Fuck roses.
Some gifts I can understand. Like Chanel. Louis. Dior. Like that. A spicy closet for a spicy gal, and I'm spicier than Tabasco on pepper. As is the vintage red satin Versace dress I'm wearing tonight. And why, you may wonder, have I chosen to grace Bon Temps with this level of fashion? Mama has a date. But no vaguely European obstetricians for me, not tonight. More like a vaguely dominant baby vamp with anger issues and suicidal tendencies. Might work.
Might not. Either way she brought roses. Fuck roses. See the thing about roses is, dramatic pause, they die. In the sun, in the rain, in water, in soil, they die. What's the fucking point. But she's young, and therefore stupid. And it ain't like anyone else has brought me roses in the last century, so I suppose I have a tolerance. A slight tolerance.
I could feel her eyes on the back of my head as I tried to figure out what to do with the bouquet. Of course, it made fuck all difference what I did with them, but I guessed certain placements would seem less tartthan others, since I had an audience and all. Tara stood at the entrance to my little kitchen, completely quiet. Now I'm all for the less talking, more doing approach, but apparently it wasn't that kind of party. Pity, but I do find Tara's banter entertaining, and I refused to die the true death by boredom alone.
Flowers in vase, water in vase, done. Swivel and smirk.
"Don't waste another minute telling me how beautiful I look Tara, I'm well aware," I say, giving her a grand opportunity for a comeback about how I look better than when that witch bitch melted my face.
"You're stunning Pam," Tara smiled, holding my gaze, "but you're well aware," she added with a wink. No real comeback, and a half-assed compliment. I couldn't help but roll my eyes.
Tara caught it, chuckled, and let her eyes roam over my body. "Versace, circa 1500?",she asked, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
"Funny," I answer, "Circa 1978, the original collection, be honored," I drawl slowly, " and read a history book, they don't bite, but I do," I add, almost seriously. She can joke about my age to her heart's content, but Versace must be respected.
"Hate to break it to ya Pam, but I highly doubt the debut of the 'original collection' is present in any self-respecting history book," Tara said, mimicking my signature drawl. Cute.
But I don't say that. I just shoot her an "I'm dying of boredom" death stare, and say, "If this is your idea of a first date, I'm gonna have to start dating girls my own age".
"Actually, I think you'll like my idea of a first date," she said, every trace of her previous playfulness gone, "but if you don't, let me know, okay?", she finished, taking my hand and leading us out of the kitchen and through the front door.
"HELLO, my name is Pam, shy Sally never lived on my side of town. Honey, you'll know," I said, contemplating whether to let Tara hold my hand or not. Deciding against it, I slipped my hand out of hers, and followed that movement with a look that stopped her from asking why.
The sky was clear, and the moon was bright. The most peaceful night I'd seen since Billith Fucking Compton met the true death. Hell, we all almost met the true death that night. But wasn't the time nor the place to think about that. I politely sent Bill another beyond the grave "Fuck You", and turned my attention back to Tara, who was once again silent. She'd done well, these past few weeks. If I were the domestic type I'd say I was proud of her. She was strong for her age, and fear was a stranger to her. But even fearlessness has its limit, and foolhardy often became a more accurate description. And it pissed me off. Because if I lost Tara, I'd be forced to adopt the Little Red Riding Cheetoh, spawn of Billith.
"What's so funny?", Tara asked, and I realized I'd chuckled aloud at my Jessica joke. "Nothing," I said flatly, noting the slight disappointment in her eyes, before adding, "Firecrotch crossed my mind," with a smirk. Tara smiled, and said, "The poor girl can't catch a break with you," knowing whatever I was thinking wasn't exactly cordial.
We'd been walking for a while, and I hadn't worn Versace for a workout. At least not this sort of workout. Just as I was about to place my suggestions in the suggestion box called Tara's ear, Merlotte's came into view, and I didn't even attempt to suppress the groan escaping my throat. I'd worn vintage to sit among drunken rednecks.
Tara looked over at me, let out a somewhat...nervous chuckle, and said,"Don't knock it yet, Pam," quickening her pace, and leaving me to follow behind her. I huffed in faux exasperation, slightly enjoying Tara's obvious unease at the idea of me not enjoying our first date. And more so enjoying the view of Tara from behind. She'd chosen a gentle heather grey straight-leg pant with a cream top tucked in, with a matching belt around her slender waist, which peeked out from under a tight two-button cream blazer. To top it off, she wore a pair of pumps even I would consider borrowing. The outfit was somehow simultaneously hugging and flowing loosly around her curves, men's inspired but oh so feminine. Not a look just anyone could pull off, but Tara managed it with a sort of quiet confidence that left me somewhat impressed.
Tara had reached Merlotte's front door and had begun to open it, glancing back at me, arching her brow in curiosity. I realized my own was arched, I supposed it had been since I'd begun to watch Tara walk. I smirked at having been caught, and sauntered into the room as Tara held the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to see the place was devoid of redneck. In fact, it was completely empty, save for the quartet playing a low, sultry jazz tune in the far corner. The lights were dimmed and tinted violet, and the spicy soft scent of cinnamon flowed past my nose.
This was fucking romance.
The other corner of my mouth had risen to join its twin, turning my smirk into a smile I hadn't anticipated. I quelled it almost immediately, refusing to let my guard slip so easily. I'm Pam Fucking Swynford de Fucking Beaufort, hundred year old killer, not some soft little bitch dumbstruck by a taste of romance. A lone rose lay on the only remaining table on the floor, and I audibly growled at it. What was it with her and the fucking useless roses? And why the fuck did I even agree to attend this fucking date? I don't date. I eat, I fuck, I kill. I don't fucking date.
I turned back and shoved my way past Tara, fighting the urge to leave altogether, and mumbling something about having to powder my nose. Tara had attempted to say something, but I'd closed the door to the ladies room before she had a proper chance. I needed to get my head on straight. I'd gone too quickly from happy to pissed the fuck off, a problem I hadn't had since my human years. I'd spent too many of the last hundred years becoming who I am, who I was always meant to be. Strong, snarky, saucy, sexy, smooth. Wasn't going to lose that now, for the sake of a little romance. Suddenly I felt a tiny, but sharp tinge of pain seep through the bond. It knocked me out of my thoughts, and I realized then that someone was going to get hurt in this relationship, but it damn sure wasn't going to be me.
Best if I end this before it starts. And have a little fun while I'm at it.
Already wearing my fuck'em dress, I put on a smirk to match, and sauntered back into the main room.