Part Two, Chapter Two:

The man found himself in a dark and noisy nightclub. He had been sent undercover by his superior, Kendall, to New York, where he was tracking a man who was marked for elimination by his former employer's (Arvin Sloane) superiors, the Alliance. Apparently, his target had double-crossed the Alliance, selling them faulty weaponry. He was to contact his target, posing as a potential client, steal whatever information he could, and then assassinate the leader.

Thus, he found himself wearing a pair of jeans, a fitted white tee-shirt, a thick black belt, with a black blazer swung over his shoulder, standing in the entrance to a popular club.

What the hell am I doing here? he thought, I'm Jack Bristow. I'm not some stupid junior agent who gets sent out on assassinations or eliminations or whatever they're calling it these days. Besides, I'm too old for this. He grumbled, his frustration showing on his face.

According to his mission brief, he was supposed to be a disgruntled CIA agent who had broken off from the agency and was going freelance.

Ha ha ha! Doesn't seem too hard, he thought, with a smirk on his face as he was struck by the irony of his cover once again.

The man sat himself down at the bar, and surveyed his surroundings. A mass of people were on the floor, dancing, moving, touching; very different from the jazz clubs or local bars that the man frequented at home.

Ordering himself a scotch, tall, no ice, he paused for a moment, and listened to the music that was blaring.

Three, six, nine, damn your fine
Move it till you sock it to me one more time
Get low, get low (Get Low) get low (Get low) get low (Get low)
To the window, to the wall (To the wall)
Till the sweat drop down my balls (My Balls)
All these bitches crawl (Crawl)
Y'all skeet skeet motherf***ers (Motherf***ers)
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn)
Y'all skeet skeet motherf***ers (Motherf***ers)
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn)

Shaking his head in utter disgust, he turned back to his drink, and began a familiar ritual that took over him every time he found himself in a bar. As time passed, his target had yet to show up, and so the man allowed himself to numb his mind and body, escaping the feelings he tried so hard to deny.

People attempted to engage the man, whether it be in conversation, dancing, or other offers a number of women had made him, yet all were angrily rebuffed. The last woman had left her telephone number written on a pair of red lacy panties.

The man studied the panties, and smirked once again; his wife would not be pleased to see other women throwing their underwear at him.

His wife.

He got up from his seat abruptly and left the club. Shivering in the chilly night air, the man pulled out a tape recorder from his pocket and contemplated it. A few minutes had gone by, when he came to a decision. He pushed down the little red button that read and started to speak.

My lovey-dovey wife,

My Laura,

My Irina,

My whatever-you-want-to-call-yourself-now,

I warned you that you should come back before someone displaced you in my heart and affections. Women have been throwing their underwear at me. I have a pair of red lacy bikini underwear, like the kind I bought you for your birthday, with some woman's phone number written in lipstick on them. So there! I told you to come back.

Of course, they're only the panties. Not the woman that goes with them.
And I'm not easily impressed. Not anymore. Not since you.

It takes more than some lace, cleavage, or a pretty face to get my attention.

You've spoiled me damnit, Irina. And you're not even here for me to take my frustrations out on. I mean on which I can take...that is, for me to on you, take out my frustrations. No, that's not right either. Hmm, you always were better with grammar. Funny though; it wasn't even your first language, and you spoke it more properly than I ever did.

The panties reminded me of the first time we celebrated your birthday together. Remember how I made you dinner? I worked so hard on my tomato sauce, homemade too, and cooked the pasta just right. But the garlic bread did me in. You came into the kitchen wearing a slinky black dress that fit you so well, so perfectly. You came over to the stove, and tasted my tomato sauce, proclaiming it, I remember swallowing hard, watching you seductively licking the red sauce from your finger. You were such a tease that night. I looked at you, and said, read my apron, Laura. I was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron, and you looked up at me after reading it, and looked me straight in the eyes. After batting your eyelashes several times at me, I seized your face in my hands, and planted a kiss straight on your lips. You reciprocated, and we soon became engaged in a passionate frenzy, with your back pushed up against the refrigerator. We adjourned, and took our business to your couch, and fell into the overstuffed cushions. After wandering hands and mouths had their fill, and our passion had broken the dam, I smelled something burning in the kitchen. Clad only in the apron, I realized that I had forgotten about the garlic bread that was in the oven, and the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove. The blackened toast and burnt sauce were the only casualties of the evening.

I don't think we ever had dinner that night.

But even though I had screwed up our dinner, I did manage to give you the lingerie, which became a reminder of our first mishap in the kitchen.

Mmmm, how I would like to make you dinner right now. We always got in the most trouble when one of us was cooking.

Why don't you come home after you intimidate the women who hit on me, and I'll make you dinner? Sounds good to me. How about you?

I could definitely go for the chef's special: sex à la Jack, with a side of hot and steamy Irina.

Delicious.

Love your sweetiepie,

Jack

PS: Come home now, damnit!

The man grinned at the memory of a dinner long ago that was spoiled, and turned off the tape recorder. He slipped it back into his jacket pocket and patted it comfortingly.

Sometimes the worst food brings out the best in people, the man thought to himself, wistfully thinking of his absentee wife.

He continued to walk down the street, waiting until the next day to complete his mission.

Tonight, he was going out for some pasta.