THE LADY IS A TRAMP

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.