No One Calls Me Sammy
Click! Boring. Click! Average. Click! Even more boring.
No, this isn’t working. This park is beautiful, but it’s far from inspiring, even with the sun setting which is bathing the tall trees and the kid’s play-area in a gorgeous golden light.
The wind whips through my already untidy hair as I squelch my way across the wet grass. Maybe I should come back here when it rains. Perhaps then I’ll find some inspiration for my portfolio.
I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I reach the park gates, and I pop the lens cap back on my old and scuffed 35mm camera with a deep sigh, before I pack it away into my gray satchel. I’m not going to get any more inspiring shots today, no matter how long I hang out in this park, so I slowly make my way home along the busy streets of Seattle. Dusk is starting to fall, and I light up a cigarette as I turn up the music on my MP3 player, wanting to drown out the blaring car horns and the constant shouting and laughing which is coming from the many restaurants I pass. God, it’s loud this evening.
As I trudge along with my satchel gently hitting my right hip, I try not to think of the many assignments I’ve still got to do for my classes. I won’t be able to do them tonight. I’m far too fucking tired. I just want to fall into bed and sleep till tomorrow morning.
But when I arrive back at the small two-bedroom apartment which I share with my roommate, Will, I know I’m not going to get any sleep when I step through the door and see his good looking friend has made himself at home, as per usual. There’s the strong odour of weed in the air and my eyes are quickly drawn to the lit joint in his hand. I thought he would still be with Will at that popular club in town, but he’s here instead, sitting on the windowsill with one leg dangling over the edge while blowing smoke out of the partly open window, and my roommate is nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s Will?’ I ask him. He slowly turns his head to look at me, and my breath hitches in my throat when I see those piercing blue eyes of his, along with the healed-over vertical scar on his forehead which is partly covered by unruly black locks. God, how can he look so dangerous and sexy at the same time? You wouldn’t think he was in his mid-twenties. He looks so much older.
‘Will?’ he questions in a casual tone. ‘Oh. . . he’s still at the club. I got bored so I came back here.’
‘What’s wrong with your own apartment?’ I ask him bluntly. I’d rather he not be here. I don’t like the way my heart flutters every time he comes round here to spend time with Will. It’s not the first time he’s hung out in our shared apartment. In fact, he’s been doing it a lot lately, but Will has always been here too. This is the first time we’ve been alone together like this, and I’m not so sure I like it. I’m always so entranced by his rugged looks, and even now I find myself inconspicuously licking my suddenly dry bottom lip. I think what makes it worse is there’s a bit of geekery mixed in with his cool and confident persona, which I’ve always been a sucker for. He’s not the wild party animal that Will makes him out to be. Him being here when he could still be at the club proves this, though the lit joint is kind of a discrepancy.
A wry smirk appears on his unshaven face at my remark as he ruffles his hair, trying to hide his faded scar. ‘My roommate has some girl round,’ he tells me. ‘And Will says I’m always welcome here.’
I just hum as I drop my tatty looking satchel onto the couch while trying not to pay attention to the way his lips close around the end of the lit joint. God, why is that so sexy? And why are those thick strands of hair which fall over his forehead such a distraction? They’re even more distracting than his scar.
I remember Will telling me how he got it, and even now when I think of the story, I feel my heart twinge. To think some drunk bastard could attack him with a broken bottle, just because he accidentally spilt some of his beer on him. The guy was clearly looking for a fight and was wasted himself. But still, to retaliate like that. It’s just fucking evil.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking that in here,’ I point out in a firm tone as I turn my attention back to the lit joint in his hand. ‘You know Will hates the smell of weed.’ It’s not the first time I’ve seen him smoke a joint, but it’s the first time he’s smoked it in here.
He gives me a pointed look. ‘What are you gonna do about it? Kick me out?’ he says with a goading look. ‘Will won’t like that, you know.’
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out, and when I quickly shut it his smirk grows. Fuck, he’s right. I long to kick him out, but Will will lay into me if I do. The cocky bastard has to stay.
I sink down onto the low leather couch with a deep sigh and take my portfolio out of my satchel, along with a pile of developed photographs. I’m clearly not going to get any sleep while he’s here, even if I am incredibly tired, so I might as well try and find some shots to put in my lacklustre portfolio. They’re nowhere near my best work, but I haven’t yet found my muse. I’ve been taking pictures of everything and anything these past few months, trying to find a theme, but I haven’t been able to settle on a single one. Nothing has called out to me. Nothing has caught my attention. At least nothing I’ve photographed.
I stop staring at a poorly taken picture of some daisies to look over at Dex, who’s still smoking while gazing out the window from where he’s sitting casually on the low sill. It’s such a natural pose and yet so model-like, and the old band t-shirt he’s wearing with ripped black jeans just adds to the whole rocker aesthetic. I suddenly want to reach for my camera and snap a shot of him, but by the time I reach into my satchel for it, he’s swinging one leg over the sill. Damn it! I’ve missed my chance. I should have been quicker.
I go back to flicking through the pile of photographs, trying to ignore him as he slides off the sill and grabs the half empty bottle of beer off the TV stand. He’s finished the lit joint, thank God! It’s not that I hate the smell of it. I just don’t like the way he smokes it, holding it with his thumb and index finger rather than holding it between his fingers like a normal person would. It makes him look far too fucking cool and rebellious.
Now he’s finished his joint, I expect him to leave and finally head back to his own apartment, but he throws himself down onto the couch instead, looking more than just a little high, and carries on downing the beer like its water. Jesus! Anyone would think he and Will were still in some kind of relationship from the way he sprawls himself out in his seat, and that familiar pang of hatred I have for him and what he did to my friend pierces my stomach. I’ll never forget that night. I’ve never seen Will cry like that before. Even now it pains my heart to remember the way he had clung to me and sobbed loudly in my arms.
I want him to leave. I really do. Especially because his jean clad thigh is touching mine right now and consequently making my pulse race. I think of telling him to leave myself, but if word got back to Will, he’d be upset with me for forcing him out of our shared apartment. Dex may have hurt him, but he forgave him, and they’ve remained friends ever since, something which I really can’t understand. He wants me to forgive Dex too, maybe even start to like him, but I just can’t. He reminds me far too much of Jason, and I’ve never been able to forgive that bastard for what he did to me.
I try to focus my attention on my poorly taken photographs, but I can feel his intense gaze on me, and though it makes my cheeks flush I find it a little unnerving. ‘I would prefer it if you didn’t stare at me like that,’ I mutter while keeping my eyes fixed on the pictures in my hand.
‘I wasn’t staring. . . I was just looking,’ he protests. ‘There’s no law against that.’
I continue to idly look through the pile, yet again trying to ignore him and how intoxicating he smells. I just want to sit here in silence and sort out my portfolio, but it turns out he’s not willing to give me any peace now I’ve spoken to him.
‘Your name’s Sammy, right?’ he says in a questioning tone, as if he’s not sure, despite having heard Will call me by my name many times in the past.
‘It’s Sam actually,’ I tell him.
‘Sammy sounds better. . . can I call you Sammy?’
I finally turn to look at him. ‘Only if I can call you Dexter,’ I say frankly, and I’m pleased to see him make a face at the nickname. Will told me how he always goes by the name Dex because he can’t stand being called Dexter. Apparently it always makes him wince when someone happens to call him by his full name, something I didn’t believe until now.
‘No one calls me Dexter,’ he says.
‘Well, no one calls me Sammy.’
We hold each other’s gazes in the brightly lit room, looking each other straight in the eyes, waiting for the other to give up and look away. I don’t know how long we maintain eye contact for, but it must be for at least a couple of minutes before he quirks an eyebrow.
’You know. . . if I didn’t know any better, I would think you were flirting with me. . . Sammy,’ he says, purposely emphasizing the name. God, I hate the way he pronounces it in his Southern drawl. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. But I refuse to let him charm me as I retain my cool and composed demeanour. I’m not about to let my heart run away with my head. Not again.
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ I scoff, but my hands suddenly feel clammy.
‘Really? Because the blush on your cheeks says otherwise. I think you’re attracted to me. . .’
I shake my head in disbelief. Has he always been this damn cocky? ‘You’re not my type,’ I tell him.
‘Shame,’ he mutters as he fiddles with the black rope bracelet which is tied loosely around his right wrist. ’Because you’re definitely my type.’
A few of the glossy photographs fall out of my hands and onto the carpeted floor. Fuck! I can’t believe this guy! ‘If you’re trying to win me over. . . it’s not working,’ I inform him, trying to make my voice sound firm, but it wavers a little. ‘Will may have forgiven you, but I never will.’
He sighs deeply. ‘Jesus. . . I can’t believe you’re still hung up on that. It was two years ago, for God’s sake.’
‘Yeah, and I’m still not over it,’ I retort as I go to quickly gather up the photographs which litter the carpet, but he beats me to it and picks them up for me while sneering at my words.
‘You know, anyone would think it was you who I hurt from the way you’re talking,’ he says as he carefully shuffles the pictures into a neat pile. ‘Anyway. . . it doesn’t matter if you can’t forgive me. . . or even grow to like me. . . I still like you.’
Shit! Why did those words make my heart twinge? And why is it still twinging now as he holds the pile of photographs out to me? I awkwardly take them from him while gazing into his beautiful eyes, before he reaches for his black denim jacket which I’ve just noticed is draped over the back of the couch. Fuck! I want to think that he’s just having me on. He’s just messing with me right now, isn’t he? But I have a strong feeling he isn’t. There was far too much sincerity in his voice when he told me that he still likes me, despite knowing how much I despise him.
