by Kim Holden
She barks out a laugh. "Hardly. Blind date. My first and last blind date. Ever." She does the sign of the cross over her chest. "Swear to God."
"Come out back on the patio with me. I'll buy you a drink." I don't know why, but I need to know this woman. Need. To. I wink and add, "I promise, I'm not a wanker."
"Well, aren't you a bloody charmer. Not a wanker, huh? Not sure I believe you." Her small smile tells me otherwise. Like I said before, I'm good at reading people.
I shake my head, and all I can do is grin at her as she follows me outside. The rain's stopped, and it's muggy. I love the air after a rainstorm, it's clean and damp and fills your lungs with purpose and weight, as if it knows its job is to sustain us.
We take the only two dry chairs under an umbrella in the corner and seconds later one of the male bartenders appears. He's as flirty as his female coworker and eyeing my little Brit hard. I don't like it. "Another gin and tonic, love?" What is it with the bartenders here and their goddamn pet names?
"Nah..." and then she pauses and looks at me. "You sticking around or you leaving with your mates soon?"
I'll do whatever she wants me to do. "I'll stick around if you keep me company."
"Right then." Her eyes flash to the bartender. "Another gin and tonic with a cucumber slice please."
The bartender reluctantly looks at me, because he wants to continue visually feeling her up. I narrow my eyes for a second to let him know I'm on to him and that I'm not cool with it, and I answer, "Modelo and a shot of Cuervo."
After the bartender leaves, she laughs, and it's devilish and in stark contrast to her sweet appearance. "A tequila lad, I might be in trouble."
I raise my eyebrows. "What? You don't like tequila."
"Nah, I love it. Just seems that lads who like tequila are always a bit on the naughty side."
I laugh because she's not trying to be seductive, she's just stating a self-truth. "Is that so?"
She nods, sits back in her chair, and crosses her legs. Her foot that's suspended bounces a few times, and it's self-assured, not nerves. "Yeah, that's a fact."
Her posture tells me she's not going anywhere, but she's not exactly flirting either, so I ask, "Do I look naughty?"
She cocks her head and purses her full lips. "Mmm... I'm going to say a bit, but I think it's just the tattoos talking. Naughty enough to be fun, yeah. Proper criminal naughty, not a chance."
I smile again. "Fair assessment. Definitely naughty enough to be fun. What's your name?"
"Gemma. When I was born, my granddad took one look at me and said, 'Well, ain't she a gem.' That's how I got my name."
"I think he was right. I like it." I like everything about her so far, the name fits.
"What do they call you?"
"My name?"
She nods and smiles like I'm teasing her. "Right."
"Franco."
"Any story to go along with it?"
"Nope. My dad just liked the name, I guess. I have one brother and three sisters. My mom and dad took turns naming us. I got Dad, he liked Franco, end of story. So, what's the story with the wanker blind date?"
She looks back over her shoulder through the window. The walking dead is long gone. She lets out a sigh of relief. "A friend's brother...or maybe it was cousin...I don't remember. A mutual friend, I use that term loosely now, unbeknownst to us, set us up on a blind date. Lured us here under false pretense, introduced us, and then abandoned the most poorly matched couple ever to engage. Failure was immediate. He bought me red wine and tried to impress me with his vast knowledge of Kanye. I don't fancy either. It went straight down the shitter after that, and he got pissy I wasn't swooning over his rubbish taste in alcohol or tunes. It was a wretched reminder of why I don't date. Already trying to purge him from my memory, I guess. I'm sure he's doing the same."
I nod toward the writing on her shirt. "You like music?"
Her eyes light up. "Love it."
Not sure I want to tell her I'm in a band or not now. I'll have to feel her out. "Who are you into?"
She points to her shirt, "Obvs," and smiles so I know that wasn't meant to be rude, her pointing out the obvious. "Josh Franceschi is my future husband—he just doesn't know it yet. Catfish and the Bottlemen, Walking on Cars, and Nothing But Thieves are ace, too."
I nod. "So, basically you're only into British bands."
She blushes. "UK. Yeah, it's where my heart is, can't help it. It's in my blood." She points at my t-shirt. "Twin Atlantic are amazing too. McTrusty's accent..." She fans herself with her hand to illustrate how hot it is. "Jesus, that man can make anything sound sexy."
"But, he sounds like you. I didn't think Brits even noticed other Brits accents."
She takes a sip of her drink the too-friendly bartender just dropped off and gets a dreamy look in her eyes like she's thoroughly enjoying talking about him. "Sam McTrusty's accent is not like mine. He's Scottish. Totally different. When he sings the word generator, it sounds like sex. When I say generator, it sounds like...well...generator. Nothing special."
"Oh, it sounds special." I wink, because goddamn does it ever. "How long have you been in the states?"
"Round about a year now. My work visa is almost up and then that's me back home next week."
"Where's home?" It crushes me a little to ask, because even though I don't know her, I don't know why but I don't want her to leave.
"Little town in northern England between Manchester and Liverpool." There's clear cut fondness and pride in her eyes when she says it. She takes another sip of her drink and I can't take my eyes off her lips. "You from here? Los Angeles?"
I shake my head. "God, no. I'm from San Diego."
"Ah, San Diego, heard of it but haven't been. I really haven't been out of L.A."
"I'm sorry," I apologize with a smile, so she knows I'm kidding. Sort of.
She smiles, too, and it matches mine—apologetic. "Yeah, I'm not too keen on L.A. I miss my small town. It's a bit mental here." She nods in my direction. "What're you doing here, then?"
I make the decision to tell her. "I'm in a band. We're here working for a few weeks."
She narrows her eyes like she's not sure she believes me. "You're winding me up?"
Laughing, I answer her suspicion, "No, I'm serious. I'm in a band."
A sly look sinks into her eyes, and I don't know what it means. Is she impressed, or does she still think I'm lying and she's caught me? "Working? What do you mean, like playing gigs?"
I shake my head. "No, recording an album."
An innocent smile is bleeding through and it's transparent. She's impressed. She believes me. "What's your band called?"
I'm holding my breath for some reason. I'm hoping she's never heard of us; I hate groupies. "Rook."
She lifts one shoulder slightly and paired with the look on her face it says I'm sorry before she even opens her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't know that one. What do you play? What instrument?"
I'm not offended. I'm so not offended. "It's okay, we're not British. I wouldn't expect you to have heard of us." Her cheeks redden, but her smile softens, and I continue. "And I play the drums."
That devilish laugh bubbles up again. "I was right then about you, a bit naughty."
I raise my eyebrows and neither confirm nor deny.
She glances at her watch. "Bollocks!" She's already standing and pushes in her chair, looking flustered.
"What's wrong?"
Wiping sweat from her brow that isn't there, she says, "It's my roommate's dog. She's sick, and my roommate's out of town at a funeral, and I was supposed to give her medicine thirty minutes ago."
She's genuinely distressed and that makes me sad because she's, you know, distressed, but also a little happy because I know she's telling the truth and this isn't an excuse to blow me off. "Listen, I realize that dating is off the table because you're completely repulsed by it at the minute due to the wanker, and geography will eventually make it impossible anyway, but can I call you? See you again?
No expectations, we'll just have fun while we're both here."
The terror fades and her eyes brighten. "I'd like that."
I take out my phone and hand it to her, and she quickly types her number in. I text her, Hi, and she smiles when her phone chimes from her pocket.
"Can I walk you to your car?"
"Oh, nah, I don't have a car. I walked. I just live in the apartments 'round the corner."
I shake my head and inwardly cringe that she just divulged that personal information to a stranger. "You shouldn't tell a dude you just met where you live. I could be a serial killer."
She smiles that confident smile. "But you're not, naughty boy. I thought we already confirmed that."
I grin. "Can I walk you home then, since I already know where you live?"
"Yeah, I suppose so. I don't usually walk alone after dark."
Robbie and Jamie are still playing pool when we walk back through the bar, and by the looks of it, they're hustling two middle-aged dudes. I tell them I'll be back in fifteen minutes and they both slap me on the shoulder, it's a Get 'em, Tiger! gesture, but they hold back on words, thank God.
The walk is fast paced. She's worried about the dog. When we get to her door, I make a mental note of her apartment. Number 215. I point across the parking lot. "We're in 171."
She nods and repeats, "171, got it."
This is a little unusual, because I want nothing more than to kiss her, along with a few other things, but I'm nervous. I'm never nervous around women. I know how to handle myself.
Her eyes are searching me up and down. "Listen, Franco, I'm honestly usually not this forward, so don't think badly of me for asking, but I need to medicate the dog. Your lips are lovely, and it's been a really long time since I've been properly kissed..." She pauses and embarrassment and bravery duke it out in her lopsided grin. Bravery wins and she continues, "Are we going to snog, or shall I just go in?"
I throw my head back in laughter and then I take her face in my hands and look her in the eyes. "You're fucking perfect, you know that?"
Her head nods between my hands and she winks. "I tend to agree with you."
And then I kiss her and her mouth has the same effect on me that her accent does. I'm lost in it. She's not shy, her hands are resting on my hips, but as the kiss deepens arms snake around me and she holds me tight.
I have to remind myself this is only a kiss and this isn't going any further than a kiss. My dick, on the other hand because it's been a long ass time, wants more. It's begging for it. The walk back to the bar is going to be uncomfortable at best.
I've decided that I want to live like this, my mouth attached to hers, forever. Because not only is her tongue driving me mad, but the sounds she's making are blowing my mind. It's not moaning, it's not heavy breathing, it's not whimpering...it's just pleasure. That's the only way I can describe it. She's with me completely. We're both feeling it, and she's not ashamed to let me know exactly how into this she is. And when I feel the minute shifts of her body against mine, I know I need to let her get inside to the dog, or there's going to be an embarrassing, but damn satisfying, dry humping session on her doorstep.
Grudgingly, I break the kiss and stare in her eyes.
She returns the unabashed stare and licks her lips. "Right. Guess we're going to snog then."
I want to kiss her again so goddamn bad. My hands are still tangled in her hair, and it would be so easy to lower my face to hers, but instead I say, "You'd better get inside to the dog."
She nods very slowly; it's dubious agreement. "Damn dog."
I kiss the tip of her nose before I release her. "I'll call you tomorrow, Gemma."
"You'd better. And I was right," she says while she unlocks her door.
"About what?" I can't wait to hear what she says.
"Definitely the fun kind of naughty." She winks and opens the door. "Night, Franco."
"Night, Gem."
Her fingers wiggle a goodbye before the door shuts.
Fucking hell.
That's all I'm thinking.
Fucking hell.
I feel like I've lost it.
And not in a bad way.
I have to close my eyes for a minute and regain my senses because she's stripped me down in such a basic elemental way. A few hours ago I wasn't thinking about much, just trying to clear my mind and have a good time out with the boys. And then Gemma appears and blows everything apart like a grenade. I felt her with everything inside me. It was like she set fire to a pile of kindling with her presence and I was standing right in the middle of the pyre, being devoured quickly and thoroughly.
And now I can't think about anything else but her.
She makes me happy.
And horny.
And everything else in between.
I can't wipe the smile off my face. I usually smile. But this? This is the kind of smile that will take hours to fade. My cheeks hurt already. And I fucking love it.
When I return to the bar Jamie and Robbie rib me. I don't give it back. I don't give them anything except my gigantic Gemma-induced smile. And they laugh at me. And I don't fucking care.
We drink another round. Or three.
Jamie and Robbie play another round of pool. Or three.
It's late, or rather early when we head back to the apartment. I've had my fill of alcohol and I'm relaxed. My extremities feel loose and detached as if sleep is already settling in, but the core of me, my mind and my organs, are still buzzing with the excitement of the evening.
The boys are still giving me shit as I unlock the door of our apartment and we're all laughing as we walk in. For a second I think I should shush them, because we're all drunk, and loud, and Gus is probably sleeping, until Gus walks out of the kitchen in his underwear carrying a glass of milk. And the sly smile on his face tells me he's up to something. Or was up to something. It's obvious he's had a stellar night too.
"You should've come with us tonight, scrote. I met a wild little strawberry blond from Northern England named Gemma. She's got a penchant for leopard print, You Me At Six, and gin. She's perfect. Got her number. A good time was had by all." I'm phishing. I know if I share, so will he and I want to know what that goddamn smile means. I love seeing him this happy again. And then I catch a whiff of something heavenly, and I know exactly who put that smile there and what he's been up to. And my stomach is growling because I know there are cookies in this apartment. And I know who baked them. Which means they're the most delicious cookies within a five hundred mile radius, because that girl can bake. I need cookies. "Was Scout here? Where're the cookies?"
Jamie breaks me from my bloodhound-like response to the scent when he says, "Holy shit, what happened to the table? And the wall?"
I look down to the small table next to the door, and the drywall is history. It took some punishment from the table, which looks like it didn't fare so well either.
Gus's eyebrows lift in an admission of irreproachable guilt. The guy never hides anything, I love that about him. He's the real deal and doesn't hide from what's going on in his mind. It reflects in his expressions because he doesn't filter. He doesn't mask. "Girl Scout may have stopped by tonight to deliver some cookies."
That explains the property damage. The table versus drywall debauchery makes perfect sense now, Scout didn't make it two steps inside the door before it was on like Donkey Kong. Good for him. Good for them. But I poke him anyway because it's kind of my job as his best friend. "That doesn't explain the property damage."
He raises his glass of milk and shrugs in true Gus, easygoing form and says, "Let's just say they were really good cookies. Excellent even. Probably the best cookies I've ever had," as he walks away in victory toward his bedroom.
And fucking hell.
Now I'm thinking about Gemma again.
And how I would give anything...anything...to taste her cookies.
Friday, January 19
(Franco)
We've been in the studio all day. And all day I've be
en on my game, focused on the music. But the moment we all climb in my truck to head back to the apartment I'm thinking about Gemma. And the fact that she's the first woman in a long time to wind me up like this.
I know she's only here for a few more days, but I can't stop thinking about her. And I don't think last night was a one-sided attraction; that kiss was a sincere connection. A physical act so blistering it couldn't have been faked. She was into me.
Fuck it.
I'm texting her when we get home.
I text from my truck in the apartment parking lot, Dinner tonight? because apparently, I'm already obsessed with this woman and can't wait another two minutes until I'm inside.
I'm holding my phone in my hand, staring at the screen, like some lovelorn sap from a chick flick, waiting for an immediate response. "Chill the fuck out, dude," I say it out loud. It's a reminder to stop acting like a goddamn hyper puppy.
My phone pings in my hand before I step over the threshold, so I shut the apartment door and step back out into the parking lot. I close my eyes and take a deep breath because my heart is racing in my chest. It's that rare pounding that reminds me that I'm alive, and more than that, it reminds me that another human being can create need and want and lust in an instant so intense that it's a drumroll beneath my ribs. It should be terrifying, but it's not.
Gemma: I've eaten. I have leftovers if you want to come over.
My feet are walking to 215 before I've read if you want to come over. My hand is raised, poised to knock on the door, and I'm still three steps away.
Two steps away the door opens.
I guess we're both anxious.
And there stands Gemma. In leopard print shorts and a black tank top with a union jack flag on the front. It only reinforces everything else about her that screams subtle sophistication. I'm one who defines sophistication as setting oneself apart from the rest of the crowd. And not in a douchey, I'm-too-good-for-you manner—but worldly, unique, classy. Classy is all about the way a woman carries herself. And Gemma can rock the hell out of classy in a pair of animal print shorts and a tank top.
