Damon Baird couldn't believe his eyes.
Samantha Byrne, the bane of his very existence, the loudest, crudest, crassest, most bitchy woman on Sera was lying on his bed, glazy brown eyes gazing at him with a lopsided grin, the conspiratorial kind that the blond didn't like. That look meant trouble, especially considering that he could smell Dizzy's piss-colored moonshine on her breath….while standing ten feet away. She leaned on her side, elbow propped up on the mattress. Her shirt was open, revealing a modest-but-still-none of-his-business bra which caused his cheeks to flush, more for her sake than his own.
"Hi," she purred, flipping her bangs from her face, batting her dark lashes for effect.
Baird was livid. How the fuck did she even get in here?
"Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" the blond asked dryly, attempting to regain his composer after what could be called the surprise of his life. Baird didn't think the woman was lucid enough to notice the color in his cheeks, but for some reason his felt obliged to sound cool and collected to make up for it. This was Sam after all.
But she was completely shit-faced. Baird could tell by the way she'd started rolling around the bed, slowly, for his….benefit? He felt sick.
"You like?" Sam arched a perfectly shaped brow, biting her bottom lip. Baird guessed she was referring to her tits, which were on full display now as she lay on her stomach.
He wrinkled his nose before turning away to stick his head outside into the hallway. The coast was clear. He shut the door and locked it. "Can I help you in any way?" He decided to ignore her question entirely.
Sam giggled at that. "Can you…" She placed her first finger on her lips, lost in thought. "Yeah Blondie, I can think of quite a few ways…" She was slurring her words just slightly. Baird was mortified.
"Sorry sweetheart, but you couldn't pay me," Baird pretended to look sorry as she pouted. He was an asshole, yes, but taking advantage of an intoxicated woman wasn't something he could live with. Not even if one broke into his private living quarters and practically begged him to. He had standards.
But, this was Sam. Samantha Byrne wasn't your typical female. She didn't have that sensitive girly side like other women. She was the kind that tried every waking minute to one-up the men, out swear them, out drink them, be faster, stronger, and took immense pride in the times that she succeeded, which were too frequent for Baird's liking. Come to think of it, she'd nearly out-smarted him on one-too-many occasions….
And here she was, ready to make an ass of herself. Baird couldn't resist. He had his reputation, after all.
He wasn't going to actually do her, the very thought made him ill. No, he'd let her think so after she was sober again, though. Her and everyone else.
It was the perfect plan.
Now that he thought of it, the timing was pretty good too. Sam had been…different towards him lately. Yeah, the Locust/Lambent problem was over, so of course, everyone was happier than usual, friendlier. But ever since he'd been stupid enough to "open up" to her after he'd learned of Dom's passing, she acted like they were friends or something. Yeah, right.
The thing is, Baird wasn't proud that his heart had softened for a millisecond when he'd seen that look on her face. Hell, he'd felt like something had been torn out of his chest after hearing that news. He'd figured it was the right thing to do, comfort a grieving comrade in arms. Keep morale up, all that touchy-felly shit he really wasn't good at. The only damn thing he wasn't any good at. He couldn't help but notice that Sam had taken his offering as something…more. Now she decides to be a girl.
But this was his way out of it. He'd make her think that he was a bastard (which he was, but in a different way) and she'd stay away for good. And he'd be able to sleep at night.
But was that what he really wanted? Baird found himself sitting across from Sam, taking a quick look at her tanned legs, which seemed to go on and on. She was wearing short black boxer shorts, the kind he'd seen her work out in.
"So, whaddya say?" Sam reached out to touch Baird's stubbled cheek. She'd almost made it before he took her soft hand in his calloused one.
"I'd say you're pretty wasted. You know how I can tell?" He tried really hard to sound interested. "Not because you're acting like a slut, that's nothing new, but because you keep trying to touch me."
As he spoke Sam tried three more times to brush her fingers over his jaw line, squinting with the effort it took to keep her gaze fixed on one Blondie. There were three Blondies too many.
"Hell, you've nearly punched me for looking at you," he continued, more to himself now. He must've inadvertently loosened his grip on her a bit, because she'd successfully pulled free and took his face in her hands.
"You….talk t-too much Blondie Bear," Sam scolded, shaking her head.
"Blondie Bear?" Baird almost smirked. He would've, if his stomach wasn't churning.
"Uh huh," she nodded. "Why can't you be cuddly, like a…," she trailed off, forgetting what she wanted to say.
"A teddy bear?" Baird offered. He kind of did want to see where she was going with this.
Sam's face lit up again, expression reading: 'Yeah, that's it!' She nodded, but in a sad sort of way. Baird frowned.
"It's like….you can't make up your mind…or something," she sighed, taking Baird off-guard. Her voice was off and her gaze was a tad foggy, but her words were clear and concise, almost more-so than when she was sober. She let her arms droop.
"Yes or no?" she asked earnestly.
"Yes or no, what?" Baird just wanted to hear the words come from her; he knew what she was asking. Yeah it was cruel and a little shallow but he still wanted to hear it. Wait, why did he want to hear it?
What the hell am I doing?
Why hadn't he thrown her out of here already? Did he really care what she had to say? The stupid bitch was sitting on his bed half naked, whatever self-respect she had (which wasn't much in Baird's humble opinion) slowly slipping away. Maybe that was it; did he really feel sorry for Samantha Byrne?
He guessed so, considering it didn't take a genius to see this was kind of all his fault. He grimaced inwardly. Maybe if he hadn't acted like a total gay bird this wouldn't be happening.
But none of that mattered now, because Sam was passed out unceremoniously across his bed, her arm draped over his lap.
Just. Fuckin. Perfect.
Now what could he do? No way could she stay here. What if someone saw them, together? He couldn't call anyone to take her, who would come? Baird had no clue where Anya was—most likely with Marcus—Dizzy was no doubt worse off than his south-island drinking pal…
But he couldn't exactly carry her out either. Why, so everyone could gawk at such a sweet gesture? Please. No, no, he had to think of something else. A darker part of Baird's psyche tried to convince him that he could make it look like an accident, but he ignored that by scoffing out loud. He knew deep down he could never really hurt Samantha Byrne. The whole world was hurting; it had been for a hell of a long time. What good could more pain possibly bring?
Baird shook his head wildly. Shut your dumb-ass mouth and think!
There was really only one solution: Sam would have to spend the night.