THE LADY IS A TRAMP
Rating: R (sexual situation)
Notes: OK, so this one character
and I share the same first name. But
this is no Mary Sue—please, I couldn't be like this even if I wanted to! I sure had fun making her up, though! Short and simple.
Bobby Hobbes sipped the last of his beer and paid the
bartender. Another successful assignment
had been completed that day and, of course, Bobby got very little credit for
his role in nabbing the perp. Just 'cause he couldn't go invisible; and
yet, sometimes he felt as though he bore more responsibility by being the one
to carry the gun. Fawkes
wasn't allowed to carry a piece; the Official didn't trust him with a gun, and
rightfully so. Bobby removed his wallet
from his back pocket and placed a five underneath the beer glass.
"Bobby? Bobby
Hobbes?" a woman's voice called out.
Bobby turned and looked around.
He froze in fear when he saw her heading towards him. Rachel Halliwell! Visions of her naked body immediately floated
into his mind. And the furious face of
her father followed.
"Rachel!" he said, forcing himself to sound cheerful. She ran up to him and hugged him. Bobby tried not to let the sweet scent of her
perfume seduce him. Chanel No. 5. Nice…
She looked more mature now; not like the giggly, flirtatious teenager he
remembered.
"My god! What are you doing here?"
she asked.
"I live around here," he answered. "What are you
doing here?"
"I live here too!" she cried excitedly. Oh no,
he thought. "I work at a law office just
around the corner."
"Oh, great."
"You still a federal agent?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm with the Department of Health and Human
Services now." She nodded.
"Oh, you're not with the CIA anymore?"
"No, if you remember that ended badly."
"Ah, right," she smiled.
Awkward silence. "You know, it's kinda
late. Would you mind escorting me back
to my apartment?" Everything with in
Bobby wanted to scream "No!" but it was getting dark.
"OK," he sighed.
"Thank you," she grinned.
Bobby could swear he detected a mischievous gleam in her eyes at that
moment. They left the bar and Bobby
hailed a cab for her. He opened the
door, watched her get in, and waved good-bye to her.
"OK, Rachel, it was nice to see you again. Take care of yourself,"
he said nervously.
"Aren't you going to make sure I get home safely?" she
asked, pouting. That
charming little pout.
"OK," he sighed, and got into the car.
*~*~*~*
The taxi parked across the street from Rachel's apartment
building. Rachel paid the driver, looked
at Bobby, and said, "Come on up."
"No, thank you," he declined politely.
"Come on!" she laughed, and grabbed him by the arm. He reluctantly got out and followed her. The scent of her perfume still drifted in his
direction, almost pulling him. Still, he
couldn't deny how particularly good she looked.
Very business-like—a knee-length ecru skirt with a slit on the side,
matching jacket, and a white collar blouse.
And her figure hadn't changed much, either. One thing he appreciated about Rachel was
her, well, healthy body. Bobby didn't particularly care for thin, waifish girls; no curves.
The Keeper had nice curves.
Rachel had nice curves, and Bobby could definitely attest to that.
Rachel pulled the keys out of her purse and opened the
door. Studio
apartment, tasteful furnishings.
Plush velvet couches, wooden coffee table, a kitchenette at the far end
of the apartment, and a queen-sized bed visible from her bedroom. Bobby cleared his throat.
"Do you want something to drink?" she asked.
"Sure. What are you
drinking?"
"Vodka," she said, heading to her refrigerator and pulling
out a bottle of Absolut from her freezer.
"Don'tcha think that's kinda strong?" he asked, rather surprised. She poured them both a glass.
"Nope," she answered, and drank it down in one gulp. Didn't even flinch.
"Wow," he said, taking a sip. Rachel poured herself another glass. She took off her jacket, tossed it on a
chair, and plopped down comfortably on her couch. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her
sleeveless blouse and crossed her legs.
She began to twirl her hair, just as she had that fateful night in the
ambassador's mansion. "So what have you
been up to?" he asked, trying not to gape at her shapely legs.
"I'm a paralegal," she answered. "I'm sort of a converted law student."
"How did that work out?"
"Well, before that I was an art and philosophy major. And then I realized how boring all that
really is after dating Sergei."
"Who's Sergei?"
""He was this Russian exchange student I dated in my
sophomore year in college. He's the reason
I started drinking vodka. Anyway, Sergei was all into the artsy bohemian way of life. He spent most of his time painting—abstract
art, mostly. Playing
his guitar and bongos. He'd told
me about all his travels throughout Europe, like going
to Paris and crying at Jim
Morrison's grave. Yawn!" Bobby chuckled. "Oh god, and he was
such a whiney lover too!" Bobby's smile
froze. "Oh, sorry."
"So the art thing didn't work out, huh?"
"Nah. I wanted to do something interesting and
exciting. I love those two qualities,
and I found them in you, Bobby."
"Did you?" he asked, sipping his vodka.
"Yeah! You always had these great stories about
being out in the field! Beirut,
Persian Gulf… you've been there and done it all!" She got up and stood right in front of Bobby,
and took his hand. "But there's one
thing you still haven't done." She took
the glass out of his other hand and set it down. "Come to my bedroom."
"Rachel, I don't think that's a good idea," he protested
gently.
"Why? I'm a big girl
now," she purred. "And no one else is
here to stop us." Bobby felt the blood
rushing from his head down to his… She
leaned closer to his face and brushed her lips against his.
What the hell? he thought, finally giving in. I
haven't been laid in a long time; I deserve it.
Right? He put his arms around her waist and kissed
her. Her tongue gently prodded his. He ran his hand past her waist and caressed
her behind. She let go, and with a
devious smile led him to her bedroom.
She lay down on her bed and Bobby rested on top of her. They kissed again,
he ran his tongue down her neck. When he
looked back up, he caught a glimpse of a picture on her nightstand. It was a photograph of Rachel and her father,
Ambassador Halliwell.
All he could do was stare.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Uh…" Bobby said, not removing his eyes from the
picture. She followed his gaze, and
rolled her eyes.
"Oh, that," she
huffed. She opened the top drawer of her
nightstand, shoved the picture in it, and slammed it shut. She grabbed Bobby's chin and pulled his face
towards hers. "See? All gone." She kissed him again. He loosened up again and began to unbutton
her shirt. Luckily for him, he quickly
detected that she was wearing a bra with front closure. He unhooked the clasp and firmly caressed her
breast. She moaned happily. He ran his tongue down her neck again, and
ran it further down to suckle on her nipple.
"Mmm…" he moaned, and he could
feel a definite stiffness between his legs.
He returned to kiss her; she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his
pants. As she was about to go for the
kill, the telephone rang.
"Fuck!" she cried.
Bobby rolled off of her as she got up and picked up her phone. "Hello?… Oh, hi, Daddy! How are you?… Yeah, I'm fine. Just got out of work an hour ago… No, everything's fine… Yes, I know I haven't seen you in six months,
but I've been busy… I promise I'll hop
on the next plane to Santa Ruego when I get a
chance… Um, Daddy? I gotta go
now. I'm in the middle of a
project… Love you too, Daddy. Bye now."
She hung up. "OK, Bobby, let's
get back to… Bobby?" All she saw was her empty bedd. She got up and looked around the apartment,
but caught sight of her door closing and heard a pair of footsteps running
away. "Damn it, he did it again!" She scowled, picked up Bobby's glass of
unfinished vodka, and gulped it down.
*~*~*~*
Bobby felt like he couldn't get out of Rachel's apartment
fast enough. He saw a cab coming and
hailed it, but it just drove right past him.
He decided to walk home. He had a
gun; he felt safe. After walking a few
blocks, he found himself in a quiet neighborhood. Suddenly he heard a rumbling in the sky. He looked up and felt a drop fall into his
eye. He blinked; more drops began
tapping him.
"Ah, crap," Bobby muttered.
Thunder boomed and it began to rain.
For some reason, he stopped and let the rain poor over him. Just standing there like an idiot with no
place to go. Lights flashed from behind
him, and the van the lights belonged to slowed down.
"Bobby?" Fawkes' voice called from
inside the van. Without a word, Bobby
opened the door and stepped in.
"Just drive," he groaned.
THE
END.