Saturday, June 18, 2011

Saturday Snippet: Lisa & Steffan in an E Type Jag

Today's Something Saturday is a Snippet but I spent so much time today dealing with the darned karagany Trojan, I didn't have time to finish reading/editing this piece so no promises.

It's a Deleted Scene from the Lacey / Rainey Story. The characers, Lisa & Steffan, are Tuckerizations of Barflies and both characters were deleted from the story in the time since writing this scene. Pity, I really liked them both--and Steffan's redshirting (death scene) was fun! He got into a traffic accident due to those darned "faulty brakes" and sailed off a bridge into the Sienne River singing "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" ^_^

Enjoy this for what it is. Rainey (Charles Rainford) is fascinating to see through Lisa's eyes! The scene was intended to be a parody of romance novel sex scenes. I've since been told it actually is too well-written to be a true parody, and given some of the tripe I've seen joked about over at Smart Bitches, I'm starting to believe it. What do you think? Humourous or not?


Lisa L. Satterlund was a patient woman. Scandinavians were known for patience, but she was an usually patient woman. Maybe it was the Canadian side of her heritage. She was patient with everything and polite with everyone, from the weather to the Americans. She was even patient when it came to Steffan Stewart and his “schemes” for improving on an already well-laid plan.

She didn't have much faith in his plans to get her well-laid tonight. They were running out of time to waste, sitting in the car in the middle of the City of Lights. It’s the most romantic city in the world, some said, but not right now. Not for Lisa and Steffan. No, no, no. Utterly-unromantic Steffan was fully-focused on the damned hard-top latch that kept flipping out of place. 

The stupid man.

Pretty, but stupid, this one. Maybe not stupid, just had his priorities skewed. Amazing as it was to think, Steffan was actually trying her patience because honestly, it wasn't as though the top of the car was about to fly off. They were sitting at a standstill, parked with the engine off on the side of the road—and they'd had to pay a tidy sum to get the valet to let them use one of his spaces for an hour or two. Prime real estate this was, not to be wasted on performing minor car repairs!

Lisa leaned back into the leather seat and yanked at the knob on the side with a sigh, reclining her position in jerky stages. When she’d gotten the seat back moved down several inches, she crossed her arms, crossed her ankles, and closed her eyes before crossing them, too. But she really was trying to be patient with Steffan and his need to fiddle with little bits and pieces. She just wanted the bits and pieces to be hers.

She loved her classic E Type Jaguar just as much as he loved his, double-piston caliper brakes notwithstanding. Lisa and Steffan’s cars matched exactly, point for point, right up until you got to the brakes. She’d upgraded hers but he hadn’t yet, claiming it would alter the pedigree of the classic’s continuity from manufacture to the 21st century. No one could tell from just looking that their cars differed, but the whole point was to make their cars interchangeable. How could she drive his car with faulty brakes? Well, not faulty, but not as good as they could be if he’d just had them upgraded.

Especially here in Paris, a girl needed to be able to brake hard and fast and never ever lose control of the road. Owning the road is everything in Paris, a matter of honor more than just car maintenance. She was appalled at the way he failed to maintain his classic, just appalled. Someone could actually kill him, not to mention ruining that masterpiece of a car!

She realized she was grinding her teeth and forced opened her mouth slightly to stop it then blew out a breath as she peeked out of slitted eyes. Steffan glanced over at her.

Without moving from her confrontational stance, she asked, “Are you almost done? Is it my turn yet?”

“I don't know why you're in such a hurry. Even if Charlie managed to get a reservation, which is doubtful, you know the place is packed. They'll be in there for hours!”

She closed her eyes and resettled in the seat, muttering under her breath, “It could take you hours the way you’re getting sidetracked every two seconds.”

Steffan had heard her. He slid his hand across her stomach, under her crossed arms and said, “I can be done in three minutes. You're the one who takes an hour.”

She smirked and said, “I don't really think you want to go bragging about a thing like that.”

He laughed that warm rolling laugh of his and she sighed, let him slide his hands up under her arms and resume disassembling her clothes. He'd only gotten as far as the second button on her blouse before he'd noticed the errant latch. What was next? Adjust the rearview mirror before he got her bra off? At this rate, they'd be here all night, and as fun as all the teasing stops and starts might be, they had a job to do tonight. They didn't have time to screw around. Well, they had had an hour to screw around, while their “job” ate dinner inside Le Berkeley. Now? Less than an hour. She could still enjoy a quickie, the tiny car space wasn't good for much else anyway, but the way Steffan was going, they wouldn't even have time for that before Charlie and Lacey came out again.

This little stakeout duty was supposed to be a relaxing break, not get her all wound up before she had to go off and maybe kill her friends. She hoped Charlie didn't make her kill him. It'd be so much easier if they'd all just agree that Lacey should come in willingly and Charlie should just go away. There are places to go away and disappear. He owns a whole fucking island where he could go away and disappear. 

It'd be a shame to lose a friend like Charlie Rainford. He paid nearly as well for his subcontract jobs as Roger had for this Internal Affairs deal. Lisa just hated office politics—and she hadn't yet had a chance yet to work for Charlie Rainford. She wanted that chance—and his money.

Steffan unfolded her arms and pushed her blouse open, then paused, frozen, staring gape-mouthed and saucer-eyed at the surprise she'd worn just for him. The tiny black lace half-moons of an excuse for a brassiere belonged to his new favorite piece of lingerie. He'd bought it for her just one month ago and been asking her to wear it ever since, but she kept worrying he'd tear it off if she did.

"See what you're missing when you play with your car instead of me?" She asked him smugly and watched his face. He wasn't quite drooling but close. She now had 100% Customer Satisfaction on the bra based on the look in his eyes. Raw hunger.

"I thought we were working tonight." He pressed quick little kisses across the edge of lace on one breast, stopped in the valley to add, "Clearly, this has to come off before you damage it." He opened the front clasp and cupped her breast, watched her torso ripple like a wave at the subtle pressure of his hand on her bared flesh.
In between short breaths, she told him, "Damage it all you like. I went back and bought three more. Red, white and..."

He ran the tip of his tongue over the soft, hot flesh, suckled her nipple into pertness. "And?"

"And I don't remember or give a shit right now. Shut up and kiss me already."

She grabbed his face in both hands and pulled him over the gear shift towards her. He yelped when it stuck him dangerously close to piece parts he hoped to be using in another minute. She devoured him with tongue-lashing, life-draining, mind-numbing kisses. She thought she might burn up from the inside out as she struggled to pull his shirt up. It snagged on his Colt M1911-A1. He was wearing that damned belly band holster, that was the problem.

He covered her face in kisses, nibbled up her jaw line and supported his weight on her seat back while he fought her hand for control of his belt buckle.

Who wears a belt with a belly band holster? She thought with a mixture of indignation and amusement. While her focus was distracted, he got his pants undone and started in on hers. She freed him from his underwear—briefs today, she noted with some disapproval—but forgot every negative criticism when she ran her hand down the long, hard length of him. She took him in hand and enjoyed his appreciate groan in her ear. He was ready for her. 

He was always ready for her. She really loved that about him. Anytime, anyplace, that was her Steffan. Though the logistics of the cramped space in the little Jag always proved challenging. They'd done it here before and, by God, they were doing it here tonight—In the next three minutes!—or die trying.

Then he cupped her, fingers streaking between silken layers, plunging into velvet fire, driving her hard and fast up towards the edge. She forgot about the small space. She forgot about the short time. She almost forgot not to dig her fingernails into his hot flesh, hard and throbbing in her hand. But that's when he slipped his fingers inside her, matching the motion stroke for stroke with his tongue in her mouth. God he was good at this. Three minutes. She was the one who wasn't going to last another three minutes of this.

She thought her ears were ringing from the blood rushing out of her head but no, it was someone tapping on the window behind Steffan.

She glanced over, past Steffan’s ear and she nearly choked when she saw who it was.

“Oh my God! Charlie.”

Steffan came up for air long enough to smirk at her. “Very funny. And here I was thinking it was your turn to come first.”

“No! It’s Charlie! He's behind you.”

“What?” Steffan’s voice had risen two octaves with that.

He lifted off her quickly and hit his head on the rooftop of the cramped space. He grabbed at the rearview mirror on his way down, trying to spin around and get his gun out. What he got was his pants pocket caught on the gear shift. An E Type Jag was just not the place for these kinds of acrobatics.

The only reason Lisa didn't break out in laughter at him was that she was surprised he'd reached for his gun. She'd said it was Charlie. He shouldn't have been reaching for his gun, at least not in the middle of Av Matignon.

Lisa struggled to stuff herself back into her bra. She ducked her head down to look past Steffan at Charles Rainford, leaning casually with his arms folded over the chrome plating under the driver's side window. He was smirking at them, not to mention ogling her breasts, as she struggled with the clasp. The lecherous jerk.
She told Steffan, “Okay, Steff, you can shoot him. Just shoot that smirk right off his fucking face.”

Steffan got himself disentangled from the gear shift and dropped back into the seat while grabbing hysterically to roll the window down. Rainford had the buttons on his cuffs actually sitting right on the Jag's pristine chrome. She knew that would not go over well with Steffan, but before Steffan could warn him to keep his buttons to himself, Rainford started in.

“Every hotel in Paris full up, I take it?”

“Back off, Rainford!” Steffan snapped at him.

“I'm not the one with his bleeding Johnson caught in the steering wheel.” Rainford waggled his fingers at Steffan’s lap. “Put that away, would you? It’s distracting.”
Steffan didn't take his eyes off Rainford to reply but he zipped his fly halfway up and snapped, “Now get your fucking buttons off my car.”

Rainford stood up, gently draped his leather-gloved hands over the window's edge and bent down to peer in at Lisa. He gave her a deliberate once-over before smirking again. Her blouse was refusing to cooperate. Figures.

“Hello, Lisa. Such a tasty—uhh, tasteful moment I've interrupted here. Do you two need to borrow my suite at the Bristol? Wouldn't want to give the tourists the wrong ideas. Someone might think you two were actually French from the way you're carrying on here!”

Rainford laughed without constraint. He had a truly annoying laugh, Lisa thought, dark and insulting somehow, like he knew something you wanted to hide and was just waiting for the right moment to throw it back in your face. Lisa started reaching down between her legs for the 9 mil Beretta 93R she’d left on the floor, stuffed halfway under her seat. Steffan put his hand up to stop her before she did something regrettable right here in the middle of Av Matignon.

“What we're doing is none of your business, Charlie, so you can leave now. Nice seeing you.” Steffan tried to roll the window up but Rainford's grasp on the top of it held firm. If only the car had had power windows, Lisa reflected, they could have cut the lout's fingers off with the press of one button.

“Not. So. Fast. What are the two of you doing here in Paris? I heard you had a job Stateside.”

Lisa said, “Just drive away, Steffan. If you can smash his toes when you pull out, I'll give you firsts. Twice, even.”

Rainford shook his head and tossed a leering grin over at her. “Bartering for sex, Lisa.” He made a tsking sound. “It's beneath you. Or someone should be.”

Steffan cut in. “Shut up, Charlie. Look, our client's in the States but the job's here. Not that it's any of your business. Now would you please get the fuck off my car before I consider her offer?” 

Rainford lifted both hands an inch and then straightened. Lisa could tell he wasn’t satisfied with their explanation for being there. Steffan rubbed his elbow over the chrome plating at the window base to polish off any errant marks Rainford might’ve left behind. As if. 

Finally, Steffan started up the engine. He wiggled the gear shift and asked Rainford, “Any preference on which foot I take out for your attack on my manhood?” Lisa swatted at the back of Steffan's shoulder. “Oh, and her honor. Guess I have to run over you twice. Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Steffan lifted his chin and bared his teeth at Rainford and the man finally stepped back one pace. Thank God Steffan pulled out rather than chatting with their target for another five minutes! 

She asked him, "What were you thinking? Why'd you tell him our client's in the States. Are you just an idiot or did I just drain all the blood out of your brain with that heavy petting back there?”

Steffan slammed on the brakes and the horn at the same time, shouted choice words out the open window in Italian, accompanied by appropriate hand gestures, then lowered his voice and told her calmly, as though his reasoning were perfectly logical, “He'd already heard we'd been Stateside. No point lying about that part of it. What if someone saw us yesterday? And you hadn't even started draining me, Babe, but feel free to catch up now.” He grinned at her, glanced down at his still unfastened pants. “I plan to drive around the block we can find another parking space. Plenty of time if you--"

He stopped when he looked over at her again. She wasn't amused. She wasn't hiding it. His fleeting fantasy of her going down on him now wasn't going to happen. A man could dream, though. Lisa sat back, crossed her arms, crossed her ankles and closed her eyes before she crossed them, too. 

She shook her head and scolded him, "I can't believe you were talking to the fucking target. I'm in love with a fucking moron!"

"Only if you fuck me deaf, dumb and blind before the night is out. Lisa, he's been our friend for two years. We had to talk to him. I suppose your brilliant plan would have been to drive away as soon as he knocked on the window?"

"No. No, you're right. I just hate this job. Why'd we take it again?"

He held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together with a grin. "Money, Babe. Lots and lots of money."

"You know if we offer him a counter bid, Charlie might give us double for doing nothing."

"Yeah, he might. Or he might shoot us both before we can finish telling him the amount."

"Yeah. Yeah, he might. You're right. I hate you for it, but you're right." She leaned back into the leather and let Steffan shout in peace at the driver that cut him off on the corner. This was the worst job they'd ever taken, a contract on their friends, but it was more money than either of them had ever been offered before. It could make or break their reputations in the game. They had to do it. They would do it. Or they'd die trying.


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