Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
Sam was used to life in a hotel yeah? Swap out gold for red, and this shit was a lot like the Aria. The Aria suite was two floors or whatever, with a pretentious fucking staircase, but otherwise it was the same shit. Life in a hotel was different from life in a house. Maids came every day, and nothing was really personal, and no one ever used the fucking kitchen. No roots, and they ordered from the hotel every fucking day, and it was cash that just poured out of Neil's bank account like water. For all of Sam's barrio upbringing, she'd gotten used to that shit. Just like she'd gotten used to asking Neil to pay for anything she needed, and that was a habit she needed to fucking break. But she was used to this root-less existence, and she was used to bouncing around. Cris' brownstone was something completely fucking foreign at this point, and she knew that was reversed from normal people, yeah?
So, yeah, the penthouse was normal for her, and she didn't realize he was looking around the room and trying to find her in the opulent and bloated decor. She was looking up when he started tearing buttons off his shirt, and she drew back with concern, wondering what the fuck she'd done.
Then she noticed the blood spray on that pale blue, just as he slipped his arms free of the fabric. The vest made her breath catch, because that shit made things real, and it made things dangerous. Yeah, ok, so Neil told her Mi- Micah was dead, but that was just a name until now, and that remembering screeched back in her skull. Like bees buzzing, and she shook her head, and she shook her head. He was on his knees then, yeah? And she didn't notice how he was fucking up the carpet.
She started crying, and she had no fucking clue why, because she couldn't feel anything. Even the fear that had gripped her was like a thing felt from the bottom of a really deep sea, and ache was up there at the surface, and she couldn't fucking reach. She knew she was scared, and she shook, and she cried, but fuck if she felt it. His fingers were in her hair, and at least that hist was real. His fingertips were fucking real, and she let him pull her onto his lap without any fucking resistance. It was all muscle reaction, trembling and her arms under his armpits to cling up at his shoulders from behind when he tucked her head against his throat.
She watched as he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, and she turned her palm over and curled her fingers against his lips, knuckles curled against his mouth and she could feel breath against her skin. It was slow, the movement, and the drag upward of blown inky blue was slow too. "¿Qué pasó?" She reached past him as she asked, stretch without moving from where she was on his lap, her fingers reaching for bloodstained blue, for that heavy vest, for something that might fill in the fucking blanks of this numb panic she knew was coursing through her veins like tar.