Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
Sam wasn't refined. Or maybe it was the seven sedate years when the hotel aged her up, before aging her back the fuck down, and she was tired of that shit now. So, yeah, no, she wasn't interested in being polite. She was back to jumping for the fun of it, and if she fell, well, she fucking fell. She'd always been about experiences, and she was finally getting that back. Distance helped, even if it didn't cure the itch when she needed a fix. But she was early in her needle days this round, and she didn't tweak hard yet. She was hoping to keep it like that, and maybe everyone could stop the constant worrying that always looked back at her from the eyes of people she gave a shit about.
But, yeah, no, boundaries weren't her thing. She closed her fingers around his, like holding onto people's hands was no big thing. And it wasn't. She wasn't trying to romance, seduce, marry, befriend. This was just who she was, the girl who jumped out of cars and grabbed for fingers without thinking. Fuck thinking, because all it did was make people think themselves out of everything.
She gave him a faux pout when he denied her his socks, but the knowledge in the grin said she had every surety that she could get the fucking socks if she wanted them. Like she had his number, and like she'd had it since the night he thought he was sleeping.
The bartender waved, and she hugged one of the waitresses, a girl her own age but with ebony eyes and hair the color of caramels. There was some whispering for a few seconds, mostly on the waitress' part, something about Juan, who was guapisimo. The Juan in question was motioned to, and he was playing the trombone in a guayabera. Cris got a once-over from the girl, and a wink before she was whisked onto the dance floor a second later, and Sam grinned up at her companion.
"Sit, or bailamos?" she asked, her expression making it clear that she was down for either.