Rose Byrne: XXX-Men
Goddess Undercover
It was a long way from Balmain, the Las Vegas lights flashing in the night and reflecting off the dark exterior of the 1962 Lincoln sedan as it pulled up to the curb. The pair inside glanced around nervously, watching as clusters of strangers strolled by on the sidewalk and across the front of the car, some looking inside and openly staring at the beautiful brunette in the passenger's seat.
Mary Rose Byrne took a deep breath and forced herself not to look at the small cameras mounted on the rearview mirror, dashboard, and driver's side door. Nor did she acknowledge the second, more modern, car that pulled in behind them, the passenger holding up a much larger camera to film them through the back window.
"I just don't get it," she said, an American accent disguising her Sydney, Australia roots. "Communists in Vegas? It just doesn't add up."
"Maybe they took a wrong turn on the way to Hollywood," her partner said, rubbing his crotch while he studied her pretty brown eyes. "You know those dirty liberal types."
"Maybe," Rose said, holding back a sneer. She had agreed to star in this little art film for about two million dollars, assuming that if the so-called filmmakers could afford both her and January Jones then they would also have a decent script for her to work with. Obviously the powers that be had decided to go another way, leaving her and her co-stars to adlib based on what they could remember from a recent screening of
First Class
. "Or there could be something else going on here that the CIA isn't aware of. Something sinister."
She put her camera down and pulled off her fashionable coat. It was late June, rather warm this time of year in Vegas, but in the movie it was supposed to be mid-October, mere days before the outbreak of the Cuban Missile Crisis.
"What in the hell are you doing?" her partner asked, watching as she pulled off her blouse to reveal a black bra. His pants began to tent as he contemplated the joy about to come.
"I'm going inside," Rose answered, watching as across the street a bevy of hookers and pornstars strutted toward the club. "It's what the Agency pays me the big bucks for."
She slid out of her snug trousers, slipping them off over her pumps before tossing them into the backseat. She was wearing hose and garters underneath, making her look more like a lingerie model than a CIA agent out hunting the Red Menace.
"No," her partner said. A man chosen because he had a nice juicy cock to play with, his acting was less than convincing. "I won't allow it."
Rose turned to regard him, almost hearing the cheesy porno music that often accompanied scenes like this.
"I wasn't asking for permission."