Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Sixteen: A Plan of Action
Oh, my. I'm only on the sixteenth chapter and already I've received more reviews than I did on my first OUaTiM story. D Thank you!!! You guys rock! Oh, and one more thing before I forget like I usually do. The title of that last chapter was a (hopefully blatant) rip off from a movie called 'An American Werewolf in Paris.' Not my favorite movie of all time but my sister found it rather interesting, so I decided to warp the title a bit.
The aged denim fabric felt soft as Lynné slipped the dark blue jeans over her legs. After they had been hiked up over her hips, she made to button them but paused when she caught sight of her reflection -- or, more specifically, Liam's -- in the full-length mirror. Her partner (oh, she could take those words so many ways now) was nearly tripping over himself the way he was running around trying to find his discarded clothes, clearly frazzled. The concept of someone barging in on them got, as Sands would say, his panties in a bunch. He had never even flirted with the idea of wearing lingerie, but someone seeing him in nothing but his blue-checked boxers and knowing that he and Lynné had not been holding a discussion on the meaning of life was something he could do without.
It was really quite amusing, Lyn reflected, untwisting her bra strap and glancing at Liam. She felt her breath escape her again as she observed him, but that was probably just an after effect.
Oh God . . . Lyn sighed with ecstasy. It felt as though a huge, dead weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, her head, her feet . . . Everything felt incredibly relaxed and at peace now that she'd gotten that off her chest.
Fucked him, you mean. Did the nasty, bumped uglies, had sex
Personally, I prefer the term 'horizontal cha-cha,' but whatever.
"So, um, is that it?" Liam glanced nervously her way, almost as if he was frightened that she would lash out and bite him.
I thought I told him I wasn't into kinky stuff?
"That's it," she said out loud, pulling on a light blue shirt with a picture of an alien with pale green skin and large red eyes on it. "Unless you'd like another helping."
She turned to Liam, winked, and, judging by the look on her partner's face, thought he was going to feint again.
And this is the man you chose to bag? Oh, Lynnie . . . the voice tsked disappointedly.
See, this is what I hate about you, Lyn began in disgust. You tell me to do things, and yet on those rare occasions when I decide to go along with you, you change your mind suddenly and rag on me for doing it. Same way with your opinions. The moment I agree, you turn around and say the exact opposite, even though ten seconds ago you were saying exactly what I was saying. You make no fucking sense.
Darling, we've been over this, but apparently you need to be reminded again: I'm the fucking voice in your head.
After exhaling a harsh breath, Lynné turned her attention back to Liam, who was frantically scrambling to find his shirt. So far he was having no success. Glancing around with bored eyes, Lyn spotted the piece of clothing peeking out from underneath her bed, though she made no effort to tell Liam this.
"What's your idea again?" he asked suddenly, making a mad grab for his shirt having spotted it at last.
"Plan of action, Liam. Not an idea," Lynné corrected as she ran a brush through her dark hair. "Idea's are just like theories, meaning you don't really have a clue, you just know your possibilities. Plans, on the other hand, are a different story. A plan is a design, carefully thought up – like an idea, admittedly. But there's also arrangement involved – careful arrangement. And that means risks are taken.
"That's the main difference between ideas and plans, Liam. There are risks when dealing with plans; ideas virtually don't have any because . . . that's just what they are: Ideas."
"Plan, okay, got it," Liam said, nodding in understanding. "What's your plan?"
Sliding one foot into a high, clunky-heeled sandal, Lynné began without looking up at him.
"We give Poisson what he wants."
Liam's reaction was predictable. His eyes bugged, he stopped dead in his tracks, and gaped at her.
"We're giving them Zebbidy? Lynné – are you . . . y'know, all those times you were talking about your stash I thought you were joking, but –"
"I was, Liam," she sighed impatiently, "So don't you worry. My head is perfectly fine."
Yeah right.
"What we're going to do," Lyn said as she sat down on the edge of the bed, "is stick with our original plan. We're going to let Poisson's schleps kidnap Zebbidy. We'll send her out with a wire and a camera, let them nab her, and voila. Instant inside access to one of Poisson's many hideouts."
She smiled calmly. Her plan was foolproof. Admittedly, there were a little glitches here and there, and the risk of somebody getting killed was high, but, most likely, only nameless faces would die (and hopefully Cat, but she always wished for her death). Also, Damiano was getting antsy again. Well, it was late September after all, almost two months since they had first hired him and all he knew was that he was supposed to kill Alphonse and Vincent Poisson, the head cheese himself, and anybody that got in his way. But, if betrayal was the case, they could always kill him. There wasn't a problem with that. There weren't any problems at all.
Not yet, the voice warned, Don't let your guard down for a second. Remember what happened the last time.
I won't, and I do.
"But Piosson's out to kill Zebbidy, isn't he?" Liam asked.
"That's what we thought," Lyn told him, "but this morning I received a phone call . . ."
She paused and Liam raised his eyebrows questioningly.
". . . from the lovely David Moreau."
"Poisson's friend . . ." Liam remembered.
"Yeah," Lynné said, grinning. "He tells me that it was a mistake, that those men weren't supposed to have killed Zebbidy, simply –"
"Kidnap her," he finished. Lyn nodded, still smiling.
"And he also informed me that ol' Eddy Poisson is throwing a shindig."
"When?" Liam asked.
"Moreau isn't sure, but whenever it is, it would be the prime opportunity to end this thing."
"Right," Liam murmured, bobbing his head slowly. "And you're thinking that if we get Zebbidy in there, she'll be able to give us the 411?"
Lyn laughed slightly at his use of term.
"411? Gosh, that hasn't used in about five years . . ."
"And the word 'gosh' hasn't been used since my parents were kids," Liam countered.
Lynné stared at him, a little surprised at his retort.
That guy's been hanging around you far too long.
Uh-huh.
"Touché, Liam," Lyn complimented, giving him a little mock applause. She dropped her hands to her sides abruptly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I told the kid I'd take her shopping."
"How was it, Kitty?"
"Irritating and nerve grating, as usual." Catherine smiled maliciously at the man across the table. "Don't call me Kitty, darling. It doesn't sound professional."
Across the table, a forced grin found its way across Agent Richard Harrington's somewhat-hansom face. He didn't like being told what to do, although he had abided rules all of his life. Catherine Johnson was his fiancée, his soon-to-be wife! He shouldn't be taking orders from her. And yet he did because . . . why?
Love?
Cat took a sip of her bitter coffee to hide the scowl that crossed her face, detesting how hopeful and pathetic the thought sounded the entire time. Of course it wasn't love. Fiancée or not, he didn't love her. He loved his job, he loved his gun, he loved his stupid Rolex watch, but did he love her? Not likely.
Money?
That certainly sounded plausible, and she had the big bucks to make it true. The CIA paid her well, plus stepdaddy was loaded, as was her mother. She was entitled to a hefty sum of money once those two kicked the bucket. After they had died, she would be set for life, as would anyone she married and their children if they chose to have them. But Richard – Rich -- had always had money. Why should he need hers?
'The thing about the rich is,' she could hear her hated, shunned, insane little stepsister's soft, smooth voice so clearly that she raked her nails into the sides of her chair to control herself.
'The thing about the rich is,' Lynné began again, 'they're always willing to become richer.'
She hated that woman, she always would. The way she could con a person into doing whatever she wanted.
Which is almost always sex, she always liked to think, even though she knew it was hardly ever true.
The way Lynné was gorgeous whereas she was rather plain. In her eyes, her stepsister always dressed like a floozy, yet in reality Lyn didn't care to show off her body as much as she could. It wasn't that she was modest, Cat knew that Lynné knew she was attractive, and so she told herself that Lyn didn't dress like a slut because she was a flirt. She liked to keep men in suspense until the proper moment came. That's why she did it, she assured herself. Lynné was a sick, twisted slut who was too clever for her own good, and Catherine hated her for that.
When she was six, her mother began seeing a man named Robert. 'Rob,' he had insisted on being called. Cat supposed it made him sound friendlier, more approachable. Too bad it was all phony. One day, months after her mother had started dating, 'Rob' introduced them to his family: Two children, one she was instantly taken by, Sheldon, and the other one. The girl. She had hated her at once.
'Bonjour,' Catherine had said to her mother's boyfriend, wanting to impress everyone in the vicinity. She was six and she knew French; how clever was that? In actuality, she had heard the strange word on a TV show and had figured out what it meant, but nobody needed to know that.
'Bonjour,' she said once she had reached Lynné, the stupid four-year-old who hadn't even started real school yet. In her mind, Cat had snorted arrogantly at the little girl's lack of words. She was still fathoming what she had just said, probably. Either that, or she couldn't even speak yet.
Suddenly, a small grin – more of a smirk really; was that mockery!? – inched across the impish little girl's face.
'Salut,' she had greeted conversationally. 'Je m'appelle Lynné. Comment allez-vous ?'
Cat could only stare. She had no idea what the girl had said. Later she had found out it was French and that Lynné knew many phrases in the language. Her mother had been of French decent and had spent half her life in the country. Lyn had misjudged Catherine's greeting; she had thought that her soon-to-be stepsister could speak French and she was only returning the greeting with a few words of her own.
Liar, Cat thought even now after so many years had passed. You wanted to humiliate me. You knew I was just showing off and you wanted to strike me dumb. You knew I couldn't speak the language and you knew it. You knew.
"Catherine? Kitty?"
Rich's voice comes from far away at first, but at last she realizes that he's sitting right across from her and that she's zoned out once again.
"Are you okay?" her not-unattractive fiancé asked, his eyes large with concern she knew was false.
Bet it wouldn't be false if he were looking at Her.
"Fine," Cat replied faintly, staring over his shoulder and out the window he was sitting directly in front of. Outside, on the other side of the street, she could make out a woman with dark hair leading a small, blonde little girl into an expensive clothing store for children. She kept her ink colored eyes on the pair until they had entered the store. Only when they had disappeared did Catherine say anything more.
"I'm fine. Just don't call me Kitty."
"You're sure you wanna do this? Once you go in, there's no going back 'til everyone of Poisson's men are dead."
"I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing," Zebbidy told him, "but I don't wanna be sitting around that house anymore. I feel like I'm getting claustrophobic," she added jokingly.
"The feeling's mutual, Zeb," Sands confided, steering the car down a corner.
The car was kept quiet with a strangely comfortable feeling for several minutes, but it was quickly shattered when Zebbidy spoke up.
"I wanted to ask you," she began, keeping her eyes forward, "why a cowboy?" She turned to face him with a slightly apologetic expression. "I mean, I love the concept, but where'd it come from?"
With a small smile, Sands said, "I already explained: I did it for Cat. She loves Westerns."
"Hmm . . . . then why do I get the idea that, even if she did love cowboy movies, she would still disapprove of your attire?"
"All right," Sands confessed lightly, holding up a hand, "you caught me. I don't know if Cat likes Westerns or not."
"I'd say not, judging by her character," Zebbidy mused thoughtfully, "Then again, I never thought I see you in a cowboy get-up, so now I'm ready to believe several things."
"Example?" Sands offered, stealing a glance at her. She looked relaxed, comfortable, at ease. This was a new concept for him. Most of the women who had ridden in any of his cars were either beaming with over-enthusiastic glee because they were about to get laid, or hyperventilating with breathless fear because they were about to be killed. In fact, now that he thought about it, the only women who had ever been remotely calm while riding in a vehicle with him were Lyn – and that's because she was his sister; sex and murder were out of the question when it came to her – and one other.
Ajedrez, he realized, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as the memory of the woman rose in his mind. Boy, that explains a lot now.
He waited for the voice to make some snide remark, but for once, much to Sands relief, it was silent. He was grateful for this even though he knew that after it had emerged from hibernation the voice would haunt him once again. It would plague him with it's comments about his past, present, and future, which would mean yet another sleepless night for him. Damn it.
"Like finding out that the CIA really didn't kill Marilyn Monroe," Zebbidy said, answering the question he had nearly forgotten
"Oh, rest assured, honey bunch, Marilyn's death was completely accidental." He shrugged nonchalantly. "If the combination of drugs she took happened to be fatal, then that was her fault. It's not like we gave 'em to her."
Zebbidy raised her eyebrows.
"We gave them to an associate and then he gave them to her," Sands finished, turning to flash a smirk in Zebbidy's direction. She smiled back at him.
"What about Area 51?" she inquired coyly.
"Well, the Federal Bureau of Intoxication's in charge of that one," Sands explained, "But I've always thought that it was all one big hoax. There really isn't anything there. It's a fake army base set up to divert the public's attention away from the real thing."
Zebbidy nodded, considering this.
"That's good," she complimented him. "No one would ever imagine that, but if you think about it, it's just what the government would do."
"That's just my opinion," Sands said, shrugging carelessly, "but –"
"It makes sense," Zebbidy finished. "What about cloning though? They have to have cloned a human being somewhere."
"And not just in America," Sands added.
Her nose twitched.
"Probably. And there are probably some nasty side-effects, so they're keeping whatever resulted in the cloning under lock and key."
"That would be the governmental thing to do," Sands said, grinning.
"I'm not really big on the whole idea, to tell you the truth," Zebbidy admitted. "There are enough people in the world as it is."
"I read somewhere," Sands began, "that if you were to take the entire population of China, I think it is, and have them all stand in a single-file line, that the line would never end because of the number of people being born in that country."
"They're including deaths, too, I imagine," Zebbidy questioned. "Like for every death there is new life. Something like that."
"Sounds spiritual," he said.
"Oh," Zebbidy sighed, pretending to be disappointed. "I was going for 'poetic' but spiritual's fine."
"Doesn't it strike you as odd," she said after a moment, "that the government is so bent on keeping things under raps, and yet one of their agents is dressing up like a cowboy and saying that his agency does do all of these things –"
"Well, not all the time," Sands interrupted, wanting to clear things up. "The FIB's involved with cloning and it's the military's job to keep the aliens in check."
Not to his surprise, Zebbidy quirked an eyebrow.
"Aliens?"
Sands merely smiled and shrugged. Spinning the steering wheel in his hands, he turned the vehicle into a driveway, the gravel crunching as the tires rolled over it. The car slowed to a stop just outside the door of the rustic garage. Looking inside the living room windows, Zebbidy could see a small square of bright, flashing lights.
The TV must be on.
An odd grating sound drew her attention away from the window, but not for long. It was only Sands putting the car in park. Seconds later, a small click indicated that he had unbuckled his seatbelt. Zebbidy didn't move; Sands did. She felt his eyes on her. He wasn't getting out of the car. Okay . . .
Finally fed up, she acknowledge him, not with words, but she did face him. Her expression was clear: 'What?'
Sands, getting a kick out of seeing her annoyed, grinned.
"We're here."
Meh, that wasn't a very good chapter, was it? Well I had to get the plan out or else there would be confusion, and then Cat's little tangent sorta came out of nowhere. Then Sands and Zebbidy needed something to talk about – once again we get on the discussion of Marilyn Monroe; how does she keep sneaking in here??? – and the rest were just a combination of theories my friends and I have had about the government. (shrugs) I just thought the idea of a government agent saying things against the agency he's working for would be funny.
Oh, quick note. I need help! Really, I know where I'm going with this story, I just need something until the night before Zebbidy gets kidnapped by the Poissons. After that, I know what I'm doing and what's going to happen, the next chapter's just a little hazy for me. Blah, XP So if anyone has any ideas, ship 'em my way, thank you!!!
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:fanfiction fanatic: Well, I'm trying to update as fast and as much as I can. Probably every Friday and Monday there'll be a new chapter and usually I'll post around nine or ten at night. Thanks once again for reviewing. )
Dawnie-7: (shrug) Lyn had to give him a warning, y'know how she is, lol. And Cowboy Sands, what can I say, that's probably my favorite part in the movie. I just wonder if Robert Rodriguez thought of that or if it was something from Johnny Depp's own imagination. Either way, I love it. u.u
morph: FFN's been weird for me too, lately. Whenever I go to review something half the time, it'll either say I already reviewed or that I'm not logged in (even after I have logged in 9.9). Either way, it won't let me review. -.e lol, and Zeb will find out. It'll take time, but she will find out. u.u
Lynx Ryder: Good to hear Josey's starting to ease off on the creepy-ness now. From what I've noticed, most kids are rather curious, especially when they're as young as Josey, so I think that's why I think I have her asking so many questions. Plus, she's very intuitive cuz I'm trying to make her like a mini Sands or Lynné without being exactly like them, ie, she's Lyn or Sands minus the evil, lol.
Joséphine: Elle a raison! Je ne suis pas méchant! (She's right! I'm not evil!)
Lynné: -.e;
DragonHunter200: I know, I know, the Rolling Stones thing has got to be in there. The image won't get out of my head. 9.6;;; Not that it's a bad image, mind you. u.u I think I know an upcoming chapter where it'll fit in veeery well. And, yes, Liam needed some action. Definitely. Though not as much as Lynné, I think, judging by what recent entries in her Dead Journal say.
Sands: (mock-scolding Lyn) You perverted bitch – that's not what that journal's for.
Lynné: I can't help it if I'm not easy like you. u.u
Sands: (raising an eyebrow) 'Easy?' I'm not easy.
Lynné: (evil smirk) Yeah, tell that to those hookers I saw leaving earlier.
Sands: Those weren't mine. u.u They were Fusco's.
Liam: (this guy has reeeally bad timing) Huh? O.o?
o