Chapter 4 : ₍ᐢ.‸.⑅ᐢ₎↝

Brienne isn't happy about the sleepover.

Littlefinger is pissed.

You should have expected that, except you haven't disobeyed so bad since, well…

Anyway that problem was fixed but this is a boy problem not a brain problem, which Littlefinger makes abundantly clear when he spits, "Are you stupid? So easy, so loose, that you'd go roll around with a dog? Do you want Joffrey to propose? Do you want a new contract? Walder doesn't sign sluts. He certainly won't sign a used-up bitch."

"We didn't have sex!" you shout, over and over. Blowjobs don't count!

Littlefinger doesn't care. He tells Nym to have the hotel staff sign NDAs. They hand over the video footage of you landing at Sandor's door. He tells Brienne and Randa to keep an extra close eye on you, and the Kettleblacks even closer. Well guess what? He can't punish you from all the way wherever he is! But he threatens to join you on tour if you keep misbehaving. So annoying. He treats you like a baby. You're eighteen! You should be able to do whatever you want. But of course, what you want is Joffrey's love.

And guess what—the very day after you gave Sandor your thanks, the outings with Margaery stop. You roll across the west, and not a single Spider text pops up heralding the next big betrayal. Oh, it makes everything that much easier. The diet shakes stay down, and so does the watery soup and steamed veggies. The Hot Teens Now interview hits stands, and they pair your article with like, the prettiest picture of you from your Denver show. Then everyone's texting you: OMG I knew it was Margaery's fault! That bitch! or ur way prettier than her. there's no way she could fool Joff. Replying to texts all the time is tedious work, but you make an exception for the joyous occasion: i know right? she's a hag!!! Joff is mine >:-)

You've been texting Arry too: it's the holidays. First there's Halloween, which you spend costume-less in your hotel. So sad :( You wear your Cinnamoroll slippers and matching nightgown which you managed to sneak on the tour. It kinda counts but not really. Then you and Wylla do coke and sneak a bottle of champagne and watch Halloweentown in bed. She wants to kiss and finger you but she won't talk about your rendezvous with Sandor aside from calling him "Bad news." Maybe you should have punished her by keeping your legs shut but you're trying to evolve your Clefairy into a Clefable because Clefable has pink spiky wings. So she slithers down between your legs and eats you out under your nightgown and you come spacing out and thinking of not-your-boyfriend, smiling when Clefable is born.

Arry sends you a picture of him dressed like a wolf with fuzzy grey ears and a giant fluffy tail sticking out his black t-shirt. Grrrr you text back, then you pull up your MacBook and start googling where to buy cute ears. No fair that Arry gets to play wolf without you! That was your favorite game growing up: wolfpack.

cool rite

can u come to nyc for xmas

No reply.

Dang. Littlefinger says you have to be in the city this year. He misses you because of tour, which is dumb, because he let the Walders schedule it during the winter anyway. "Not like she has any family," Old Walder had croaked. Fuming, you retorted, "I have Uncle, duh!"

All the old men laughed.

Shoot, you forgot. "My siblings too!" They count, even though they're far away.

You hate meeting with the Walders sometimes. They make jokes you don't understand, and ask lots of questions about your sex life, mostly to Littlefinger. You do want a contract. You want to make pretty music forever and ever, and you want money while you're at it, because money buys purses and dresses and gems. You're gonna keep Joffrey and be his pretty pure princess. If America found out you weren't a virgin, they'd be so sad. "It's crucial we keep up the facade," Black Walder had said, after Littlefinger told them you and Joffrey had sex.

Littlefinger wasn't as mad. In private he said, "This is how you show your love. Give him what he wants, and he'll be yours forever."

A sweet deal! And God, you're trying! All the blowjobs are to turn things into forever things. It's like magic!

You have the world’s most boring Thanksgiving at Twist, some Michelin star ultra modern restaurant that Littlefinger picked out, even though he's busy in Bermuda, without you, sigh. It's nothing like Thanksgiving with Daddy. No, in here it's dark inside; every surface is black with obsidian sheen, except for chrome chandeliers, clusters of shiny cylinders that spit out ominous blue light. You wear a halter and ruffle Dolce and Gabbana dress with strappy Prada heels, and smile wide for the paparazzi as you enter. The food is interesting, more cool than edible. It's the kind of tiny plates with food deconstructed into new abstract shapes, and there are a dozen courses, but each one is like, two bites. So if you take one bite of each, that's only twelve bites. A little too much, because you've been feeling so clean and suddenly your stomach is weighed down by future poop and worse, future fat. Dirty.

Wylla goes with you to the bathroom to puke. Then you pop a mint. It scalds your tract sparkling.

After you call Arry ("Sorry can't come for Christmas") then try Bran and Rickon (no answer, probably plum-tucked on pie)(without you), you dial your last family member, Littlefinger. He wants a long call that night, so he can talk about Christmas parties and long term strategy. He asks if you noticed how Joffrey stopped going out with that little skank, and oh gosh, of course it was him who came to your rescue! You tell him you're sorry for acting up with Sandor, like you really love Joffrey, it's just tour has been such a whirlwind, and oh guess what? You're at 122 now. He says he's sorry for his harsh words, he just wants to see you succeed.

"This is our future, kitten."

That's what he says when he wants to be nice: our future. That's how family works. He promises to get you whatever you like for Christmas, and more, but you just know he's going to stare you down as you eat and maybe call you a bitch again or a slut because of the whole Sandor thing. Which maybe you are, and maybe you’re also fat. 122 is no 115, after all.

And besides, you decide he’s right. You are stupid. Every night, tucked your sky-suite, you kinda think of Sandor, and how he fingered you in his bed and talked dirty and basically chewed your face off. He left a row of red dots above your upper lip where his fangs sunk in. The insides of your lips are sore and purple, so puffy that the next morning Randa asked if Sandor shot you up with filler. You blushed, she said, "Hey, it looks nice."

So you stare in mirrors as the swelling goes down, wishing it would stay. Wishing you could get more filler, but you have a very handsome boyfriend, and no business with ugly dogs. It's funny because Sandor's a Devil Dog, a marine, the Hound. Turns out his service to our country is no secret because he blabbed and blabbed before you tuckered out in his arms, asking about his tattoos, his scars. He talks about killing the way you talk about shopping. Piling things up, conquering them. He likes your Cinnamoroll slippers. He likes the way you sucked his cock.

"Never thought I'd get sucked off by America's bluebird," he grumbled as you dozed off. "Might be a lucky dog after all."

Here's the problem with dogs though: they follow. You give them a little attention, and then all the sudden they're at your side, breathing on you, jumping on you, tongue out, kiss, kiss, kiss.

Sandor is no exception. He corners you one day in the designated lunch room (you're obviously not supposed to be there, like there's an entire green room for you, but Arthur begged you to come and there are chocolate covered strawberries on the buffet and Randa is eating them and you're thinking maybe a few could end up in your purse for later). So Sandor stalks up, shadow first of course, and starts loading a plate—a half block of cheese, a stack of crackers, a slimy pile of olives, then he throws a handful of strawberries on top of that. Okay, gross, you inch away, but Randa stands there dumbstruck, because Sandor plucks a strawberry up and offers it to you, dangling it between two meaty fingers. "You look hungry," he says. You look exclusively at his chest, think exclusively of how hairy he is beneath that stupid shirt, and say, "No."

He invites himself in another step. Drops his head down. Unhinges his beastly jaw, and plops the strawberry square in his mouth. Randa makes a weirded-out snort and says, "Um…" She kinda tugs you back, but Sandor holds out a second strawberry. "Your turn, pretty bird."

He's so weird for an old man! Like what the heck! He's made a scene, and now you're blushing in front of all these people, and you know the way a dozen stares feel, and it's not even showtime. So you bring your mouth beneath the strawberry and bite it halfway up.

Sandor grins and eats the leafy top. He goes away, finally.

Randa doesn't let you live that one down. She got in trouble for bringing you to his room but she's like oddly interested in Sandor and wants to know every detail. "We made out," you tell her. "That's all." Because what else are you supposed to say? It's lame that you sucked his stupidly big dick—he's old and ugly (the scars, bleh)—and it's even more lame that you cuddled after. But his muscles were nice and honestly his armpit doesn't smell half-bad and he's very warm and there's something about the way his giant nose looked with his old man glasses balanced on its crooked arch.

You find yourself wondering what's happening in a Feast for Crows.

—

Okay, fine, there's one afternoon in Santa Fe when you approach him first. You pick the perfect moment: after he finishes setting up monitor world and goes for his pre-soundcheck smoke. You break from the dancers and sashay over before he leaves backstage. When you tug his sleeve he turns and gives a surprised look. His hard gray eyes are soft for the smallest second.

"Little bird," he says.

You forget why you touched him but your hand is still on his bicep, sneaking beneath his sleeve to find bare beefy muscle. You squeeze his Globe and Anchor, yum.

"Show me the monitor booth," you tell him.

He answers with a grunt, like kaijus do, and pushes you by the neck toward the stage. You chose this moment for another reason: Brienne is busy on the phone. You mimic putting on your earbuds; she waves you away. Like that, you make your escape.

You've been beneath the stage before. You have to every show: there's a secret dolly on a little track that transports you over to your special platform. That's where you rise up at the start of each concert. There's another two for the dancers, plus more moving parts for the platform that shoots up higher than the stage where you perform Rainbows Forever. It seems dangerous down here, like it's dark and nothing but a maze of metal bars and whirring black machines and stacked cables thick as snakes and a ceiling so low Sandor has to duck down. "Will I get crushed?" you ask him, and he barks a laugh.

"I'll get myself crushed first."

He takes you through to monitor world.

So these are his controls. Nothing special, just a bunch of big boards dotted with rows of knobs and levers, and towers with blinking lights, plus a full-on view of the stage. Sandor keeps his hand on your neck and starts talking. Oh, does he really think you want to know what he does up here? You can't focus when a hand the size of a dinner plate is curled around your throat, like where your very precious voice lives. You mash your bare thighs together—bad day to wear a mini skirt. Sandor points to knobs and switches and grumbles this thing or that. His thumb runs from your collarbone to your ear and back again. Your knees slowly give out.

“Are you listening?”

Sandor gives your neck a shake. You give him your biggest, prettiest eyes. He growls. His hands land on your hips, and oh gosh, you've become lunch, or worse, a cigarette. Sandor picks you up and backs deeper into stacks of equipment, deeper into the buzzing cavern until he drops you onto a metal case at hip level, shielded at the sides by two massive control panels. And like, ouch, your skirt rides up, buckles dig into your butt. But Sandor takes your neck again, shoves two fingers in your mouth and forces your jaw down. Oh my God, what is he doing? His lips pucker, his cheeks swish, he opens up over your mouth and plop, in goes a gloopy pile of spit. You whimper, agape, full. He grins. “Drink.”

You do.

He says, “Good.”

Your jaw is trapped and he’s unbuckling now. You wish you weren’t wet because you really don’t want to get fucked back here but why else would you have touched his arm? Like, you wanted this and it really starts to sink in when he sticks a hand in his jeans and starts stroking his huge cock like he knows what he's doing and you make stupid another noise. Someone could see! Someone could walk back here, but Sandor is so tall, the machine walls so narrow, so dark, that all they would see is his broad backside. Sandor knows. He puts himself between your legs and you grab his chest and say, “Don’t. I have a boyfriend.”

“And your boyfriend is dating Margaery Tyrell."

He's mean. But he holds you close. Black hair drips down. You both watch him beat his cock. The red tip lines up with the very top of your thighs, where denim has pushed up to barely, barely cover your lady parts. You’re wearing a tiny thong that struggles to keep your gross bits in and you really don’t want Sandor to see them or even think about them but he says, “Touch yourself.”

“I don’t,” you reply, which is basically true. You use water and Wylla. That’s it.

“Try.”

You slide a hand down and press two fingertips into the damp cotton above your clit. “Good girl,” Sandor says, even though your fingers accomplish nothing. They almost hurt. Cotton and lace scratch your nerves. But Sandor likes it. He breathes hard and kisses the top of your head and says, "Your uncle gave me a call. He told me I've been a bad dog." You whimper, Sandor says, "He told me I can't have anything to do with your pretty cunt."

You’d rather he talk about his dick or something other than your vag or Littlefinger but he’s only watching you. It’s a show. So you decide to quietly moan and he sticks his fingers in your mouth which wow that’s really nice. You suck on him because you’re starving and your clit lights up but your hand isn’t doing much. The metal buckles in your butt hurt and it’s starting to take a while. You'd hate to get caught with a bad dog because aren’t you a good bird but Sandor gets louder, he says, “Come for me.” Well, you can’t do that on command but he obviously doesn’t know how you’re feeling so you clutch his shirt extra tight and belt out the sexiest (and most discreet) moan you can manage.

He likes it; he growls, “Fuck, that’s it,” and he comes right on your panties. Some gets on your fingers and some drips to the floor. Sandor squeezes out every last drop and hovers over you, big and dark and out of breath. Eventually he puts his cock away. You hold out your hand and he licks up his mess. Okay, that's nice, but also, gross.

“I need to go,” you tell him. "I'm very important."

Sandor grunts and puts you back on the ground, even fixes your skirt, but he doesn’t move out of your way. “You have pretty tits,” he says.

“I do?” you ask. He grabs your boob over your halter top. It’s sad because he makes you look really small. It’s nice because for once you actually feel small.

“I don't lie,” he replies, thumbing your nipple. “They’re perfect. Little baby tits.”

Your eyes get wet. Oh my God, don’t cry. Why would you cry? His thumb feels nice, that’s why, but no, it’s because his thumb feels nice and his words feel good and they’re words that your boyfriend has never fed you. You bite your lip and look up, and realize the actual reason for your tears: those words and touches are coming out of a big, burnt monster.

This is (sorry) so fucked up. What have you done?

Sandor rubs it in your face, literally. His hand moves to your cheek and he sweeps the tears away. “I know I’m not a pretty dog,” he grumbles. "You can spare me the waterworks.”

Hyle's voice sounds from around the corner. "Clegane, you back here? We're looking for—"

“I've got the little bird," Sandor calls over his shoulder. He puts a palm on your low back and thrusts you out of the darkness.

Hyle gives you a curious look, but you say, "I was learning about Sandor's machines," so sweetly that he has no choice but to believe you. Hyle leads you away; you don't get a chance to tell Sandor goodbye, and you don’t even know if you want to. Even so you look back, only to see him twisting his puddle of come beneath the toe of his big black boot. When you glance up, he grins, wolfish.

He made a meal out of you, or rather, you made a meal out of yourself. You’re always doing that, serving your body up on a silver platter because nothing feels better than filling the eyes and hands of men except being filled yourself. But even when you’re full, you’re still being eaten, because when their cocks go, they take something with them. How many pieces do you have left?

You put a hand on your belly and think: if Sandor put himself here, I’d come out chocolate bunny hollow.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Halfway through hair and makeup, you realize you never asked him about his book. He must be reading without you, every single night. You frown and Mary says, “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your eyeliner.”

—

You only have one other chance to ask, in Austin, before you take a week off for the holidays. It’s a risky move, but you follow Sandor out for his smoke break, saying loudly to no one in particular, “Oh no! I forgot my… lipgloss on the bus!” Randa perks up from across the stage like she’s gonna go get it but you shoot her a look, then give a pointed glance to the tail end of Sandor as he disappears backstage. You wait another few minutes, then pursue.

Osmund is kinda dumb so he doesn’t realize what you’re up to until you make it to the loading dock, and it’s only Sandor and Dontos out there, smoking in silence. Sandor is wearing a black leather jacket, which makes sense, because he’s definitely some sort of bad boy/man. But before you can go run off and catch his bad, Osmund grabs your upper arm. “Boss won’t like this,” he grumbles.

“I’m the boss,” you huff. “Let me go. Now.”

Sandor laughs and Osmund does as he’s told. He pulls out his own cigarette, lights it, and exhales into your face, “Clock’s ticking.” Whatever. You’re in charge. You saunter over to your employee, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, and smile. All business.

Sandor drops his butt, squashes it, then glares. “What could the little bird possibly want with an old dog like me?”

Unfortunately, you blush. In a small voice, you ask, “Are you reading Feast for Crows without me?”

“I am. What’s it to you?”

You shrug. This was dumb idea. You should try being less obvious, bunny. Dontos and Osmund are both staring. Sandor stares down your shirt, a tank top layered over with a Juicy jacket. Not enough coverage. You zip yourself up and shiver even though it's warm for December.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” you ask.

“Shit all,” Sandor replies.

"Where do you live?"

"L.A." Lucky! So not fair.

“Is your family there?”

He lets out a nasty laugh. “Don’t have one. Dead, mostly. Oh, don’t give me that look, girl.” Death is sad though! You aim your frown at the dirty pavement. “What about you?” Sandor asks. “Where will you fly off to?”

“I’ll be in New York with my uncle,” you reply. Your tiny family, sigh. You nudge the toe of Sandor’s boot with your sparkly white Puma. His feet are so stinking huge. He doesn’t budge. You sigh, then say, “I was just starting to like the story.”

“I know. You should ask Santa Claus to bring it to you.”

“Santa isn’t real,” you reply. “And besides, it’s not the same if I have to read it myself.”

It’s true. The last real book you read was Harry Potter. Other than you read manga, which is like, way more interesting. The pictures make it nice. Plus your bookshelf looks so pretty, with row after row of matching volumes. Littlefinger hates them. He thinks it’s childish, but he also thinks it’s porn because he happened to find you on the steamiest possible page of Peach Girl. He’s confusing it with hentai. That’s like, the bad stuff. Don’t tell him you know about it.

You give Sandor’s boot a kick to see if he’ll take it, but only succeed in scuffing your sneaker. Sandor sticks a finger under your chin and lifts your face. “Hard, is it?”

“What’s hard?” you ask. He’s making a weird face, impenetrable, a cold stone wall. His thumb pulls down your lower lip, oh my God, he’s bending down, but he doesn’t kiss you. He says in icy hot rasp, “Not getting everything you want.”

No one comes to catch or collect you. Sandor straightens up, and he leaves.

He leaves you all alone.

The Austin show goes just fine.

Fine, fine, fine.