"Are you going to tell me what you and the Hound talked about?"
Arms crossed and foot tapping, Arya leaned against the doorway of the bathroom she and Sansa shared. She hadn't changed into her pajamas yet, and her hair was still a wild nest of teased hair.
What had she and the Hound—no, Sandor—talked about? Beyond introducing themselves, their conversation had consisted mostly of sexual innuendos on his part and an embarrassed silence on hers. Sansa's cheeks flushed at the thought.
"Nothing." Sansa pulled her hair back into a neon green scrunchie. She wasn't exactly lying to her sister, per se. She was just excluding a majority of the details. They were inconsequential anyway.
"You didn't talk about nothing with him! Clearly, Gendry and I were interrupting a moment between the two of you. Tell me what he said!"
On the car ride home, Gendry and Arya had squealed and gushed about their backstage experience that was swiftly eclipsed by the invitation to Cannibal Star's band practice. The two of them rehashed the evening's events and planned what to wear to the practice.
In the backseat, Sansa too had ruminated on the events of the evening, but in the solitude of her own mind. To remember the things Sandor had said to her was mortifying. Had Joffrey or anyone else been so brazen, Sansa would have likely been scandalized and thoroughly offended. However, she couldn't help the lingering butterflies that fluttered at the thought of his words and the way he had looked at her.
She felt light headed, and although she hated to admit it, perhaps a bit giddy too. Her silence had drawn Gendry and Arya's attention when they all at once remembered Sansa had been outside and alone with the Hound. A deluge of questions poured from the front seat then as Arya and Gendry each, in turn, grilled her. What did he say? What did you say? What was he like? Why was he holding your hand? Why were you looking at him like that? Were you about to kiss him? Why didn't you let him kiss you?
Sansa had remained tight-lipped about the whole thing and merely glazed over their questions with one-word answers or a shrug of her shoulders. Truth be told, there wasn't much to tell. Regardless, the questions got her mind spinning as she pondered the answers.
He said I was a hell of a lot cuter than Tiffany and that he wouldn't stop me if I wanted to roll around on the hood of his car. I said he was vile. He was crude and inappropriate. He held my hand because neither of us made the move to pull away. I wouldn't have kissed him first, no. Was he about to kiss me? And would I have let him?
Those questions remained unanswered for now. Sansa doubted he would have kissed her, and even if he did, it would have been awkward. She didn't even know the guy, and she certainly wasn't the type of girl who just kissed random men from metal bands. Yes. Awkward. I wouldn't have let him kiss me.
Sansa splashed her face with tepid water and scrubbed off her makeup. Arya loitered in the doorway.
"Will you at least come to the band practice with Gendry and I?" Arya begged. It seemed this was the singular question she wanted answered tonight.
After toweling off her face and pulling her hair free of the scrunchie, Sansa turned towards her sister who looked expectantly at her, lip pouted in a ridiculous fashion.
"When is it?" The fluttering reemerged unexpectedly.
"Tuesday at 7pm, downtown. Gendry can take us."
Sansa perused her planned engagements for the coming days in her head. There was the Tri Delta homecoming committee meeting, which she promised Margaery she would be at. Beyond that, the beginning of her week was more or less open.
Despite her hair sticking up in all directions and eyeliner smeared across her eyelids, Arya was hard to say no to in this moment.
"Fine. I'll go." Sansa flicked off the bathroom light and pushed past Arya.
"Aha! I knew it! Something happened between you and the Hound. This was a trap, you see. You would never in a million years say yes otherwise. Tell me what happened!"
Arya skipped down the hall after Sansa, content to continue the tortuous nagging of details.
"Nothing happened, Arya," Sansa groaned. "I talked to the guy. That was all. I introduced myself, I shook his hand, he shook mine, and that was it. You're totally blowing this out of proportion."
Arya was quick on Sansa's heels into the room they also shared. It was seemingly divided down the middle. Sansa's side was decorated in soft pastels, and her clothes were neatly organized in drawers with her makeup and hair accessories situated in orderly rows on top of her dresser. Arya's side was a disaster, and had once been the same color as Sansa's until she plastered over the walls with posters of metal bands, one of which happened to be Cannibal Star. Now that Sansa noticed the poster, she couldn't stop looking at it, or rather Sandor, in particular. Arya must have followed Sansa's eyes, although she could have sworn the glance was fleeting.
"Oh this is rich! Would you like me to hang it above your bed?" Arya taunted before pretending to faint on her own bed. "And then you can stare at it all night long. 'Oh, Hound! Kiss me, my Hound.'" Arya pulled a pillow to her face and obnoxiously emulated kissing sounds.
"Good night, Arya," Sansa replied with finality. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
She waited until she heard Arya retreat to the bathroom before peeking out from under the covers. Curiosity pulled her stare towards the poster. On the far left, Sandor stood with his band members, a serious scowl on his face and the muscles of his chest and abdomen visible despite the leather vest he wore. His scars were visible as well, and Sansa imagined what they might feel like.
Sandor wasn't particularly handsome, not in the traditional sense at least. He didn't possess the delicate facial symmetry as many of the other boys she knew did. In fact, all symmetry was lost due to his scars, which were hideous in their own right. However, he was strong, built like a Roman god, and there was something intriguing about his bluntness, the way he said what he meant and meant what he said.
The sink shut off in the bathroom and Sansa switched off the bed side lamp and turned away from Arya's side of the room and the poster of Cannibal Star. Maybe I would have let him kiss me…
With that thought, Sansa closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.
The weekend dissolved away as they always did—consumed by massive amounts of homework and the occasional social outing in between. As a sophomore in the pre-vet program at Northwestern, Sansa couldn't afford to fall behind and relinquish her dreams of attending veterinary school.
With those thoughts fueling her studying, Sansa had flicked on her Purple Rain tape, spread out on her bed, and powered through the assignments she delegated for the weekend. It left little time for socializing though, and Sansa couldn't help but let her eyes drift now and then towards the Cannibal Star poster above Arya's bed as she studied.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Sansa made it to the third floor of the University Center, out of breath and wheezing despite being in decent physical shape. Any day now, the Jane Fonda workout tapes Margaery insisted Sansa do with her would pay off. As she approached the meeting room, Sansa checked her bright pink swatch for the millionth time. She was late. Not by a few minutes where she could slip in and go unnoticed as her sorority sisters swapped the latest gossip from their weekend outings. She was massively late.
After picking Bran up from baseball practice and dropping him off at home, Sansa had rushed to get back on campus before the homecoming committee meeting started. She would have been on time except the hunk of junk 1972 Volvo she drove had given her trouble, the engine refusing to turn over until it was good and ready. It hadn't been good and ready until Sansa was already running five minutes behind.
Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa quietly eased into the meeting room. Margaery lectured at the front of the room, but her eyes flickered towards Sansa who sunk into a chair at the end of the long table.
"This year we're paired with Sigma Chi." Margaery's brown curls framed her heart-shaped face and her lips curled into her distinctive smile. "The boys will give each of us a white rose, and in return, we'll give them pansies, seeing as how these are our respective flowers."
Sansa pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from her bag. If she was going to be late, she could at least take notes to save face. Margaery was a senior, and as president of the sorority, already grooming Sansa to be her successor, although Sansa thought Dany was better suited for the position than she was.
"Myranda and I were thinking 'Pretty in Pink' should be the theme this year." Margaery's announcement elicited squeals from all the girls. "Everything will be decorated in shades of pink, and all the girls will have to wear pink along with a strand of pearls. We have to start busting ass to get the decorations done. I'm passing around a sign-up sheet. I want each of you to sign up for a weekend where you'll be on decorations duty. No socializing, no studying. Just decorations."
Sansa groaned internally. While she enjoyed being in a sorority, she wondered where the other girls found time to dedicate entire weekends to making decorations or planning events. Margaery studied interior design, a pursuit she would promptly drop as soon as she landed a rich husband. Beyond that, she was a socialite. Her education was more of a placeholder until she had a ring on her finger.
Eventually, Margaery's voice droned in the background as Sansa doodled mindless shapes on her blank sheet of paper.
"…we want it to be elegant, but fun..." she heard against the backdrop of her thoughts.
With her head stuck in books over the weekend, Sansa had been able to stave off the tiny, meandering thoughts that had slowly crept towards the front of her mind.
'If you ever want to roll around on the hood of my mustang in a skimpy dress, I wouldn't exactly stop you.'
She had actually laughed at that and so had he. She knew hardly anything about him beyond his name, the type of car he drove, and that he was in a band. With such little information, why was he invading her thoughts in these quiet moments? There was something about him, but Sansa couldn't quite put her finger on it. She would never in a million years go for a guy like him. Never. So why on earth couldn't she just forget about it?
"…her cousin said he would DJ, but I really think I'd rather have the guy Arianne knows…"
Margaery never quite mastered when to take a breath and let others speak. Sansa counted the girl as one of her dearest friends, but she wasn't in the mood for this. Weeks ago, she had been ecstatic at being included in the homecoming planning committee. Now…well, now it just seemed tedious.
The white noise of Margaery's voice dropped off, and when Sansa lifted her gaze, she found all eyes on her.
"Sansa, are you listening?" Margaery hands covered her hips and her head cocked to the side, lips pursed.
"Of course. Pink, Arianne's DJ, elegant and fun." Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat, certain she missed something. That was all but confirmed as Mya gave a small shake of her head.
"Tomorrow night we're going to Oak Brook to look for our dresses," Margaery sighed and rolled her eyes. "Will you be joining us?"
Although this was an impromptu shopping trip, Sansa knew she shouldn't refuse. She was supposed to see him again tomorrow night. It hadn't been an invitation in the traditional sense, but he had effectually declared he wanted to see her at his band's practice. Sansa doubted Sandor would turn Arya away if she showed up sans sister, but Arya would be disappointed if Sansa bailed on her.
All eyes were on her once more as Sansa continued the debate in her own mind. She had already been late to the meeting, and it was now clear she had hardly listened throughout the rest of it. You're in no position to refuse. You didn't exactly accept Sandor's offer. You already did Arya a favor by going to the concert with her. She'll just have to get over it.
The matter was settled, but a tinge of disappointment rippled through her.
"Well?" Margaery pressed.
Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but words didn't quite come. "I can't!" she finally blurted out against all reason. "I have something else going on."
Despite Margaery's smile, Sansa could tell the girl was disappointed, both as her friend and as the president of the sorority. Stupid, Sansa! Stupid. And for what? To watch some crude metalhead at his band practice? She already regretted the decision.
"What else do you have going on?" Jeyne pressed. It had nothing to do with innocent curiosity. Sansa bit her lip and leveled irritated eyes at Jeyne.
"Just a thing," she responded, perhaps a bit too curtly. If the girls weren't interested before, they were now, as the rest of them stared at Sansa.
"If it's 'just a thing' then tell us," Arianne probed with a wicked smile. Of all the girls, of course she'd be the one to belabor the issue, probably having somehow sniffed out that this had something to do with a man.
Sansa steadied her voice. "I'm hanging out with my sister." Heat crept across her cheeks and down her neck. She wasn't exactly lying. She would be hanging out with Arya. And Gendry. And Sandor too.
"Yeah, I'm so sure!" Jeyne huffed. "You never hang out willingly with your sister."
Having known Jeyne all her life, Sansa should have guessed she'd be the one to call her out. It wasn't until Sansa left for college that she and Jeyne had stopped with the merciless rotation of snarky nicknames for Arya. Despite being one of her oldest friends, Jeyne had a real talent for being a pain in the ass sometimes.
"Can we just drop it?" Sansa groaned.
"Is this about Joff?" Margaery prodded. "Sansa, I thought we all agreed that he was terrible for you."
It was true. Sansa had gotten an earful from every last one of her sorority sisters after her last spat with Joffrey. The bruise across her cheek administered by Boros had faded away, but the events leading up to it still resonated with her.
"It's not about Joff!" Sansa snapped. She was exhausted by people suggesting she was still hung up on him and treating her like she was some fragile thing.
He was controlling and jealous by nature, absurd considering Sansa knew very well he had been with other girls while they were still together. He was arrogant, sadistic, and manipulative. She could not wrap her head around why anyone would consider her stupid enough to actually mourn the end of that relationship.
Margaery adjourned the meeting. The other girls chattered gleefully about the homecoming mixer with Sigma Chi and gathered their belongings. One by one, they filed out of the room.
Sansa tucked her doodled sheet of paper into her bag along with her pencil and stood from her chair. The room cleared, save for her and Margaery. She half-expected to hear an earful about being late and skipping out on dress shopping. It wasn't as if Margaery Tyrell ever got cross with someone, but she had a way of conveying disappointment with a smile still gracing her lips.
"Don't forget to sign up for a decorations shift." Margaery handed Sansa the clipboard.
Only two weekends were open. The others had filled up already. Sansa scribbled her name down and committed the date to memory. She'd write it down later.
Together, the two girls retreated from the room and descended the stairs of the University Center.
"Are you alright?" Margaery inquired after silence stretched between them. Her question didn't probe, but instead Sansa deciphered concern in the girl's voice.
"I'm fine," she assured. They headed outside and towards the parking lot. "I'm sorry for being late. And sorry I can't make it tomorrow."
"No need to apologize." Margaery offered a warm smile. "When you do go shopping for your dress, I'll go with you, and then we can catch up."
Sansa returned the smile and relief broke through the tension. "I'd like that. School's totally sucked lately. I could use the break."
Fumbling for her keys in her purse, Sansa stopped at her car and lifted her eyes to Margaery, ready to bid the girl goodnight, but instead found her smiling devilishly in return.
"I have the scoop on something, but you can't tell anyone I told you this," Margaery gushed and lowered her voice. "At Loras' birthday party, Harold Hardyng asked Myranda if it was true that you and Joff split. After she told him you two were done, he said 'That's good news,' smiled, and then he walked away. I think he's planning on asking you out!"
Margaery squealed and gave a little bounce as she waited for Sansa to respond.
Tall, with thick waves of sandy brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Harold Hardyng was undeniably handsome. Even before she and Joffrey broke up, Sansa had caught him cutting leering looks at her during various Sigma Chi events. He was in the same fraternity as Joff, and Sansa often wondered how her then-boyfriend never noticed Harry checking her out. Or maybe Joffrey had noticed but didn't care as he preoccupied himself with hitting on her sorority sisters.
"Well don't look too excited or anything!" Margaery giggled. "He's gorgeous, and his family is loaded to boot!"
It was true. Harry was a trust fund baby and hailed from high-society, much like Margaery. His father was a genius when it came to investments. Harry was set up for life. Everyone knew. Prior to dating Joffrey, Sansa would have been thrilled to have caught the eye of someone like Harry. In fact, she had caught the eye of someone like Harry. She caught Joffrey's eye and foolishly believed she'd found exactly what she wanted. Her dreams had been dashed, as Joffrey turned out to be a royal prick.
Sansa's brow furrowed and she shook her head. "I don't know how I feel about dating another guy from our circle. I'm sort of over it, you know? I think I just want to be single for awhile."
"I understand," Margaery shrugged. "He won't be on the market for long though, Sansa. I'd jump at the chance if I were you."
Margaery pulled Sansa in for a hug and waved goodbye as she headed for her BMW.
Sansa climbed into the old Volvo and said a little prayer before turning the engine. The heavens must have been listening. The car fired up with no coaxing. As she drove home, Sansa made yet another mental note to have the car looked at and sometime soon.
"The timing belt is shot," Sandor informed the old woman flatly. She had been a customer for years at the auto repair shop he worked at and for years he had been telling her to get her fucking timing belt replaced before it crapped out. The woman's older model Buick LeSabre was a pile of junk at this point, totaled all because she was a stubborn old broad.
With mistrustful eyes, the old woman bristled and glared at Sandor, whose shift ended fifteen minutes ago. His eyes flickered towards the clock and his jaw clenched as he sucked in a deep breath. He didn't mind working late and certainly didn't complain about the extra boost to his paycheck. However, he hated being late regardless of the engagement that occupied his schedule. Today it was band practice.
Sensing his rising annoyance, Barristan patted him on the back.
"I'll take care of it," he murmured and pushed past Sandor. The old man rested his palms on the front counter. "Mrs. Harris, Sandor is one of my best mechanics. If he says the timing belt is shot, then the timing belt is shot."
Sandor slipped away as the old broad argued with his boss and the owner of the shop. Sandor snorted a laugh and snatched up his jacket and bike helmet. Better him than me.
Barristan Selmy had the patience of a saint. He'd owned the shop for as long as Sandor could remember. The man even tolerated Sandor's intermittent leaves when he went on tour. Certain he wouldn't have a job when he returned to Chicago, Sandor was always surprised that Barristan allowed him to pick up shifts. 'A mechanic with your skill and expertise is worth three of these mediocre guys I've got working for me,' was the man's reasoning. Sandor wasn't one to argue that point, but gratefully picked up whatever shifts he could.
In the bathroom, he washed as much grease off his hands as he could with a perfunctory rinse. The rest would have to remain along with the smudges on his face. He didn't have time to wash it off, and even if he did, he didn't give a shit. Now twenty minutes behind schedule, he threw on his black leather jacket and pushed through the back door of the shop.
Outside, the sun settled near the horizon as he strapped on his helmet and climbed on the back of his Harley. For mid-September, the air held a decided chill, the promise of an early fall.
Rush-hour should have been long over, but navigating the streets of downtown Chicago turned into a royal pain in the ass. The practice spot was a mere eight miles from Selmy's auto shop and yet the drive took damn near a half hour as Sandor hit every stoplight along the way.
He flew into the parking lot behind the practice spot and noticed Beric and Thoros' cars already there.
The place was in a seedier part of town, hardly the most crime-riddled area of the city, but also not a walk in the park either. It was a loft space situated above the Kettleblack's pub—a hole in the wall joint that was well-known in the metal scene. Bands that played here usually went on to get wider recognition from the Chicago music scene, and in Cannibal Star's case, a record deal with a metal-oriented label.
Osney had thought to expand the pub to the second level, but soon abandoned that idea when Beric had explained that they needed a set practice space in Chicago for the down time in between tours. The Kettleblack brothers were all too eager to accommodate Cannibal Star so long as they agreed to play shows at their pub while in town.
In hurried paces, Sandor pushed through the back door of the pub and barreled past Osney's office.
"Clegane!" Osney shouted. Sandor halted and considered whether or not to ignore the man. He was already late, a few seconds wouldn't make much of a difference. Heading back down the hall, Sandor hovered in the office's doorway.
"I'm running late. This better be important," he grumbled.
The man settled back in his seat and motioned to the ceiling with an impish smile. Sandor hated that smile. He tolerated Osney well enough, but something about the man rubbed him the wrong way.
"You've got a little entourage waiting for you upstairs."
Sandor narrowed his eyes, still not understanding what the fuck he was talking about. Sensing his confusion, Osney clarified.
"A guy by the name of Gendry. Swears you extended the invitation personally. His girlfriend is here too."
Sandor scanned his memories from the recent days. Gendry. Gendry. Who the fuck is Gendry?
He shook his head. The name didn't ring any bells.
"What about the red-headed girl? Pretty face, tight body, nice legs." The man smirked as he swiveled in his chair.
At once, the remembrance flooded Sandor's mind. He had been well into a bottle of whiskey when he extended the invitation to this particular band practice and only now did the memory become fully fledged. He remembered the girl, though, and was surprised to find he even remembered her name. Sansa.
"Fuck," Sandor breathed and shook his head. "Alright thanks."
He strode down the hall, bike helmet in hand and jacket thrown over his arm. Heading up the stairs, Sandor could hear the faint sound of Bronn tuning his guitar while Harwin thumbed a few notes on his bass.
As he entered the open space of the upstairs loft, Sandor was met with disappointed looks from his band mates. Twirling the microphone cord around his hand, Beric paced and raised his eyebrows as Sandor tossed down his bike helmet and jacket to the floor. He made for his Les Paul in the corner.
"You're late, man," Beric chided.
In the periphery of his vision, Sandor caught a glimpse of vibrant red hair. From what he remembered of the girl, he wouldn't have guessed she would actually come to his practice. In fact, he remembered now that she said metal wasn't her scene.
"I work, Dondarrion. Unlike the rest of you, I keep a fucking job outside of this," Sandor countered, irritated as he lifted his guitar and positioned the strap across his shoulder. Bronn was staring at him, and when Sandor finally returned the stare, the man waggled his eyebrows and gave a small nod towards Sandor's supposed "entourage."
Before Sandor could respond, Thoros began the beat for a few measures, and Beric set in with his signature falsetto wail that preceded a good many of their songs. Sandor averted his gaze to his feet, which pressed against the various pedals on the floor to distort the sound.
When he did finally lift his eyes, he saw the three of them standing against the opposite wall. The memories continued to find their place in his mind. There was the guy, Gendry, who looked absolutely star-struck right now as his head bobbed with the rhythm of Thoros's beat. Sandor remembered when he had been that way—enamored with the accolades and lifestyle of rock stars. Only now that he was living the "dream" did he realize what a fucking fraud it all was.
Then there was the shorter girl with brown hair seemingly enjoying herself as much as Gendry, although Sandor didn't quite remember her name.
What he did remember was that she was the sister of the red-headed girl, Sansa. With big, piercing blue eyes staring back at him, the girl looked like a deer in headlights. Her pouty, perfectly pink lips parted as she watched his hands move up and down the neck of his guitar.
The girl blushed and dropped her gaze and Sandor ceased the opportunity to take in the sight of her body. With an off the shoulder crop top shirt and a high-waisted skirt, a sliver of the girl's midriff was visible along with the length of her legs. A tight body indeed.
She didn't look like most of the broads that hung around the band. She looked like a good girl, the kind you take home to your mother; not the kind already corrupted by spending time in the music scene.
In the nights after their initial meeting, Sandor had taken himself in hand, stroking the length of his hardened cock to the hazy memory of the long expanse of her legs, the swell of her breasts feebly hidden in her blouse, the fullness of her lips, the way she blushed furiously at each lewd and drunken remark he had made. She should have decked him, and Sandor was a bit surprised she hadn't; a little prep like her, surely she'd have a stick up her ass, or so he thought.
Instead, she had smiled prettily for him, although she probably thought he hadn't seen. He saw her well enough, although he had been more than a little buzzed. Despite his foggy memories, Sandor would stroke himself to release at the thought of her naked and on top of him—hips rocking and tits bouncing as she rode him with wild abandon, moaning his name as she climaxed.
'If it means that much to you, you can be on top.'
He remembered now saying that to her. Chuckling to himself, Sandor shook his head at the memory. She should have fucking decked me.
Sandor had been certain the memory of this girl would hardly match the reality, the effects of alcohol having surely distorted her beauty. That was hardly the case, he realized, stealing not-so-subtle glances as he went through his chords and riffs in automatic motion. If his band members noticed, they didn't mention anything during the down time between songs and the handful of discussions regarding things to change or work on with each.
After finishing the last song they had on tap for the evening, Beric called an end to the practice and the guys unburdened themselves of their equipment. As Sandor lifted his guitar from his shoulders and unplugged cords from his instrument, he could hear Gendry and the little brown-haired girl gushing to Beric and Bronn, breathless as they both blabbered off a myriad of compliments.
Stretching until his back popped, Sandor lifted his eyes to Sansa who was still perched with her back pressed against the wall. She gave him a small but uncomfortable smile. She hadn't been kidding; this was most definitely not her scene.
"I thought you didn't like metal music," he mused with a sardonic smirk as he approached her. Sansa lowered her eyes and shifted from side to side, apparently flustered.
"You told me to come," she said quietly. Her voice was soft, sweet, and entirely feminine—something else he had forgotten.
"Did I?" Sandor laughed as he paced to the beer cooler Harwin always had in tow to practice.
Given how drunk he had been and how attractive this girl was, it wouldn't have surprised Sandor if he told her to come. But even in his inebriated memories, he didn't quite remember it happening that way.
"You don't remember," Sansa responded after a moment, her voice crestfallen despite the shy smile on her lips.
"I remember telling your sister to bring you along." Was that how it happened? And why the fuck would this girl care if I wanted her here or not? Sandor snatched up two bottles of cold beer and plopped down on an old, tattered couch a few feet away from where Sansa was standing.
She smiled once more as he held a beer out to her. He liked her smile. It was shy, it was sweet, and it was for him. Sandor couldn't remember the last time a girl as pretty as her actually offered him a genuine smile.
"This is nice," Sansa said and settled next to him. She gently took the beer from his hand and her nail tapped against the bottle cap as she stared down at it.
"This fucking hole in the wall?" Sandor questioned as he took the bottle from her hand and twisted off the cap before handing it back to her. "You're a liar. A terrible one at that."
Sandor took a long pull from the bottle and stared at Sansa. Tall in her own right, she looked small sitting next to him and perhaps a little scared too. The others, her sister and that Gendry guy included, were downstairs, presumably for the hard stuff behind the Kettleblack's bar. He and Sansa were alone now. On a couch. By themselves. And the girl seemed fully aware of it.
"I was being polite," she protested and her voice betrayed a bit of affront.
"Always so courteous." Sandor rested his arm on the back of the couch and behind her head. She blushed as he leaned closer to her. "That bullshit is lost on me, girl. What do you really think?"
He expected her to move away from him, to either continue looking wholly scandalized or to protest and finally deck him as she probably should have during their first conversation. To his surprise and confusion, she did neither. Instead, she held her spot next to him and simply swiveled her head to meet his eyes.
"I do think it's nice. The carpets are…" Sansa stared at the faded and thinning oriental rugs thrown about the floor. "The carpets are ugly." She took a delicate sip of her beer. Sandor reckoned she probably didn't like beer that much and had only accepted it to be polite, another product of polished manners.
Head thrown back, Sandor let out a hearty laugh. Even her truths sounded polite. Sansa's eyes shifted between him and the rugs, apparently not understanding why he was laughing. He stared at her, thoroughly enjoying her look of confusion as well as the features of her face. She was pretty, he had already known that, but with his senses about him, he hadn't quite expected her to be a fucking knockout. The best part was she probably had no idea how attractive she was, especially now as she bit her lip and inadvertently drew his attention to its fullness.
"What?" she breathed, chest rising and falling a bit more frantically now.
"I didn't say anything." His eyes shamelessly fixated on her lips again.
"You're staring at me," she informed, as if he wasn't fully aware of his own leering.
"You're nice to look at." Sandor grinned and watched her cheeks flush and her eyes widen. "Get used to it. You can't tell me the pretty boys you hang around with don't do it too. The only difference is they try to hide it. I don't."
Sansa smiled back. "And why are you so sure I hang around with pretty boys?" She held her head up and steadied her eyes on him. Clearly, she didn't like him making assumptions about her.
"Call it an educated guess. Am I wrong though?"
"I'm here with you, aren't I?" she questioned in earnest, her eyes matching his with sincerity. Sandor knew when people lied, and he knew when they were being spiteful. The girl was doing neither, and didn't quite understand the insult she had just paid him.
"Yeah, the ugly dog," he grumbled and pulled his arm from the back of the couch. "I get it."
In an instant, Sansa's hand flew to her mouth with a gasp and shifted towards him.
"Oh god! No, that's not what I meant. I'm so sorry."
Sandor lowered his head so that she wouldn't see the amused grin on his lips.
"No need to lie about it. My face isn't anything to write home about it."
It was the truth. He wasn't deluded enough to actually think women truly found him attractive. His body was in excellent shape, he knew that, and maybe some might find the good side of his face handsome enough. However, the scars were too much for most women to handle. He scored his share of groupies, but he knew well enough they weren't fucking him for his looks. It was a conquest of saying they fucked the Hound from Cannibal Star. Sandor was used to it and didn't kid himself into thinking this chick would be any different.
He felt Sansa's hand rest on his knee, her fingers placed hesitantly there.
"I'm not lying. I only meant to say that I…" Her voice fell away as she seemed to carefully measure her words this time lest she misspeak again. "If I wanted to hang out with some boring pretty boys, I would. But I didn't. I came here instead."
Sandor turned to her and found her eyes pooling with concern and sincerity. He hadn't expected that and only shook his head with a chuckle.
"What?" Her brows furrowed. If she was confused by his actions, then he was just as confused by hers. They could sort that out later.
"You're a fucking trip." He set his beer down and abruptly stood. "Band practice is over. Let's go."
Sansa followed suit and then followed him across the room. Downstairs, the others shared a drink with Sansa's sister and Gendry, all erupting into laughter as Bronn regaled them with a story.
After bidding the appropriate farewells, Sandor and his "entourage" headed for the parking lot while the rest of his band mates stayed behind.
"Thanks for coming out." Sandor extended his hand to Gendry.
"Thank you! This has been great!" Gendry beamed and rested against a '69 Firebird.
"That's a nice car." Sandor motioned towards it with a half-smile.
"Thanks, man. It's my baby. You drive a motorcycle?"
Sandor lifted his helmet. "Looks like it."
"I thought you drove a Mustang," Sansa questioned with curious eyes turned to him. Filing through his memories once more, Sandor tried to remember when he told her that until a Tawny Kitaen reference raced across his mind.
"I drive the Harley mostly. The Mustang is for special occasions."
A steady silence blanketed them. The conversation was winding down towards the point where everyone said their goodbyes and went separate ways. With Cannibal Star very much involved with their fan base, Sandor met people all the time, a steady rotation of names and faces he never saw again. It made no difference. And yet he found himself hesitant to simply ride away and have Sansa become one of the many faces and names he once knew.
"Want a ride?" Sandor blurted out before he could talk himself out of it.
Wide-eyed, Sansa stared up at him, considering him with something between nervousness and confusion. From behind, her sister nudged her towards Sandor with a wicked grin on her face.
"On the motorcycle?" Sansa breathed and continued staring up at him. She bit her lip again, a gesture that was driving him crazy. If she kept that up, he'd be biting at her lips too—nipping them between kisses and licks.
Leaning towards her, Sandor murmured in her ear, breathing her in as he did. She smelled like vanilla and strawberries.
"Did you have something else in mind you'd wanna take a ride on?" Standing upright, Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her and a devious smile spread across his lips.
"Still with the innuendos." Sansa gave an exasperated laugh and a shake of the head.
"Still with the blushing," Sandor retorted as a flush spread across Sansa's cheeks. "It's a good look on you."
Sansa dropped her eyes and smiled in return as if truly touched that Sandor continually alluded to the fact that he found her good looking. If he didn't know any better, the girl's boyfriend, if she had one, did a piss poor job at complimenting her. Not that Sandor was an expert in that either, but by comparison, it seemed as though he was nailing it.
"I'll see you back at home." Sansa waved to her sister and Gendry and followed Sandor to his bike.
"Where do you live?" Sandor asked and handed her a smaller helmet from the compartment of his bike.
"Winnetka." Sansa's eyes matched his, gauging his reaction as she took the helmet. Beautiful and rich. And way out of my league.
"Do you know where that is?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." Every Chicago native knew Winnetka to be one of the wealthiest areas. Situated to the north of the city, Sandor drove through there plenty of times on his way to Milwaukee.
After getting specific directions from the girl, Sandor climbed onto his bike. Sansa hesitated as she stepped to the motorcycle. Her lips pursed and she tried to puzzle out how to approach. Sandor extended his hand to her for purchase as she climbed on behind him. Her fingers felt delicate and her skin soft against his rough, calloused palms which were still smudged with grease from the work day.
As he released the kickstand, he felt her arms snake around his chest in a demure embrace. Polite as ever.
Apparently, the girl had never been on the back of a bike before. Like this, she'd go flying off the back the first bump they came to. With his feet planted on the ground, Sandor reached behind and grabbed her firmly by her ass. A tiny squeal escaped her lips as if she were about to protest until he pulled her against him, her chest flush to his back. Her thighs pressed against his hips as Sandor grabbed her forearms and pulled her arms tighter around him.
"Hold on tight," he instructed and backed out of the parking space. As he kicked on the engine, he felt her arms grip him tight and a steady increase of pressure at his hips as she squeezed her thighs against him.
Sandor navigated the streets north towards Winnetka, avoiding the highways in favor of the side roads. He relished the feeling of her body flush against his as she hung onto him. More than a handful of times, he felt her press her cheek against his back and her arms wrapped tighten around him. She wasn't exactly dressed for a motorcycle ride, and undoubtedly her skirt was probably hiked up higher than she preferred. They meandered through suburbia, stopping here and there at stoplights. As they approached yet another stop, Sandor shifted his gaze over his shoulder.
"Are you doing okay?" he shouted over the motorcycle engine.
Sansa replied with a tiny nod and a tense smile. Eventually, Sandor took the turns on the streets she'd told him until he found himself in a neighborhood with houses that were obnoxiously large. As he approached her house, Sandor slowed the bike to a stop and pulled into the driveway behind a 1970s model Volvo. He killed the engine and put down the kickstand. He stood and offered Sansa his hand and helped her off the bike.
She regarded him with a smile as she pulled the helmet off of her head and handed it back to him before smoothing down the long strands of her hair.
"Next time you're on a motorcycle, don't lean away from the turns." Sandor returned her helmet to the compartment under the seat.
"How are you so sure I want to ride with you again?" Sansa countered coquettishly and bit her lip again. She stared up through her eye lashes, content to torture him, although she couldn't possibly know what she was doing to him.
"I didn't say my motorcycle. I just said a motorcycle."
He meant it as a joke, but the girl once more looked crestfallen and perhaps a bit embarrassed as she lowered her eyes with a nervous laugh.
"Oh," was all she said as her lips formed into a shape of an "O," exacerbating their poutiness.
"Although, mine looks a hell of a lot better with you on it." He watched her lifted her eyes to him and gave Sansa a wink, which elicited a shy smile from her.
Matched at the eyes, silence fell between them and they stared at one another, each seeming to subtly evaluate the other. She was beautiful. He knew that much about her and apparently came from a well-to-do family. Beyond that, Sandor knew little of Sansa.
"You live with your parents?" He cast a furtive glance towards the enormous two-story, colonial behind him.
Sansa nodded and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
"For now. I'm moving into my sorority house in a few weeks."
Sandor smiled at that. She was in college—another tidbit he could add to his growing knowledge.
"A sorority girl," he repeated and raised his brows at her, the smug smile still plastered across his lips. "A rich, pretty sorority girl."
"Don't say it like that," Sansa scolded and rolled her eyes. Once more, she didn't like being lumped in with the typical reputation that sorority girls held. Sandor was left to wonder why she even cared at all what he thought of her.
"Imagine what your sorority sisters will say when they find out you've had my Hog between your legs."
Sansa's eyes went wide again and a defamed gasp escaped her lips. This time, Sandor didn't have the excuse of being drunk. Instead, he liked seeing the way she blushed at his crude remarks; he liked the way her lips would part when she gasped ever so slightly, the way her breathing became a bit more frantic as her chest began to rise and fall steadily. He liked that he could get a reaction from her, and he supposed it was nice that she hadn't decked him for it yet.
"Is that your car?" Sandor motioned to the Volvo.
Sansa shot a disdainful look towards the old thing. "Yeah. I share it with my sister. I hate it."
"Those are good little cars. Keep up with the oil changes and they'll run forever."
Sansa lifted a timid gaze up to him. Once more the conversation had come to a lull, and it was obvious this was the cue for them to part ways.
"Thanks for the ride," Sansa spoke softly before gnawing on her bottom lip once more, clearly a nervous gesture, although Sandor swore to God she was doing it to tease him mercilessly.
"No problem." He climbed back onto his bike, but hesitated.
He should have just ridden off. Why was he not able to do that with this girl? Reaching into his pocket, Sandor pulled out his wallet and retrieved one of his business cards. It was a long shot, but the way he saw it, he was leaving this one up to fate. Sandor handed the card to Sansa. She took it from him and studied it with curious eyes. After a few moments, she seemed to understand and a sweet smile formed on her lips.
"If you ever need any maintenance, or if you just want to go for a ride."
Sandor backed out of her driveway, watching as Sansa stared down at the card in her hands with a shy smile. He kicked on the engine and rode out of Winnetka with his own smile and the hope that maybe that old Volvo just might give out.