Author: Freelancer Starbuck
Website: www.geocities.com/freelancer_starbuck
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: YEAH BABY!
Archiving: CD has permission, everyone please ask me first.
Rating: PG-13 for language and naughty thoughts
Summary: Blue jeans... what more do you want??? Extreme fluff. My attempt at humor
Author's Note: I was listening to the radio while getting dressed this morning and this AWESOME song came on!
There's a number you can call Anytime you wanna talk That's exactly where I'll be When you wanna get at me If you wonder what you do That's got me into you It's your blue jeans The way you rock your blue jeans, baby -Yasmine, Blue Jeans
He called me, about 10pm. I was in a club, dragged there by Francie. I hid my grin before she could see it and excused myself, telling my brain to ignore the hurt look on her face. She was still muttering and grumbling as I gathered my purse.
The car ride took too long. My skirt was chafing. Francie had dressed me this time, telling me I was too tame. Personally, I thought the leather jacket I had planned on wearing over that damned tube top looked cute. Now, without it, goose bumps popped up on my skin and I shivered. Hadn't she ever heard of compromise?
The warehouse was maybe 10 minutes from the club, and as I pulled up I recognized his car sitting about a block away. I looked both ways before I entered the shut down building. One can never be too careful.
He was already in the cage when I clicked inside, leaning against the crates that lined the fence. His eyes turned to mine as he heard me approach, and he unfastened the door for me. I walked in, fighting the urge to wince. Four-inch heels are not the most practical shoes in the world, although as I stood in front of my handler, I was glad they screamed, "fuck me!" I shifted on the wobbly table, trying my best to keep my balance.
"Hey, Vaughn." He moves from the shadows into the faint light from the fading floodlights and my breath catches. He's wearing jeans. Now, I know what you're thinking. What's so great about jeans? You'd know if you had seen Michael Vaughn in a pair of them. Denim makes him look completely, irresistibly smutty. The seam of them follows his sharp shape, outlining the muscles on his legs, and paired with, god forbid, a blue button down, I feel the sudden need to rip them off and have my way with him right there against the chain-link fence.
But that's beside the point.
As I was saying, he looked gorgeous. In his hand was a folder, and he was opening it. Taking out a photograph. Even in the dim light, I could make out the profile of Sark on the page.
"Syd, when you get to Moscow, we need you to get more information. The man in this picture," he continued, "not Sark, but the man with him, is known as Shere. No one knows whom he works for or why he's consorting with Sark and your mother, but we need to find out before SD-6 does. When you go to the party to retrieve the new ampoule, give this one," he pulled out a vial, "to SD-6 and the real one to us. Then go back to the party as planned. Strike up a conversation with Shere and get invited back to his hotel room. Find what you can to help us find out who he is."
I nodded slowly, absorbing my mission. "How am I supposed to get past SD-6 to talk to this guy? They'll be monitoring my position."
"That's where this comes in." He dug into his jeans and retrieved an elegant ring. "Press the jewel and it'll jam their locater signals."
I smiled and turned to leave, but then I paused. My brain dared my heart to speak. "Oh, and by the way, Vaughn... I love your jeans."