Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Eighteen: Setting Them Up
Well, I'm officially back in skool now. 6.6; It's chaos, as usual but I'll live. u.u
Sands: Those assholes you go to school with won't. -.6
Sidney: XO Don't you dare. The last thing I need is to be hauled to the principal's office because one of Johnny Depp's characters told me to go on a killing spree.
Sands: 9.9 You wouldn't go on the rampage in school, dumbass. It wouldn't even be a rampage. You'd just . . . off your fellow classmates while they slept. It's nothing.
Sidney: (dryly) Mmhm. I'm sure you would say that. 9.9;;
"Don't."
Lynné's words were cold and sharp with measured defiance. Though hardly a shred of light escaped the sheer curtains, the warning in her eyes was all too visible. She was pushed up against the wall of the darkened bedroom, trapped, but that didn't concern her.
"I don't go this far on the first date unless it's with someone I trust."
"You mean you don't trust me?"
Her fellow agent's voice was breathless and husky, letting her know that he was ready and raring to go if she just said the word. Lynné kept her stubborn silent act going strong. Her own reputation was at stake and she'd be damned if she was going to let this dick-weed screw it up.
"No," she said at last.
An irritated breath blowing through his thin lips, Agent Miller tipped his head back in frustration.
"I thought you were easy," he groaned tiredly.
"And where did you get that idea?" she replied, mirroring the disappointment in his voice.
One glance at her scantly clad body told Lynné everything.
"Oohhh . . ." Lyn breathed in false realization. "I see . . ."
Seduction lit her eyes as she took several silent steps forward. There was a light in Miller's eyes as well, one that Lynné was disturbingly familiar with. He smiled, confident he was going to get exactly what he wanted. So it came as a real shock when Lynné sunk her almond-shaped fingernails into his shoulders and roughly shoved him away.
"What the -- !?" Miller started.
"I just wanna know where you got the idea that I would let you do whatever you wanted. Miller," she sighed, exasperated that he had missed the obvious, "you're CIA. Trained to find out everything you can about a person just by looking at them. Now, I know I've got a few walls built up, but you should've been able to tell what type of girl I am."
She shook her head and gave a very annoying 'tsk.'
"That's such a let-down . . ."
"Yeah?" Miller challenged, furious that a woman had defied him. "You're a rookie, new to the Company. I'd like to see you try and get anything out of anybody." His lips curled into a twisted grin. "I'll bet my dick you can't."
Lynné's eyebrows rose in a way that clearly said, 'Can't I?' She reached out, stole a small blanket from her bed, and wound it around her shoulders.
"Just to make sure there are no distractions," she explained.
Gazing at Miller with cold eyes the entire time, she folded her slender arms over her chest and resumed her position against the wall.
"Now, from what I've been able to decipher," Lyn began, "you are suffering from low self-confidence, probably a result of abusive or neglectful parents. Therefore, you feel the need to build up your ego and by doing that you treat other people – women in particular – like shit.
"You are a bitter and spineless person, Agent Miller, who is fortunate enough to be christened with a threatening appearance and attitude. Both of which have probably been very useful to you in the past."
If looks could kill, Lyn would have been dead on the spot and she knew it, but she kept up her calm appearance with ease. Miller may have had more experience in the CIA than she did, and he could certainly look deadly when he was serious about something, but he didn't intimidate her. Hell, her younger stepsister Grace was scarier than this guy was.
"Oh, and as far as your dick is concerned?" she continued casually. "I wouldn't be betting something like that if I were you. It's all you have goin' for you and, from what I've heard, there's not much to it anyway.
"Now, if you don't mind . . ." Lyn's voice faded off. She slinked calmly towards her bedroom door, opened it, and jabbed her index finger outside.
Knowing full well where she was going with this, Miller kept his feet rooted to the smooth hardwood floor. No way. No fucking way. She was a woman of about twenty-two and she was not going to order him around. Lynné may have been able to figure him out – her identification of his past was direfully accurate – but he'd be damned if she was going to tell him what to do.
From her position at the doorway, Lynné saw that the other agent wasn't going to move. She let out a harsh sigh, wondering all the while why people couldn't just do as they were told and save her a lot of time. Reaching around behind her like she was going to scratch her back, Lynné pulled a fully loaded gun out from underneath the blanket and pointed it at Miller, looking mildly bored as she did so.
I am so glad I had this hidden in there, she thought as the blanket fell from her shoulders and landed on the floor, draping across her feet like a fabric flood.
Though she uttered no warnings, no threats, no words at all, Miller knew that the agent-in-training was serious. Her sincerity did not stop him from shooting one more glare her way, though he knew the action was pointless.
Still wearing the scowl that would had sent other women scurrying away in tears, Miller stalked over to Lynné, who kept her relaxed composure without even trying. He paused in the doorway to throw one more ugly look her way, but Lynné stared back up at him completely unconcerned.
Just as he was about to leave at last, Lynné re-crossed her arms and offered him one last tip.
"Yo, Chris," she called, using the slang as her personal nerve grater.
"What?" Miller snarled, not even looking at her.
"Button your fly."
Scrunching up her nose in animosity, Lynné fought the urge to pound her bed mattress with balled fists of frustration as she realized that thoughts of the late Agent Miller had somehow wormed their way into her head.
Oh . . . Miller . . . What if she would have . . . ?
No.
While he was very attractive (almost illegally so), he wasn't right for her. His outside was a dark and dangerous woman's dream. They should have been the perfect match. But his insides were poison. Not saying that she was all peaches 'n cream herself, but Miller made her seem downright sweet.
Diabolical, impious, fiendish, and nearly sociopathic, Agent Christopher Miller looked like a cross between and that kid who played Draco Malfoy in those Harry Potter movies.
He would have gotten along well with Cat. Hell, Lyn figured, if the two had known each other, they probably would have been a couple.
But no. Her stepsister was a rat; only difference between her and the other rodents was that she fed on gossip, not cheese. Miller, on the other hand, was a prick. A blackmailing prick. One who lurked around trying to dig up everything he could on a person, much like Cat. However, while she burned up her hard earned hearsay with uncontrollable anticipation, he collected and saved his for his own personal use. Miller would hold a story above a person's head like a guillotine's giant blade.
Until he had everything he wanted, of course, and then he would give the executioner the signal anyway. Could anyone say 'extortionist?'
You know he's only after your looks, the voice pointed out drowsily, having been rattled from it's sleep by Lynné's constant ranting.
No, I don't.
Have you ever met a man with a different motive?
He's not the type to do that because he knows what happens if he does. I already have several fates in store for him, some that I think you'd find very creative.
You mean that one with the honey and the anthill, for example? the voice yawned, bored. I thought that was reserved for Ajedrez.
Yeah, Lyn agreed, but she's dead, so that means it's up for grabs.
Why don't you save that one for Cat and just castrate Liam? That way he'll live, but he won't have much to live for
That's just stupid, Lynné commented bluntly. Why should I kill him when he wouldn't serve a purpose anymore? He might still be alive, but what good is he if I can't . . . have my way with him?
I couldn't help but notice, the voice murmured airily, that you used the word 'I' in a possessive form. Anything you'd care to confess?
May I remind you that you're the one who insisted on 'taking him to bed?' Lynné inquired, just barely hiding her irritation with the voice.
There was no answer.
Annoyed, Lyn turned over on her back and stared up at the ceiling. It was blank, bland, boring. The empty white canvas before her offered nothing for the imagination. It glared back at her without a trace of emotion or feeling and she wondered vaguely who decided to paint it such a dull color anyway.
Are you gonna answer me any time soon? she tried lifelessly.
I thought you'd be happy when I stopped talking.
I would, she said reasonably, but seeing how there's no one else to talk to . . .
Oh, fuck you.
Sorry, but I can't see how that would be possible. And even if it were, I don't do women.
Without another word, she shifted so that she was now lying comfortably on her side. From her new position Lynné now had a clear view of the hallway. Perfect. Now if somebody broke in, all she had to do was reach under her mattress, aim, and . . .
She didn't know when her thoughts melted into dreams, except that one minute she was lying in bed, staring out into the hallway . . . and the next, Cat crossed her path, and she blew that pussy sky high. So lost in her own imagination, Lynné didn't even hear the voice when it finally made it's reply.
But you will do Liam.
"Celui-là a semblé agréable," (That one sounded nice,) Joséphine commented as Sands flipped past another channel.
"I'm not watching Oprah," he stated plainly. "What the fuck's she doing on at five AM? In France, no less. I didn't think they'd accept her."
"Vous vous êtes trompés, alors," (You were wrong, then,) the girl remarked distantly. The sounds issuing from the living room TV had already captured her attention. Sands felt his eyes narrow and, despite the girl's innocents. He couldn't help the irritation that crept into his voice.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Joséphine, who knew the agent was looking at her with interest, stared defiantly back up at him.
"Pas quand je ne peux pas dormir." (Not when I can't sleep.)
Sands felt an eye roll coming on, but he managed to bite his tongue instead of throwing an insult the girl's way. His comment was great, too, if he did say so himself. 'Do you want me to do something about that, kid? Cuz I could give you something that would put you to sleep for a long time.' But Sands restrained himself. Something told him that, even if he had threatened the little girl, she wouldn't have minded. After all, she was a Mafia don's granddaughter. The possibility that she was used to intimidation was very likely.
"Pourquoi ne sont pas vous dans le lit?" (Why aren't you in bed?) Joséphine now asked.
"I am," Sands replied calmly, gesturing to the couch he was reclined on.
She can't see, fuckmook. She's blind.
Since when does that concern me? Ask me if I care, why don't you?
So, the voice began casually, why do you care?
I don't.
You should.
Why? And when did you start acting as my conscience?
Because, you whiney motherfucker, she's in the same situation as you. You'd think you'd have at least a tiny bit of compassion for the kid.
She seems to be doing fine without it.
Yes, but unlike you, who only had to live in darkness for two months, she has to stay that way the rest of her life.
I repeat, she seems to be doing fine. You, however, are acting uncharacteristically caring. You haven't been into my stash, have you?
Oh, would you shut the fuck up? Christ, those jokes aren't funny, they're just annoying.
I feel accomplished, then, Sands told the voice, grinning.
"Pourquoi ne sont pas vous endormi?" (Why aren't you asleep?)
Sands looked down at the girl who was staring back up at him with large, curious eyes that would never know the world.
"Well," he began slowly, "I would be if a certain kid stopped bothering me and fucked off."
Joséphine's face twisted into an angry scowl. Sands half expected her to stick her tongue out at him, but it almost seemed too childish for such a mature little girl.
"Je serais endormi," (I would be asleep) she began snidely, "seulement Mademoiselle Zebbidy me garde éveillé avec ses cauchemars et Liam Plus de souris toujours dans Mademoiselle Lynné's le lit." (only Mademoiselle Zebbidy keeps me awake with her nightmares and Mousier Liam's always in Mademoiselle Lynné's bed.)
That stopped his mental quarrel with the voice.
Oh boy . . . the voice snorted, barely containing it's laughter.
"What do you mean?" Sands asked tersely. "Why would Mousier Liam even be in Mademoiselle Lynné's bedroom?"
"Je ne sais pas," (I don't know,) Joséphine replied, shrugging her small shoulders. "Mademoiselle rêvait la nuit dernière. Peut-être c'est pour cela il était là." (Mademoiselle was dreaming last night. Maybe that's why he was there.)
"Uh-huh," Sands said skeptically, "And how do you know all of this?"
"Je l'ai suivi," (I followed him,) she told Sands simply.
"May I ask why?" Sands sighed, exasperated.
Once again, Joséphine found herself shrugging, yet she also felt a small smile on her face at the same time.
"La même raison je suis venu ici." (The same reason I came down here.)
While waiting inside the Moulin Rouge, a single thought coursed through Vincent Poisson's mind:
Écrasez l'infâm. (Crush the evil thing.)
It was a quote by Voltaire, one of the leaders in the Age of Enlightenment in France many centuries ago. The man had wonderful sarcastic wit and the uncanny ability to give people a different perspective of things like the king, the law, and especially religion.
Religion. Vincent didn't want to even think about religion. He himself was really very skeptical about the entire concept, so of course his father just had to be a devout Catholic.
Écrasez l'infâm.
He had always taken those words to heart. After all, there were so many things he supposed he could call evil. His father, his brothers, his father's 'business,' the men who worked for the business, the men who wanted to bring the business down . . . The list was endless as he was always adding more things to it. The clergy, ridiculously high heeled shoes, and the cartoon shows on that one American network (he couldn't remember its name) were just a few newcomers.
France was his truest love, there was no denying it. He would hate to leave his country, but if it meant finally being able to follow through with his own ambitions and get away from his father as well . . . he would do it. He wanted to get away from the Mafia. He wanted to start his own business. He wanted to be an art dealer (if the art was sold legally or not was nobody's business). And if he had to leave his beloved France to do that, he would.
After all, when he moved, he could always set up location in Canada. Quebec, preferably. It was so much like France in many ways. Was it possible he could feel right at home there?
Perhaps, but it wasn't likely. Vincent supposed he would begin to pine for his country after enough time had passed. He would ignore it, but continue to brood about the subject until the day came when he could push it aside no longer. He would then return to France and what would happen then . . . Well, he would know when the time came. Until then, he didn't want to think about it.
'What if I told you that I knew someone who has a business proposition that you would find very interesting?'
Vincent was more that positive he knew exactly what the mysterious caller had been talking about. And that worried him. Someone knew. Or they at least had a vague idea as to what he wanted to do. Or perhaps they just knew that he wanted out of the country. In any case, none of these ideas were very comforting.
There were the risks. If he did business with the man who had called him, there was a possibility he was doing business with the wrong person. Of course, when you work for the mob, there's always that possibility. He did not know anything about the caller except for a few interesting details: He was male, he may know of Vincent's plans, and he was American.
Very helpful, monsieur, Vincent commented dryly, I can read you like a book.
He didn't know anything about the stranger other than those three things, and none of them put him at ease. Especially the fact that he was American. Americans meant trouble, law enforcement, the government . . . And that meant the Mafia would go down, and he, of course, would have to be dragged down with it.
But if this stranger okayed in Vincent's eyes. . . If it turned out that he could get him out of France . . . If he could do it safely . . . And if he only had to do a few simple tasks first . . . a simple task that could possibly involve destroying his own family . . . would he, Vincent Poisson, agree?
Écrasez l'infâm.
Oui. He would.
Well, now we know that Vincent is gonna agree to Sands' offer. Almost forgot about him, didn't ya? I know I did forget Alphonse for about two chapters. By the time I remembered him, I thought it was almost too late. But then Vinny came into the picture and kinda saved the day, so to speak. So, really, should I be thanking him?
Sands: No. He's the bad guy in this story, remember?
Sidney: Not necessarily. (coy grin)
Sands: Oh, Christ, you're not gonna turn this into something . . . icky . . . are you?
Sidney: (innocently) What ever do you mean by that, dear?
Sands: You know exactly what I mean. (glare) I'm not like that, as I've already explained to Jack.
Captain Jack: (frustrated and fed up) I already told you all, I'm not –
Sidney: 9.9 We know, we know. I think Sands only said that to get back at you for all those eunuch jokes.
Jack: What d'yeh mean jokes, girl? They were pure facts.
Sands: 8o
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
morph: 'Tis okay; I probably wouldn't've caught it either at first, knowing me. Loved 'Secret Window' too. I know what you mean about catching a bit of his other characters in Mort. I remember thinking 'Oh, this is like pre-Jack Sparrow in a way' when I was watching him as Roux in 'Chocolat' after I'd seem PotC. That's what I've always liked about Johnny Depp: he can incorporate some of his other character's quirks without making all of said characters exactly the same. Oh, and . . .
The Head-Voice Brigade: (mixture of enthusiastic, dull, sarcastic, and overly cheerful) Hi!!!
Sidney: Was that all of them?
Sands: There are like eighteen of us. -.o How can you tell?
Lynx Ryder: It cheered you up? o.o Wow, I've never heard that before. ) Guess this really is the fan fic of new things. As for flames, well . . . if I had gotten that one a year ago it really would have bothered me. But now I know that the people who flame are just immature jerks, not to mention cowards because they oh-so-conveniently forget to log in every time they flame. I'm partially quote Johnny Depp when I say, if people can just sit around on their butts insulting me, then I'd say they have a lot of spare time and should consider other topics . . . or masturbation. Lol, love that quote.
vanillafluffy: lol, Bunny! That pun-name goes back, I mean waaay back. Whenever I had to type my name in for an online profile or something like that, I always used ones like 'Bunny Luvsit' or 'Ivonna Peealot' something like that. Sands and Lyn both came off to me as people who would do something like that whenever they had to give their name. I never thought of a flashback of Liam's childhood, but it seems like a good idea, thanks! And you're right, patients are a virtue only for doctors . . . and dentists. Especially the dentists, evil money grubbers with their drills . . . o.o;;; Geh, I try to avoid them as much as possible.
Dawnie-7: XD I cracked up reading your review. Hey, ya gotta give Liam credit, though. He hasn't passed out in this story! . . . yet! (evil grin)
Liam: Wait, wait, what? o.o;;;
fanfiction fanatic: Oy vey, you are not alone in the world of perfectionism. (raises hand) I'm guilty of that too. With everything including my stories. My mother and younger sister drive me crazy cuz they're both so unorganized. And, lol, I will remember that! Blah, Pepsi! XP I've never liked it anyway. And not just because it is the drink of Britney Spears . . . the drink of evil . . .
DragonHunter200: I'd nearly forgotten about Moreau too, not entirely, but enough not to be sure where to tie him into all of this. XD 'Less Recruiting, More Writing,' definitely wanna send that one out. Unfortunately, the way our congressmen are, I doubt they'd listen. ( Probably mistake us for drug-induced hippies or something like that. Still, never hurts to try though. u.u
o