Title: Permission Granted

Author: Elliott Silver (elliottsilver@hotmail.com)

Summary: Sometimes asking isn’t aloud.


You’d think I’d know better than to do something this rash.

You’d think I’d know better than to something so illegal.

Apparently not.

And so here I am, undeniably breaking and entering into Miss Parker’s guest quarters.

And why am I here, again? I don’t have the time to ponder those mysteries of the deep as I hear the

furious clicking of footsteps striding down the long hallway. Stuck with two seasick shipmates and trying

to catch me aboard a luxury liner, I’m not surprised to feel the aggression in her stride.

My instincts flare. I take up a position in the dark shadows, where I will be able to see her without her

seeing me.

The door crackles and swings open, then slams shut. She drops her Haliburton case with a resounding

thud, and without even looking, and falls back against the wooden frame of the door, her chin nearly resting

on her chest. For someone taking a luxury cruise, she doesn’t look too happy.

But no matter what, she is gorgeous, as always. She wears that black acetate suit like a second skin, a

tough exterior for Centre purposes and nefarious objectives.

A rind not even they can penetrate.

She flings herself away from the door in a swift sudden motion that startles me. As if displeased with

her weakness, her exhaustion, her frustration. She jerks the svelte well-cut blazer from her figure and

throws it over the couch on her way to the kitchenette.

Now all she has on is comprised of those sinisterly sexy knee-high black boots, a skirt just this side of

legal, and a camisole top held by marionette stings to her shoulders, in the palest of pale blue silk. Oh, and

as for accessories, well that silver Smith and Wesson 9mm in her back waistband packs plenty of star


You’d think …

Rash. Illegal.

Yeah, the Centre brought me up real well. What is this, a Quentin Tarantino movie?

Go figure.

She stalks into the kitchen and I can spot the Atlas-like weight on her shoulders. A line of glistening

sweat stains the spine of the – what do you even call *that* anyway, that little slip of fabric? One of the

tenuous straps falls over her upper arm and she does nothing to put it back. Does she even have a – no,

can’t think about that.

There are two different types of illegality. Mine is the first, she is the second. Of the two, simple

breaking and entering has to be the far less criminal. Mine doesn’t amount to instant insanity.

Hail Mary, full of grace – I don’t know any more, but save me. Please.

She reaches back and slips the gun into her hand, immediately ejects the clip and checks it, and then

rests the silver object on the center isle where it glitters precariously.

Am I in some kind of trouble here or what?

Then she reaches back again, this time for the zipper of her skirt.

Trouble? Not yet, but definitely soon.

The thin material slumps to her hips and then tumbles to the floor, where it lands with a soft whoosh of

air. She catches it with the toe of her boot and tosses it aside.

Now all she has on is the boots, the shirt, and the slinkiest sexiest singly most seductive pair of smooth

black microfiber bikinis I have ever seen.

Not that I have seen many, or any, actually. But I worked at Victoria’s Secret for a little stint. This is

why they are in business. So people like her can drive people like me completely out of our minds.

She reaches for the tops of the boots, and slides that long zipper down, down, down. One boot

disappears into the blackness, then the other.

She turns and her eyes – oh her eyes.

Absolute ultramarine.

Devastation. Destruction. Reconstruction.

Hail Mary –

Her eyes close in slow motion.

Oh so illegal.

Her body tenses and her eyes spring open, the eyes of a wary, but not really startled predator.

I think I just said that out loud.


So rash. So illegal.

I leave my shadows and stand before her. She is not surprised and doesn’t even make a move for the

gun. Even though she should be my prey, I think it is the other way around. Even though she has yet to turn

on a light, she knows who I am.

That alone exhilarates me.

And makes me realize she knew I was here the entire time.



"Permission to – " I break. Permission to what, I think? Permission to come aboard? Permission to

enter? Permission to die? Permission to touch her? To please just touch her.

She stares at me, but not in a bad way. That pale blue silk slides further down her arm.


To savor.

To be savored.

Not at all rash. And not so illegal, after all.

"Permission granted," she whispers.




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Disclaimer: The characters of "The Pretender" are not mine; they rightfully belong to NBC, MTM, and Pretender Productions, as well as the actors and actresses who give paper and ink a life and a voice. I am making no profit from these writings; imitation is the highest form of flattery.