Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Nineteen: Topsy Turvey
This just in: Go see the movie 'Collateral.' Seriously, whether you like Tom Cruise or not (I'm not a huge fan, but I don't loath him like some) go see it. Why? Cuz his character is so much like Sands it's not even funny. Okay, yeah, it is funny. It's a good movie, too, so go see it. His character, Vincent, isn't exactly like Sands but I couldn't help but notice many uncanny similarities between the two. Oy vey . . . I feel another head-voice coming on . . . (grips head) O.6; Geeeeaaah . . .
"Well, that's taken care of," Sands stated as he strode through the front door of the house.
"You got Poisson to agree?" Lyn asked from the couch, not even bothering to look up from her latest read: 'Where the Buffalo Roam.'
"That I did," her brother replied, sinking down next to her. "That, and . . ."
"And?" Lynné suggested dully, still half-engrossed in her book.
"I found out Poisson's party dates," he finished, smiling slightly.
"Mmm," was all she said.
Inwardly, Sands let out a groan of frustration.
Christ all mighty, if she starts this shit again . . .
"Care to know when he's having it?"
Lyn gave a sort of half-shrug that had a light wave of her hand to go with it.
Eyes focused on the ceiling above, Sands let out an exasperated breath through his nose with a side glance at Lyn. She took no notice, turning over another page of her book.
"Lyn," Sands said flatly, clearly bored with this. "Lynné."
"Mmm?" she murmured a little more forcefully this time, indicating that she was indeed listening.
"Is there any point to this?" Sands wanted to know.
"Do they have Halloween in France?" Lynné asked suddenly, actually taking her attention off of her book. "I can't remember."
"Yeah, they do," her brother replied. "Only they jumped on the bandwagon a little late, so that's why a lot of people aren't familiar with it. Poisson's not having his blow out then, though."
Lynné's right eyebrow went up, peaking with interest.
"Oh?"
"He's having it the week before."
"The week before," she echoed, "That's the twenty-fourth. Wonder why he's doing it then?"
Sands shrugged carelessly.
"Vincent said it was to avoid interference with other party plans. So Eddy Poisson likes to plan ahead. That's good."
Too good?
Bet your ass it is.
"Is it still a costume party?" Lynné asked suddenly.
Her brother merely smirked in a 'What-do-you-think?' manner. Seeing this, Lyn sighed in provocation, but she couldn't help the grin that was tugging at her lips.
"I suppose I'll have to get one on eBay, then."
"Get one what on eBay?" Zebbidy asked as she gracefully descended the steps to the living room.
"Costume," Lyn answered. "We'll be needing them for the shindig Édouard's throwing. He'll probably provide yours for you, however."
"So it's set then?" the other woman questioned, leaning over the back of the couch so her head hovered between the two agents. "I'm going with Poisson? When?"
"Tomorrow," Sands responded tiredly, reclining against the cushions as he raised a hand to knead his eyes. They were stinging again, but he didn't think it was anything to be concerned about.
"Oh, well in that case," Zebbidy began casually, "Anybody got any booze?"
"You want booze?" Lynné called to Zebbidy. "Help me find the wine cellar."
"There's a wine cellar?" Zebbidy asked, following the agent into the kitchen.
"Of course there is," she sighed, as if it were obvious. "You forget we're in France."
"It's that a stereoty –" Zebbidy started to say.
Lynné stopped where she stood. She remained that way for all of five seconds before spinning around to face the other two. When they saw her expression, they knew they had annoyed her because for once she was allowing herself to be read and her message was all too clear: Lynné Sands was fed up.
"We've been living here for three months, Zebbidy," she said quietly. "During those three months, have you noticed nothing about the French?"
"No," Zebbidy responded snidely, refusing to be intimidated by such a breakable creature. "Of course I've learned some things."
"Ah." Lyn nodded towards her as she opened her hands palms up as if expecting Zebbidy to present her with some kind of trinket.
"There are several stereotypes that are true," Zebbidy began slowly, biding her time. "They do smoke a lot here, they will pay more for one good pair of jeans instead of buying several cheap pairs, and," she paused, surveying Lynné dubiously. "And . . . they do drink wine. A lot."
Satisfied, the agent gave a final nod, and turned her back to Zebbidy and Liam.
"But that doesn't mean there's a wine cellar here!" Zebbidy protested, following her as she disappeared around a corner.
"I don't know about you Wisconsin girls," Lynné remarked, "but those hailin' for Colorado know that in France, the rich don't keep their wine sitting around. They always have –" she stopped in front of a door that Zebbidy had always assumed lead to a pantry " – a wine cellar."
A somewhat triumphant smirk was playing on her lips. Grasping the doorknob, she jiggled it heartlessly. The door remained closed, but Lynné didn't seem to mind.
"However, Mrs. Demio likes to be safe, so it makes sense that the door's locked."
Well if it's locked, then – But Zebbidy never finished her thought. At that moment, Lynné had whipped out a neat, compact tool kit and was filtering through it for the right instrument.
Lock pick, I'll be damned . . .
"Never bothered to check out this room before," Lyn was explaining as she held up a small tool with a thin wire at its tip. "Although, I always took it for a wine cellar. Why else would it be locked?"
Unless this is where they keep the dead bodies.
Shut up.
Pushing the voice's comments aside, Lynné stooped down on her knees to better see the doorknob and inserted her lock pick into the keyhole with ease.
"Works better than hairpins," she explained to Zebbidy as she worked the pick around the slot.
Just then, a small 'click' sounded throughout the kitchen and the grin was back on Lynné's face in two seconds flat.
They were all sitting around the living room, save for Josey who was, as far as they knew, asleep upstairs. Two ghostly green bottles of long emptied wine rested on the coffee table's smooth glass surface. Beside them, a third, half-drained bottle was snatched away as a fair hand reached out and took hold of its slender neck.
Lynné and Zebbidy were both rather tipsy, whereas their male companions were smashed. The corners of the room had been growing increasingly blurred as the dark evening faded into the dead of night. Every time Liam turned his head his surroundings ran together until he stopped. He hadn't gotten totally hammered since college and he knew he would be paying the consequences with a hangover the next morning, but Lynné always had aspirin on hand, so for now he did not worry and lifted a glass to his lips.
"So Lynné . . . Lynné sent the tennis ball flying back across the court . . . and it hit her in the face?" Zebbidy gasped, fighting a laugh. "She hit her in the face?
"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Lynné interrupted, holding up a hand in defense. "I didn't do anything. It was an accident."
"Oh, I'm sure," Zebbidy scoffed, waving a hand at her. Daintily, she took what had to be her hundredth sip of wine, savoring every moment as though she would never get another chance.
Though if I'm going to be living with Édouard partaking in wine samplings should be an every day occurrence."Then she began crawling towards me for help," Sands explained, taking up his story where he left off.
"But you backed away from her, I'll bet" Zebbidy finished, snickering.
"Tripped," he corrected, lowering his own glass of deep maroon liquor. "There was nothing I could do."
"Yeah," Zebbidy said sarcastically. "Yeah, I'll bet. That woman is evil, though, so even if it was intentional, she deserved it. Were there any lasting side-effects?"
"Unfortunately not," Lynné sighed, making no effort to cover her disappointment. "She was always the way she is and the tennis ball had nothing to do with it."
"Too bad, though," Sands remarked thoughtfully. "If that were the case, she could've used it as an excuse for everything that's wrong with her."
"What's there to be wrong with her?" Lyn wanted to know. "She's a scheming, back-stabbing bitch. Need I go on?"
"Anybody know any drinking games?" Liam quizzed suddenly.
"Since when do you play drinking games?" Lynné asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't even know he drank," Sands admitted to her, refilling his wineglass.
"Well I haven't," Liam said, slowly taking Lynné into focus. "Not since college."
"Oh, gosh, college," his partner gasped, tilting her head back and letting out a strange laugh that caught Liam by surprise. Even in his drunken haze he couldn't help but acknowledge this. When had Lynné ever actually laughed in front of him? Stunned, Liam realized that he couldn't conjure up such a time.
"What about college?" Zebbidy asked, edging closer to the other woman and therefore closer to Sands, who didn't seem to mind.
"God, there are so many things," Lynné murmured, shaking her head. "Wow. . . . Okay," she after pausing for a moment, thinking, "here's a good one.
"Every year, the senior designer's class always held this convention for. There'd be free samples: Lip sticks, lotions, those sort of things. This one time, a friend of mine, Vanessa, and I . . . we decided to go to this thing."
"Why didn't you go earlier?" Zebbidy wondered curiously, running a thin finger along the rim of her glass.
"They hadn't heard about the free giveaways 'til then," Sands smirked. Lynné's eyes narrowed over the edge of her drink, but she waved him off absentmindedly.
"Anyway, yes, Vanessa and I decided to go and take a looksee because, like all women, we loved free stuff. Free cosmetic stuff especially. So we were going from booth to booth, picking up little doohickeys and . . . whatchamacallits . . . and we came to the Johnson & Johnson counter.
"There, on the table, were a bunch of little packets. So, ignoring the strange looks we were getting, we collected I dunno how many of these things and walked off to the next stand.
"After a while, we snagged ourselves a bench and started rifling through our loot, checking out what we got. Vanessa pulls out one of the ten million Johnson & Johnson packets we picked up, and starts putting it on."
She stopped once again, taking yet another drink of her wine and enjoying ever minute of it.
Been so long since I got wasted. Can't even here the voice now, thank God.
"So she rips the packet open and begins to rub it all over her hands," Lyn continued. "Suddenly, she stops. She just stops . . . dead. And she remarks that 'this stuff smells funny.' I take the packet from her, read the label – at this point I can feel my eyes widening – and then I look back up at her."
"What? What happened?" Liam demanded good-naturedly, the excess alcohol in his system showing wonderful consequences.
"Well," his partner began, a coy smile spreading gradually across her face. "Turns out, it wasn't lotion as we had first suspected."
By now, Zebbidy had successfully managing to make her wineglass sing. The shrill, shaky notes pealed off of the crystal and vibrated eerily throughout the room, though she hardly paid them the any attention.
"So what was it?" she asked, her finger still stuck on automatic glide.
Again, Lynné felt her mouth tweak into a smirk.
"Self-lubricant."
Only a dusky, opaque, meekly lit bulb provided light for the room. Lifting his eyelids slowly, Sands could just make out his murky surroundings. Red recliner, festive rugs, large TV hidden within an equally mammoth cabinet, that sleek glass coffee table he had banged his head on, and there, sitting on top of the God-awful thing was a woman.
"We'll get you bugged before you leave tomorrow," Sands muttered, rubbing his temple as he laid down on the daybed.
"Good," she murmured, bobbing her head a bit.
His sister had gone to bed, as had Fusco. Or perhaps he would be more accurate if he said his sister and Fusco had gone to bed. Maybe he could even go as far as the two lovers had departed, hand in hand, to commence in their own private rendezvous. Then again, that may have been taking things a tad far.
He turned his head, wanting to get a better look at the person who could make or break his career, but it was a painful mistake. A single beam of light bounced off of the glossy table beside him, hitting him square in the eyes and causing an involuntary wince.
"Are you okay?" Zebbidy asked, alcohol still present on her breath. It wasn't unpleasant, though. It was subtle with the faint scent of bitter grapes.
"Fine," Sands replied dully.
"You sure?" she asked curiously, sliding off of the table and onto the daybed.
"If you ask that again, I will have no choice but to deem you nosey," Sands warned.
"Well you'd be wrong if you did that," she said, her words slightly mashed together due to the wine. "I'm simply compassionate."
"That could be a problem, you know," he pointed out.
Zebbidy leaned in closer to him. "Why?"
"Because if you start losing your edge, things could turn ugly. Poisson might start to think you're venerable and try to . . . wheedle information out of you."
"He's been after me for months and suddenly I'm just going to show up on his doorstep, why wouldn't he want information?"
She's getting close . . . she's getting really close . . .
The voice yawned, roused from its drunken stupor, Not like you mind, so what's there to complain about?
Their noses were but an inch apart; that was something to complain about. Her eyes sparked with interest and shone even in the bland glow of the room. His contacts were out, and the wine had undoubtedly affected his vision, causing everything to blend together into one grainy collage, yet Sands could still make out Zebbidy's features perfectly. She was that close.
But like I said, you don't mind.
If I don't mind, then why the hell am I complaining about it?
You're not complaining, the voice sighed, making Sands picture a mental eye roll. You're whining. There's a difference.
And the difference would be?
There. Did you listen to yourself? You're doing it again.
Doing whatHe was beginning to grow irritated. After a night of drinking, all he wanted to do was sleep, but of course, the voice couldn't allow that. It would be the decent thing to do.
You've gone all . . . nasally. You're whining.
Oh fuck off. That is a result of my sinuses acting up.
You don't have sinuses, Sheldon, the voice reminded him, sounding as though it was talking to a two-year-old.
Oh, Sands remarked in mock-surprise. Silly me.
A familiar voice suddenly broke through his thoughts. He let his eyes lead him to a teetering Zebbidy about to fall off the edge of the couch if nobody grabbed her in time.
"So how long d'you think it'll take before you stop them?" she asked, swaying uneasily.
"How long do you think it'll be before you put down that wine?" Sands retorted, lacing his fingers behind his head.
Zebbidy was indignant. Nice.
"For your information," she began, her gaze shifting from left to right, back and forth, never targeting him exactly. "I have not had a drink . . . in . . . – " she turned, nearly toppling off of the couch, to look at the clock on the opposite wall "-- . . . fifteen . . . fifteen . . ."
"Seconds," Sands finished, tucking a smirk away for the time being.
"Right," she noted, blinking slowly. Carefully, using both hands, she extended her arms in front of her in one grand gesture, intending to settle her wineglass on the coffee table. Leaning forward turned out to be a mistake. As soon as she began to return her glass, Zebbidy found out just how unstable the drink had made her.
Her head was spinning, no . . . her surroundings, they were what was moving. They whirled around her in an unending vortex of furniture, rugs, paintings, and other assorted decorations. Everything around her was churning – everything inside her was spiraling as well – but what Zebbidy saw was the table. It felt as though someone had taken hold of the house, lifted it up, and tipped it towards the backyard so everything was tumbling forward. And she was falling towards that crystal clear table. If she collided . .
This is gonna leave a welt . . .
Just as she was about to make contact with the glass surface, she stopped. Everything stopped. She was no longer falling forward, nothing was. Someone had set the house back down.
Twisting her head around, Zebbidy shot Sands a strange look. He remained as impassive as always. Glancing down, however, she saw that his arm (the one closest to her) was wrapped securely around her waist. He had, she dramatically declared, saved her from becoming one with the table without even sitting up. In fact, Zebbidy realized, his other arm was still tucked leisurely behind his head.
Still keeping her eyes focused on the agent, Zebbidy reached forward, her hands still clutching the wineglass steadily, she placed it upon the dangerous – yes, she had already deemed it a hazard – piece of furniture that was the coffee table.
Through his own spinning, liquor induced fog, Sands saw that only the dregs remained.
Slowly, he pulled her down next to him, finding himself unable to hold back a grin this time.
Remember, kids, they've both slammed a more than a few bottles so that's bound to have some kind of affect on Sands and Zebbidy's behavior. Don't panic though, to those of you who might be thinking that those two are gonna . . . well, you know . . .
Lynné: Do the horizontal cha-cha. X3
Sidney: -.e They're not. And they probably won't, at least not in this story. Sands is still a little testy around women. Thank you, Ajedrez. (glare) So he's not up to trusting anyone just yet.
Lynné: But . . . (singing) . . . seasons may cha-ange . . .
Sidney: -.6;; Stop plagiarizing 'Moulin Rouge' and help me answer the reviews. (warningly) Or I'll have you go through a midlife crisis in which you mope around all day and dye your hair blonde. u.u
Lynné: Vous sucez. (You suck.)
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:DragonHunter200: I feel for ya with the Oprah thing. Something about overly caring people disturbs me a little. Not that it's a bad thing to care, but to have become so popular because of it? (suspiciously) Something's up. Anyway, government glass. XP Didn't care for it that much when I had it last year, but felt it was good to know I had gained at least some information on the enemy. (shifty eyes) Don't mind me; after chapter sixteen I think it's clear that I do not trust them. Not at all. And, yep, your first quote was from 'The Piccini Notebooks' (I think o.o;) and I know the second one was from 'Candide,' one I'd really like to read, actually. And I've definitely got a hippie-side to me as well, though I don't do drugs either. I just make a lot of jokes about them. 9.9;
morph: o Wow. That is appropriate. The song does fit him, doesn't it? Kind of a Mexican/rock 'n roll mix. Lol, I can't spell either, which is why so-and-so is thanked for inventing spell check. u.u
Lynx Ryder: I really debated sending Sands up to Lyn's room in that last chapter, but then Josey sorta dulled the idea by explaining that Lynné had been dreaming. That, in a way, made Sands realize that Liam was just trying to help, I think.
Lynné: Even though it's pointless.
Sidney: Right, right. 9.9 Like I said, I'm not sure if Sands would have a fit over the idea of Lyn and Liam –
Lynné: Doin' the horizontal cha-cha. XD
Sidney: Ignore her, she's drunk. -.6 Or if he would just kind of shrug it off, saying something like 'Had to happen sooner or later.' Or, as I said, possibly something else (I don't know what 9.9) entirely. o.o Don't know for know but I'm certainly hoping to figure it out soon.
Dawnie-7: O.o? Really? Thanks! I didn't think it was all that funny, actually but maybe I was wrong (hey, it's been known to happen . . . a lot). I know for Josey I wanted to keep an air of mystery around her without turning her into one of those annoying psychic kids you see in movies and TV anymore (somebody tell me who in their right mind decided that was a great new trend!?!) But 'speaks in riddles' . . . hmm . . . I never thought of putting it that way, but now that you say that it makes sense. I like how that sounds, too.
fanfiction fanatic: Just remember, nothing good can ever come from Britteny Spears. Blah XP
o