Birds of California(33)
Sam laughs out loud, the sensation of it rumbling pleasantly down her legs. “How old are you, twelve?”
“Basically,” she admits.
Sam nods like that tracks. “Well,” he says, reaching up under her tank top and tugging at her nipple through the fabric of her bra, making her gasp. “Grow up.”
He boosts her onto the counter, then hooks his hands behind her knees and spreads her legs apart, stepping between them. Fiona winds her arms around his neck. She rocks herself against him, she can’t help it, like he’s a scratching post and she’s got an itch.
“Fiona,” Sam murmurs against her mouth. He’s hard, the length of him thick and hot and urgent even through three layers of clothing. “Come back to bed with me.”
Fiona hesitates. She wants to. Fuck, she wants to. And it’s not like she isn’t already imagining it—his fingers and his cock and his wet, clever tongue, those soft white sheets against her skin—but she can’t help but feel like she’d be giving something up in the process. Something she isn’t quite ready to lose.
“Tell you what,” she says, kissing him one more time before nudging him away and hopping down off the counter. “Let’s go out.”
“Okay.” Sam’s lips twitch, uncertain. “But that is . . . not the same thing as bed.”
“You’re right,” she says, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. She can see the question on his face—Is this a no for now, or is this a no forever?—and she wants to tell him it’s just a no for now, but she doesn’t know how to say the words. “But also, waffles.”
Sam looks at her for another long moment, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, still a little breathless. “I’ve got an audition, but after that.”
“An audition?” That makes her smile. She leans back against the fridge, raises her chin. “What for?”
Sam loops her arm around his waist, steps closer. “None of your business.”
“Oh, you want me to guess?” Fiona mimics. “Why didn’t you just say so?” She thinks for a moment, stroking an imaginary beard. “Hot male nanny on an intergenerational dramedy,” she suggests. “Hot client on a legal procedural. Hot corpse on a minor CSI franchise.”
“Aw, honey.” Sam gazes at her through his eyelashes. “You think I’m a hot corpse?”
“I think you’re the kind of person they cast as a hot corpse,” she corrects.
“Understood,” he says seriously, and kisses her again. “Anyway. Want to tag along? We can go get waffles after. Or, rather, you can get waffles and I can get a sensible yet tasty grain bowl.”
Fiona thinks about it. She can see the flecks of gold in his eyes from the sunlight coming in through the window above the sink. There’s a feeling in her chest she doesn’t entirely recognize, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s happiness. “Okay,” she says, her smile slow and not entirely voluntary. “Yes.”
Outside it’s a vintage postcard kind of morning, blue sky and not too hot yet, the air with that sandy desert bite. They stop by Coffee Bean for iced lattes and Sam puts Otis Redding on the stereo. Fiona opens her mouth to make fun of him—it’s just a reflex at this point; she actually loves Otis Redding—then closes it again. She trails her fingers through the breeze outside the window and hums along.
“Oh, PS,” Sam says, as they creep along Cahuenga in the direction of the 101, “not to be a weirdo, but this thing is on the UBC lot. Just to like, give you a heads-up.”
“Oh.” Fiona blinks. UBC is the parent company of the Family Network; the UBC lot is where they filmed Birds. Fiona hasn’t been anywhere near it in years and the thought of going back there fills her with an immediate, visceral panic, a hundred centipedes scuttling around inside her body. It was stupid of her not to ask. “Okay.”
“Sorry,” he says, glancing at her across the gearshift, “is that—”
“No,” she says quickly. “No, it’s fine.”
The UBC lot is an old-fashioned studio campus with an art deco sensibility, the newer buildings tarted up in glass and steel. She’s fully expecting the sight of it to freak her out in an deep and unbearable way and she can tell Sam is expecting it, too, the way he keeps looking over at her like he thinks she’s about to jump out of the car, rip all her clothes off, and start moonwalking naked across the concrete while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in pig latin. “I’m fine,” she informs him. “How are you, are you nervous?”
“Nah.” Sam shakes his head.
“Just that cool, huh?”
“Just that cool.” He pulls into a spot in the visitor lot and slaps his parking pass on the dashboard, checks his teeth in the rearview mirror, then turns to look at her. “You gonna kiss me for luck, or what?”
Fiona considers that. “Yes,” she decides, then grabs him by the scruff of his neck and lays one on him.
Sam winks. “We call that a Kenosha send-off,” he tells her, touching a hand to an imaginary cap before opening the driver’s side door. “See you later, doll.”
“Oh my god, you absolute turd!” Fiona calls after him, but she’s laughing. She hopes they cast him as the hot murder suspect whose alibi checks out after the second commercial break, or whatever the fuck he’s auditioning for in there.