Sam bitches at her walking in on him, and she laughs, pretending to knock at the door retroactively. "Or you want me to call? 'Hi, Sam, it's me, the girl you've been fucking. Mind if I drop by to interrupt your cussing spell, say hi to you and your cute little dog?'" This is her demon. She's laughing, but watch out. You can be honest or you can be funny, but it's rare that you can do both in the same moment. And I should know! "Uh, yeah, I do mind?" Sam is, by the way, ten times hotter than he has ever been, which is ten times hotter than one single motherfucker has a right to be. "Last time I saw you, you left me high and dry in some fleabag motel in the middle of the night." She tries to say, but she can't say: too many demons between him -- the possibility he represents -- and the iron prison she finds herself into. The sunlight world of Sam, his infinite tenderness, and the darkling world of Momma's terror, thirty-some years in the making. Bring them together with your fists, you can't. Too many demons and fears and shames between.
"...That wasn't the first time. I don't have time for that kind of bullshit." She protests, to save time, that she doesn't want to "get something going" with her boss. It's the opposite of why, and how, but it's reflexive: a shield she learned from her mother (just watch) -- find the powerlines, find the ickiness, and if you lay hands on it first it's yours to command. He reminded her he was his boss, and she laughed in his face. But he's getting close to the sparks now, and the demon won't have it, so she throws that in his face. "Then why the hell are you here? And it was your big idea to have sex, not mine." She tells him, rationally, not to act like he didn't want it, but her mistake was putting the job on the table, because it's what he's afraid of -- especially since Bill, with 150 years of authority, poked him with it.