Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
His expression didn't immediately turn pitying, which was awesome. She was too used to people looking at her like they were worried always. Like being concerned just oozed out of their pores around her. And, ok, so maybe they had reason to, now and in the past, but that didn't mean she liked it. She hated it, and that was the hard part about going home or whatever, was that desire to be the stupid idiot girl she'd been then, perpetually complaining about wanting a place in the bigger world. And what had the bigger world gotten her? Shit, that was what.
"Girls are women at fifteen or whatever," she said, quoting old Cuban belief, shit from the island that the mainland didn't quite buy. But it was common enough, and no one batted a fucking eyelash in Al's family. No, she was a serious upgrade. Pale skin and eyes, and young as fuck, and the fact that she was trash with dirty feet didn't matter as much as the possibility of kids with lighter skin and hair did. But he was right that it wasn't an American take on shit, but she left it at that. It was enough, and if they kept talking, she wouldn't be able to hide anything anyway. But for now? Yeah.
Twenty-three, to be specific. She'd turned twenty-one in Vegas, and she should be twenty-three, even if she hadn't celebrated a birthday in forever. "You look like you'd fucking laugh when you moved the furniture, papi," she said. She had his number, remember?
He cleared his throat, and she laughed a knowing laugh. Harlot lips and gapped teeth and a smile that said she was as corrupt as she was innocent. She moved back, and she grabbed his hand and yanked toward the bar's stools.