Like a Rhinestone Cowgirl
Fandom: Mr. and Mrs. Smith/Angel
Pairing: Mrs. Smith/Lilah
Distribution: lists, standing orders, others by permission.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I make no money off their use here.
Summary: Danger. Intrigue. Spy stuff. Lots of sex.
Fourteen or Fifteen Years Ago…
And she’s (this girl that’s caught Jane’s eye) long and lean and got an ass that won’t quit. These Slavic girls getting their first taste of Western capitalism, they’re always so flamboyant. The place is crawling with New Russians and mob-types, and at first, Jane’s thinking this girl is just primo arm-candy.
But she moves the wrong way, too smart, too knowing and Jane’s thinking that the arm-candy’s clothes are a little ironic. The candy-apple-red satin flares are tacky enough as they are; they didn’t need rhinestones. Also, Jane’s pretty certain her breasts are real, and that’s almost never true of mafiosi girlfriends.
That sets Jane’s instincts off like crazy. There’s something about this girl, the way she walks, the way she can shimmy around the ugliest, fattest old mobster and almost make him smile. Fucking Kiev; in fact, the whole former Soviet Union makes Jane a paranoid. Nobody is what he — or especially she — seems.
And arm candy’s spending a lot of time with Jane’s mark. Not obviously, but after every round around the floor, she’s back to Comrade Nino and his pack of underlings and whores. The blonde skinny fake-boob type that really don’t like Sexy Svetlana.
Jane decides to check out the competition. Her weapon hides easily in her ankle holster, and she’s got a knife in her pants, ready to go if she needs to cut a throat or throw it in someone’s eye.
And besides, there’s nothing like showing off for the natives.
* * *
Lilah is b-o-r-e-d, bored. She thought working for a covert ops firm would be exciting and dangerous. Plus, Kyiv. She was going to get to work on her Russian, maybe pick up a little Ukrainian, and be a shoe-in for a State Department gig and a side business selling unimportant secrets.
Someone had to pay for Mother’s hospital bills, and it wasn’t gonna be the CIA.
Comrade Nino, as her handler called him, was staring at her ass. Her handler, this jackass with a creased forehead and soulful eyes, had handed her the outfit and told her to go nuts. She wishes she was a stripper instead, so that nobody had any illusions about what “nuts” meant.
And now there’s another fucking girl on the floor. Lilah has been planting elbows and dropping drugs in drinks for hours; most of them have gotten the point and fucked off. And this one isn’t even a New Russian or a low-class hooker looking to get Lucky (the one with the taste for cheap whores).
This one is crisp, has lips and eyes and breasts, and doesn’t so much walk onto the dance floor as slither-strut-thrust-twirl and brush a hip right up against Lilah’s.
“Privet,” she says, hooking a finger into the waistband of Lilah’s pants. “Vy ochen’ krasivy.”
“I don’t speak Russian,” Lilah lies. “Sorry, babushka. American.”
Tall, dark, and lippy chuckles knowingly and jerks Lilah closer, right up against her. “No, really?” she asks. “The pants give it away, devushka.”
“The satin flares were not so much my idea,” Lilah says, sliding into the. “I have a friend with a sick sense of humor, and hey, if not here, where?”
“Sure,” says the mystery woman, undulating her hips against Lilah’s ass. “They suit you. Except the rhinestones.”
Fucking rhinestones. Out of the corner of her eye, Lilah spots Comrade Nino. He approves, as do his flunkies. Whoever she is, she’s helping Lilah get into Nino’s apartment for the evening. Plus, the woman moves just right, slow and sexy without turning into some languorous tango.
“Don’t you love the heart stenciled on my ass, though?” Lilah asks, letting the beat drop her hips and start moving her shoulders and spine. “I think it’s sexy.”
“You think it’s disturbing,” says the other woman, running two fingers over Lilah’s neck and tugging on her earlobe. Tingling electricity shoots right down Lilah’s spine. “Comrade Nino seems to like it.”
“Comrade Nino’s been getting a good show all evening,” Lilah says. “But how did you know what he’s called?”
* * *
Jane is now officially freaking out. First of all, there’s sparkage between her and the wild child she’s dancing with. Okay, the wild child is maybe a little older than she is, but that’s only in years, not in lives. Or something. Jane’s had years of training, and so her eighteen is like everyone else’s twenty-five.
“How did you know?” Jane asks. “Who are you with?”
“I’m not with anyone, but if you take your hands off my ass, I will assume you’re going for a weapon and have the nice mobsters kill you,” the wild child purrs, tossing her head. “What’s your mission, soldier?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because I might have the same mission,” she says, throwing her arms up before twisting and putting them around Jane’s neck. “You feel very nice on the skin. So I’d rather not kill you if you’re just here to kill Nino or something.”
“You, too?” Jane asks.
“No, but my people don’t care whether he lives or dies. They just want something. Yours?”
“Don’t care what he’s carrying, just that he’s dead,” Jane says, wishing she could put a finger on this girl’s mouth and watch her suck on it. But she’s aware that if her hands leave wild child’s ass, there will be no sucking, and no mission to finish. “So can we deal, ahh…”
“Lilya,” she says.
“Jane,” says Jane. “I like your name.”
“I like The Cure,” Lilya murmurs, nuzzling Jane. “Don’t you?”
Sure enough, it’s The Cure and Jane moves a hand to the small of Lilya’s back, which is slightly damp and curves in delightfully.
“So how do we do this?” Jane asks Lilya’s soft, dark hair. “I assume you were planning to fuck him and slip out later with this item.”
“Sadly, yes,” Lilya murmurs, brushing her lips across Jane’s temple. “I say we go with the plan. Except the sleep will be eternal, and we can fuck each other instead of good ol’ Comrade Nino.”
“Lilya, darling,” and Jane dips Lilya back, lets the disco ball lighting of this sorry excuse for a dance club sparkle against Lilya’s throat and cleavage and the rhinestones. “I like how you think.”
* * *
This is turning into the best night ever. The kind of night Lilah used to dream about in her bedroom after her father said his extra-special goodnight, letting her hands crawl over abused skin and after she had wished to all the Lords of Chaos and Night for his painful death.
There is a beautiful woman who is holding on tight to her hand while they run away from insane Russian mafiosi. Lilah is wearing a dead man’s coat, as she has left her stupid rhinestone cowgirl outfit and her fake dark hair in the hotel room. They are racing through the night, high on adrenaline, and Lilah’s doing great for wearing stiletto heels on Kyiv’s pavement.
Her name is Jane, and she’s young. Younger than Lilah, who at twenty feels like a babe in the woods out in the big wide world. Sixteen or eighteen, but she’s a professional. Not an intern trying to prove herself with her tricked-out petty theft skills. Jane has reflexes like a leopard on PCP, and they’re both breathless and giggling when Jane drags them into an alley, pushes Lilah up against a wall and starts kissing her.
Her tongue is quick, warm, and knows just where to tangle. Lilah’s got one hand on Jane’s waist, and the other in her hair. They’re steaming in the cool October air.
“I could just…pull open that coat,” Jane says feverishly, a fiendish light in her eyes. “And you’d be almost naked, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s cold out here, Jane,” Lilah protests, but not very hard. They are young, there’s adrenaline in the air, and they’re covered in sweat, cheap massage oil, and bits of Comrade Nino’s DNA. “We should go take a shower and clean off all the incriminating evidence.”
“Big words,” Jane sighs, cupping Lilah’s jaw while the other tugs at the belt of the coat. “You sound like a lawyer.”
“Ew, not me,” Lilah says. “I’m in it for the game. For the thrill.”
Jane leans over and licks Lilah’s collarbone, then lets it steam in the cold. “Thrilling enough for you?”
“Not bad,” Lilah murmurs, heart pounding as Jane hauls her close for another round of kissing. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, and her teeth are chattering. “But I’m kind of cold.”
“Well, baby,” Jane says with an impish smile. “Let’s go get you warmed up.”
* * *
Now she’s naked and writhing in Jane’s bed, arched up while Jane grips her hips and holds on tight because this one can move. And scream like a banshee, and it’s turning Jane on, getting her wetter than water to listen to Lilya cry out and beg and push for more, more of Jane’s tongue, of her fingers, of anything that’ll get her off.
Her hands are grasping the cheap sheets in great big bunches, wrinkling the fabric as she sings an aria that builds towards her orgasm, sighs and moans and whimpers.
“Oh, Jane, oh Jane ohJaneohJaneohhhh,” she throatily proclaims. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me…”
Lilya’s got strong thighs, but not runner’s thighs like Jane thought back on the dance floor. Lilya was a suburban girl; she’s got the thighs of someone who danced some ballet, did a little horseback riding, maybe did some track but more likely did Jazzercise with her country club friends. Somewhere, parents who drink highballs and laugh at the jokes on Frasier are wondering where their princess is tonight.
Jane doubts they would ever imagine she was getting fucked in Kiev on a squeaky old mattress, grinding her hips while a woman eats her out and listens to her talk dirty about it.
When Lilya comes, she convulses, shaking and screaming like hot water in the kettle, straining even as she shudders against Jane’s mouth, her tight pussy squeezing against Jane’s two fingers. The mattress groans when Lilya thumps into it and Jane crawls over the sweat-slick body of her lover, licking her fingers.
“I bet you were in the Glee Club,” Jane says. “Or maybe Drama Club. Somewhere where you learned to project like that.”
“Mmmm,” Lilya says noncommittally. “Maybe I was raised by ninja assassins.”
“Oh, baby,” Jane laughs, straddling Lilya’s waist. “I was raised by ninja assassins. You are a bona fide suburban brat. But that’s okay. I like you anyway.”
Lilya sticks her pretty pink tongue out at Jane. “How old are you anyway, little girl?” she asks. “And where did you learn to fuck?”
“I’m old enough, and some things are just natural gifts,” Jane says, watching Lilya’s breasts rise and fall, the nipples still peaked. “You look good right now.”
“I feel good,” Lilya says. “This is the kind of night I used to dream about when I was stuck in that hellhole ratass town I grew up in. Where I could be free.”
“And yourself?” Jane asks, aware of the fantasy.
“God, no,” Lilya says, lifting herself up until Jane is sitting in her lap, kissing her jaw, her chin, the corner of her mouth. “Why would I want to be her? I can be whoever I want to be. And tonight I get to be a girl ninja assassin.”
“A lesbian girl ninja assassin,” Jane teases.
“Yeah,” Lilya says blissfully, hands roaming over Jane’s back. “One who’s about to fuck your brains out.”
“I like who you are today,” Jane says hotly into Lilya’s ear, breathing hard as Lilya’s thumb comes across her clit.
“I like that you like her,” Lilya answers. “I think you’re going to like her more when she’s got you spread like jelly.”
Jane snickers. “You’re such a romantic.”
“Yeah,” Lilya breathes, nipping at Jane’s throat. “It’s a curse.”
* * *
When Lilah wakes up, naked and tangled in sex-stained sheets, Jane is gone. She doesn’t leave a note, nor does Lilah expect her to call.
There are a few marks — one on her left breasts, another just below her belly button, a great one on her right thigh — and Lilah’s back has that sweet ache that comes from being held one lick away from an orgasm for nearly fifteen minutes. Otherwise, you couldn’t even tell anyone had been here.
Her cellular phone rings, and Lilah pulls the thing out of her purse and notes it’s suddenly the size it’s supposed to be again.
“Hello?” she asks.
“Where are you?” her handler asks.
“A hotel in Kyiv.”
“Did you receive the package?” he asks. “Because if not…”
“I got it,” Lilah says. “And why are you calling me? I’ll see you when I see you, Comrade.”
She hangs up on him. Like she doesn’t know the meet-up is at seven at a casino. This guy’s just a moron. And she’s not going to tell him she already knows Nino’s dead. That would just get her in trouble, and Lilah doesn’t volunteer for that.
The phone rings again. “I told you–” she begins.
“Hey, baby,” Jane says. “Sorry I had to jet. Business.”
“It’s okay,” Lilah says, smiling. “It was fun. Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
Pause. “Maybe,” Jane says. “Anyway, thanks for the memories, kid.”
“No problem,” Lilah says, trying to be cool. This is the first time she’s ever felt this in control and sexy. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” says Jane. “Bye, baby. Good luck.”
Lilah, suddenly suspicious, immediately checks her bag. The item is still there and intact; her ass is covered. “Thanks. Good luck,” she says. “And, um…bye?”
Jane chuckles and hangs up. Lilah sighs and scratches her nose, her first real relationship with a woman over and done with.
It feels good. Both her scratched nose and the relationship. Maybe she can pull this life off.
After all, it’s all depending on who she can be today, and Lilah knows she can be anyone she has to be.