some distance between us.
He pulled me back into the grass. “Samantha! You need to believe me—”
“Why?” I let out a peal of fluttery laughter. “Fine. Show me your FBI thingy.”
Peeking up and over the wall, he hissed, “We don’t have time for this. If I wanted to attack you, I’d have had a hundred chances by now.”
“I’m calling nine-one-one if I don’t see something official in three, two—”
“Jesus, you’re irritating.” He huffed and puffed, but produced a badge that read Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was gold. It was shiny. The ID said his name, Nathaniel Burrows
. I examined it as if I knew what the hell I was looking at, as if I would be able to tell whether or not he’d bought it at a costume shop on Hollywood Boulevard.
He flipped the badge closed. “Let’s get out of this neighbourhood, and I’ll tell you more. Please? Getting a bunch of cops involved would ruin the sting we’ve got in motion. We’re trying to identify The Scorpion’s accomplices.”
The breeze whipped up, cutting right through my long-sleeved tee and striped loungey pants. Easy to forget how cold it can get in LA at night. I began to shiver. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Yes, it’s crazy. You can handle it.” He steadied my chin in his hand, tracing a finger across my jaw line. “You’re an amazing girl, Samantha Lytton.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I jerked my amazing chin away. “Yeah, right. Lead the way—somewhere towards lots of people. A restaurant—I could use some comfort food.” I clutched my purse to me as if it contained my bearings. “I obviously can’t go home. It’s a wonder nobody has called the police, what with all the shooting.”
“It’s LA—no one cares.”
* * * *
Elvis blared over the speakers at Mel’s Drive-In on Ventura. Under the circumstances, the place was entirely too bright, and the King entirely too in love. At least I’d made a choco-tastic friend—the icy malt slid down my throat, cooling my panic. Sam/Nate sat across from me and stared like I was the gun-toting undercover fake accountant person.
I coddled my creamy goodness and narrowed my eyes. “Okay, S… Nate. Convince me. Why shouldn’t I go to the police and tell them you just shot a dude outside my apartment complex?” I took a fast gulp of malt. My face scrunched from a sudden brain freeze. Most undignified. Nate snickered.
“Did you see me shoot a dude?” he asked, folding his hands on the table.
“No, but I heard it.”
“You heard me discharge a weapon while you hid.”
“It sounds so wimpy when you say it like that.” I pointed my fork at him. “I defended myself against a villain in my home. A home-wrecker. A window-wrecker, at least. And a me-wrecker, if I’d let him.”
Then it dawned on me, like the sun rising over Lake Clueless. “Oh, damn. You made out with me to get me to show you the painting, didn’t you?”
Nate blinked innocent brown eyes. “Not completely.”
“Urgh.” I buried my head in my arms while the Everly Brothers crooned about their own misadventures. Nothing good happens at four a.m.
Tired. I was so tired. I should be curled up in bed with my Hitachi Magic Wand, not at Mel’s with some asshole who had kissed me in order to see my boss’s painting. My boss El Spiderman or whatever stupid thing. The lingering smell of cheeseburgers, usually welcome, curdled my stomach.
“I could have kissed Oliver’s first assistant to get into his office.”
I chewed a hole in my straw. “Oliver’s first assistant is a married grandmother.”
“She’s not half bad for a grandma. Nice stems. But I picked you.” He appeared overly pleased with himself. The dimple was especially smug.
“I soooo appreciate it, too. Gee whiz! If only I hadn’t spilled potato on my irresistible tits, I’d be safe in bed right now.” I gave him a look that should have boiled his coffee. “What kind of low-rent FBI agent are you, anyway? Why didn’t you know when the security guards would be patrolling?”
He frowned and grabbed his burger. “How long have you worked there and you didn’t know?”
“I’m not an FBI agent!”
“Shhhh!” His sour expression conveyed a desire to happily murder me. “Yes, some mistakes were made.” His teeth ground the sandwich in time to the rock-and-roll beat from the jukebox.
“And…why would a big-shot art thief have a headachey job like CEO of a company? Can’t he live off his ill-gotten gains? I mean the stolen-goods ill-gotten gains, not the CEO salary, which is more than likely ill-gotten, too.” I paused to let Nate catch up with my fast-moving brainpower. He looked vaguely overwhelmed. “If I were a criminal mastermind, I’d live in a cabana by the beach on a remote island with excellent tax laws. A mansion cabana.” I pictured it, warming to my fantasy. The warm ocean breeze tickled my nostrils. “Filled with Chris Evans look-alikes as my staff. I’d have a chef, naturally, and a handyman and a bather or two…”
“Bather!” Nate’s face scrunched up, and I didn’t know if he wanted to yell at me or ask me to elaborate. He didn’t seem to know, either.
“The point is, why would he hang a stolen painting in his office?”
“That’s your point?”
I opened my mouth, but decided not to dignify any more of his sarcasm.
He sighed. “Hanging it in plain sight makes it look innocent.”
“I wouldn’t call a locked vault ‘plain sight’.”
“Did you know he was a secret thief?” he asked with a sneer.
“I still don’t. I only have your word for it, and you have aliases. And shoot people.”
“Allegedly.”
“Exactly. Oliver is allegedly what you say.” I should have been an undercover spy. No one suspected the little blonde.
Nate opened his mouth to protest. I stuck a fry in it. “And… I don’t understand why the bad guys would come after me and not you, too. Everyone always blames the woman,” I added in a mutter.
“Steak on a Stick has a fake address for me. They probably did try, but Dodger Stadium is closed up tight right about now.”
“Funny.” I ate a handful of his fries and tried to wrap my head around the evening’s happenings. The magnetic charm of Nate’s that had so mesmerised me hours before seemed devious in the glare of limp cheeseburgers. I should have known that a loser like me didn’t get the sexy hero. He probably had a girlfriend at home. A tall one, the bitch. I decided to take his imaginary lover out on him, as was only right. “Tell me, Special Agent Fullofshit, why are we not at FBI headquarters, or whatever? Shouldn’t I give my statement to somebody?” I attacked the remains of my malt, even though it hadn’t done anything to me.
Nate sighed—again—and raked tense hands through his hair. “We need to get you to a safe house. El Escorpión has agents everywhere.”
“Are you kidding me?” I slammed the glass on the Formica table. “I have a life! I have a job! Okay, maybe I don’t have a job because my boss tried to murder me. Maybe it wasn’t him, though.”
“Who else would try to kill you?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes gave a little half-roll. “I can imagine there might be several suspects. They’ve probably formed an online support group.”
“That’s two funny things you’ve said,” I replied with a sarcastic nod. The movement hurt. The evil elves had returned for a repeat drum performance. “I see what you’re doing now. You’re being very super humorous. Are you also not a stand-up comedian?”
His jaw worked, and he swallowed. “Samantha, I’m sorry. I really am. But you have to trust me. We need to get you out of sight until we can apprehend him.” His frown brooked no argument. “It’ll be okay. We’ll put you up for a couple of days, help you find a new job…” His technique turned from belligerent to beseeching.
Dwindling options bounced around my brain.
On the plus side, I needed a change.
On the minus side, his story reeked of Lifetime movie.
A man had tried to kill me tonight, but not this one. I thought about gunshots, blood, pain, morgues… Bile rose in my throat. I clutched the malt glass with white fingers.
What would the police do anyway? Take a report and walk away.
Damn it.
“How did you know I’d be in trouble, anyhow?” I asked.
He dropped his gaze to the table. “I knew the guards would tell Oliver that you’d let me into the vault. I had to check up on you.”
It was the least he could do, harrumph. I put on my tough face. Finally, my acting abilities came in handy. “My mother will send the c
ops after me if I don’t speak to her twice a day.” My mother lived in Vegas with her young new husband Diego and barely remembered my name. See? Improvisation!
“Call her. I won’t stop you. But only your mother. No one else—it’s dangerous. Loose lips sink ships.” He held his hand out to me, palm up, the way you made friends with an ornery cat. I resisted the overwhelming urge to bite it.
“Fine,” I sniffed.
He gobbled the rest of his burger in one massive chomp and licked his bottom lip. “Good.” He smirked now that he’d got his way. Like most men. Like all men. “Nice shoes,” he couldn’t seem to resist adding.
I rubbed the pink bunnies on my toes together. “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t put on a sexy outfit for your dashing performance this evening.”
“You can always take it off.”
I pulled the gaping neckline of my old, wide-necked tee back up over my shoulder, suddenly extremely conscious of not wearing a bra. “You had your chance to seal the deal earlier, and you blew it.”
His eyebrows shot up. “‘Blowing it’ doesn’t sound like something I’d do. Are we sure it wasn’t your fault?”
Damn him.
Only one option. I emptied the rest of my frozen malt in his lap. Accidentally. His leaping, curse-filled, crotch-swiping modern dance was the best thing that had happened to me all day.
Perhaps it was childish. I blamed the bunny slippers.
Chapter Three
Mad, Bad and Impossible to Throw
The Starlite Motel was the kind of place Ward and June Cleaver might have frequented in the 1950s. Today it housed cockroaches, hookers and, temporarily, me.
“This is the best you can do?” I turned the knob on the television. The TV was the only black and white thing about my evening with Nate.
“You expected the Beverly Hilton?” Nate slid the deadbolt home on the door.
“I don’t know. This place sucks!” I sat on the mattress, ready to bounce. A terrible plastic rustling noise accompanied the thud of my butt against wooden slats. I hesitated to breathe in that place, lest I ingested several species of cooties. One wall was covered in long, brown drip marks. And what the hell was that smell?
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 3