Free The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull Page A

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