"Simple, white v-neck tee—that hugs you quite nicely I might add—is always classic. You look handsome." When she raises and wiggles her eyebrows, it puts my mind at ease.
Gemma gives directions while I drive and we talk about what happened in our lives today in between.
"It's there on the right. The white building. Take a right at the corner and park around back in the lot."
Holy.
Shit.
It's spectacular.
And not just because I know the woman sitting in the cab of my truck in the seat next to me designed it. It's breathtaking and stands out, even in a city like Los Angeles that's known for its distinctive architecture. It's bright white. Three stories of angles that look like they shouldn't structurally work together, but they do. And though it's supremely modern, it's not sterile. There's a softness about it that's inviting, luring you, like you somehow know that nothing but beauty is housed within.
When I park, we both get out and I meet Gemma with an outstretched hand at the rear of my truck.
She gladly accepts it and looks at me with a shaky smile. "Is it strange that I'm nervous?"
"No. You created art that's about to be judged in real time, by real people. That's scary." It is. Any artist can relate, no matter the medium. I rub the back of her hand that I'm already holding with my free hand, and then squeeze it between both of mine so she knows I'm here for her. "They're going to love it though. You have nothing to worry about, if the outside is any indication of what's inside." I stop and point at the building. "Look at it, Gem. You did that. That's fucking impressive as hell. I'm not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but I've traveled all over, seen a lot of cool ass stuff, but I've never seen anything like that. It's incredible."
Her nerves diminish when she flashes her smile. "I needed to hear that, thanks."
"You're welcome, badass architect. Now come on, let's go party and celebrate you and your kickass creation."
She laughs. "I should've warned you, other than the crew involved in construction, this will probably only be people involved in funding the project. Partying will likely be limited to champagne, fancy little hors d'oeuvres I can't pronounce, and stuffy uncomfortable conversation. I'm sorry if I gave the impression it would be fun."
I wink. "I can make anything fun, Gem." I can, especially with her.
The entry is expansive, high ceilings, and lots of windows. It's bright and warm and welcoming. There are a few clusters of people standing near the doors. I'm guessing they're the guests who lean toward the anti-social side of the gauge and are counting down the minutes until they can make an exit. Gemma knows the first two dudes we pass.
"Hiya," she lilts. The rise and fall of her voice within two syllables is almost childlike, innocent and sweet, denoting kindness. She isn't fake. She doesn't go out of her way to be nice. She just is.
One grunts, he looks only half engaged in the land of the living, like wakefulness is waning and he's on the verge of falling asleep. The other makes up for his lack of enthusiasm and then some. "Hi, Gemma." Eyes blinking so rapidly it makes me dizzy and a crazed smile to match, he's the picture of nervous, prepubescent boy crushing hard on the cute girl walking by. Except he's probably forty. And it's fucking creepy.
"Don't take any candy from that one," I whisper in her ear as we continue walking. "Or get in his van if he offers you a ride."
She doesn't even try to hold back her approving giggle. "Noted. I need to use the toilet before we go in. Want to grab us some drinks?" she asks pointing at a table near the front doors with glasses of champagne and expensive bottled water.
I bow deeply. "Consider me your servant for the day."
Eyes twinkling, she flirts. "Oh, I quite like that. Are you good with commands, squire?"
"I'd love nothing more than to accommodate all of your needs tonight." I would.
"All the needs?" she asks.
I nod.
"Wow. You're going to be busy, naughty American boy."
While I'm waiting on Gemma, two women walk through the entry a few feet from me. One is incredibly tall and the other incredibly short. The tall one is holding a cell phone in one hand and immediately picks up a glass of champagne in the other, her heels clicking against the polished stone floor. The short one looks like she's trying to stay out of Tall's spotlight, her sensible footwear moving her along silently like a shadow.
A woman jogs out to greet them, the rush is exaggerated to make the guests feel overly welcome and significant. The self-important look on Tall's face tells me she expects this treatment. They shake hands and the jogger looks like she's addressing royalty. "So nice to meet you, Miss Rolff." Tall looks disinterested and tired and says nothing in response. Bitch.
Short is trailing behind them at a distance like she's trying to blend into the background and not be seen, when her purse slips from her shoulder and spills some of its contents on the floor. I'm already heading her way to help her because she looks humiliated, and before she can drop to her knees to pick it up, I'm there.
"I've got it," I say while picking up her wallet, a package of tissue, keys, a tampon, and a Milky Way candy bar.
Her cheeks explode into a riot of red when she looks up at me. "Thank you. Very much. Thank you. Thank you." She's stumbling nervously over her words, avoiding eye contact.
I don't want to make her more uncomfortable, so I don't push it. Tall is now perched—yes, she's not sitting, she's perched—on a stool talking to the jogger twenty feet away, the glass of champagne in her hand already emptied. It's a showy display to attract attention. I have none to give and turn to look again at Short. "Want one?" I offer her one of the glasses of champagne in my hand and smile so she knows I'm not messing with her. I also smile so I don't look threatening because Gus always tells me I look like I'm about to annihilate someone when I'm not smiling.
She nods, accepts the drink, and whispers, "Thanks. Thanks a lot." My guess is she's a nervous repeater.
Gemma's smiling approvingly at me when I return to her. "Your mum raised a nice lad, you know that?"
"I'll tell her you said so. The poor girl dropped all her shit. I felt bad for her."
Before I can go on, someone is standing next to Gemma with their hand on her shoulder. "Gemma, the museum is phenomenal."
"Thanks, Jeremy. You remember my friend Franco?" It's a cheery introduction.
Jeremy. Her roommate. He looks different sober, not hunched over vomit on the floor, or face-down prone on the couch. He's bashful. "Afraid I made a horrible impression. I'm sorry, Franco. It's nice to officially meet you though."
I shake his hand. "No worries, I'm sorry to hear about your mom."
He nods solemnly. "Thank you."
Gemma segues the sad conversation into happy territory. "Jeremy is a photographer and is shooting the museum opening for a magazine article and for my firm to add to our portfolio."
"A photographer. Awesome. Do you do any portrait photography?"
"I started in this industry working for a fashion magazine. I've since transitioned to architecture and landscape because the subject is a little less high maintenance and easier to work with."
His candid answer draws a knowing huff of laughter from me. "Understood." But I have to ask, "Would you be interested in doing it again? I'm in a band and we need a photographer from time to time for promo."
He nods. "Sure. Yeah, it would be fun to dabble in it again with the right people."
"Do you have a card?" Good photographers are hard to find and if Gem thinks highly of him that's good enough for me.
He pulls one from his wallet and hands it to me with an offer of genuine thanks. I like this dude.
"Thanks, man. I'll pass this on to our management."
With a tip of his head, he says, "Thanks, I appreciate it." And then adds, "It was nice to meet you, Franco. I'd better get back to work. Great job, Gemma. It's a pleasure to shoot—a true work of art."
Her smile is gracious as she accepts the compliment
. "Thank you."
Over the next hour we walk all three floors. Gemma is stopped frequently and offered words of praise and compliments. She's in high demand, everyone knows this project is her baby and wants to talk to her. You can tell the difference between the people who worked hands on with her every day versus the money people who are meeting her for the first time. The investors are impressed with her work, but expect to be commended in return for their contribution and overabundance of cash in the bank. I'm not down with that. Gemma isn't either. She's polite but we quickly move on from them in favor of the stone masons, or drywallers, or HVAC dudes, who are more down to earth.
On our way back down to the first floor I stop in the restroom. On my way out, someone has his lips on my little Brit's cheek. Lips that linger a beat too long for my liking and leave her looking beyond uncomfortable. He's drunk.
"Hello, sunshine," I hear him slur as I approach. Judging by what I've seen already, I'd wager he's an investor, but he's talking to her like he's familiar with her.
"Mr. Knott," she says curtly. She's already annoyed with this ass.
He's dressed in clothes that are supposed to say, I don't give a fuck and that makes me cooler than Jesus. But it's obvious he's trying too hard, because all I'm hearing is, I do give a fuck, lots and lots of fucks. In fact, I want everyone to notice how many fucks I give, and that makes me a douche canoe.
I tip my chin in greeting and insert myself in the conversation. "How's it going?"
He looks from me to Gemma without acknowledging me first. Clearly, his mom and my mom didn't teach manners the same way.
She jumps in to smooth over what's already awkward, thanks to him. "Mr. Knott, this is my date, Franco Genovese."
Mr. Knott shrugs, trying to look unconcerned, but there's unease in the motion. He's stiff as a suit of armor. I'm guessing he's asked Gemma out and been denied in the past. A fake smile is plastered on his lips like he borrowed it from someone else and it doesn't fit, when he turns his head to address me. "Franco, is it?"
It usually takes a lot to rile me up, but this dude has my number. Everything about him makes me want to kick him in his designer dress pant clad nads. "Yeah. Franco."
Someone taps Gemma on the shoulder and she turns from our debacle to hug the woman behind her and say hello.
Mr. Knott, the thundercunt, is looking me over and it's obvious he doesn't like what he sees. I guess my tattoos aren't worthy. Fuck him. Tattoos are always worthy. "It's all so clear now. I didn't realize Miss Hendricks had an affinity for blue collar. That explains a lot." That was a jab at me. And at her. This fool is drunk off his ass. And a pathetic, poor loser. That's a bad combo.
"Dude. Slow your roll. Seriously. I'm here to celebrate Gemma and her work." And because I can't help it, I add, "And fan her, or feed her grapes, or massage her, if need be, she's worked hard the past year." I doubt this guy gets humor, but I need a little bit of it to diffuse the tension. And Gem's panic. She's just turned around and entered the conversation again and her big eyes look like they're about to leap from their sockets.
He grunts or huffs, I can't tell which, so I'll call it a gruff. He's not amused and the gruff was him establishing dominance. I'm waiting for him to piss on her to mark her and just get it over with. Taking her hand, I walk us away before this deteriorates into physical contact and I drop this fucker and his disrespect to the floor.
"Thanks, Franco. He's Associate Curator and been a pain in my arse the past few months. The spoilt brat doesn't like to be turned down," she whispers as we walk down the stairs.
"I got that, loud and clear. He's an asshole," I say.
Once we reach the main level, Gemma wants to leave, I can tell she's about at the end of her polite rope, but I think she feels obligated, as the face of her company, to stay a little longer. Endless small talk with acquaintances and strangers is exhausting. The people she worked closest with and liked were here early on and have left. All that remains are the awkward interactions.
"Can we go out to the entry and grab another glass or four of champagne?" Yup, she's looking for backup.
"Absolutely. I'm a big guy, you want to stand in the corner and I'll stand in front of you and shield you from the room for a while?" Solutions are my specialty.
She laughs appreciatively at my protective tone. "I may take you up on that."
We take a seat on two stools in the corner instead. The entry is empty except for Tall and Short from earlier.
Tall wanders our way. She's swaying on her stilettos and I'm worried she's going to go down hard any second. It would serve her right for abandoning her friend earlier. Short is trailing behind and looks embarrassed.
Tall stops in front of us. She looks weary and I'm positive alcohol isn't the only thing in her system, she's clearly in the midst of a drug-induced fog. She introduces herself to Gemma first. "I'm Catarina Rolff. My father, Mark Rolff, is a significant donor to the museum. He's in Dubai on business and sent me in his place." She holds up her hand to cup around her mouth like she's about to say something discreet but fails to lower her voice. "This party is fucking boring. All stuffy old guys." She directs the comment at Gemma, as if they're in cahoots, before her eyes flit to me and she skips Gemma's end of the introduction. Dilated eyes are lewdly slithering over me in an act of undisguised leering that makes my skin crawl. "Who are you?" she finally asks, the question lacking even a hint of grace.
I don't answer. My grace is gone too.
Gemma ignores the outburst, as well. I think we're both hoping she'll walk away if we don't say anything.
Tall tries again. "I know you. How do I know you?"
"We don't know each other," I assure her.
"Have we met at a party? You look familiar," her speech is as lazy as her attention span.
I shake my head. "Nope, pretty sure we haven't."
Gemma is trying to hide a smile, the fact that she's not the focus of creepy attention is entertaining her. Plus, she's never seen me get recognized in public and I think she's picked up on the fact that that's what's about to go down, in train wreck form, no less.
It's quiet for several seconds and then another subdued outburst is unleashed, "You're in that band! What's the name?" She's snapping her fingers slowly because coordination isn't up to par due to her self-medication.
"He's the drummer for Rook," Gemma answers proudly for me. Yup, she's having fun with this. I sit back and wait to see what more she has in store.
Tall claps her hands once like she's just discovered the answer to all the problems of the cosmos. "Yes! I fucking knew it! Rook! I saw you guys play last fall in..." she pauses so long I assume she's lost her train of thought, "Brooklyn, I think."
I nod. "That so?"
That's when the shift from a curiosity to a conquest happens again, because suddenly I'm somebody worth knowing due to the fame element. I fucking hate that. "I'll give you my number. I have a suite at the Hilton, you should stop by tonight."
Not if you were the last woman on Earth. "I have a date." When I look at Gemma she looks like she wants to break the champagne flute in her hand and shank her with it. Repeatedly. In the face. She also looks smug because I just brushed the hot mess off without a second thought.
Tall's laugh is dry, evil. "She doesn't have to know, love."
"Cat's out of the bag. She's the gorgeous woman sitting right in front of you. And she deserves an apology, that was rude," I add. Before she snatches you bald and I cheer her on for doing so, I want to interject, but I don't.
The smile that emerges isn't apologetic, or embarrassed. It oozes superiority. "Sorry."
Gem's raging, I can see it in her eyes, but she replies sweetly, "Oh, don't feel sorry for me. His cock is massive." The wink that she adds is priceless.
I have to cover my face with my hand because I can't stifle the laughter.
As Tall turns and slinks off unabashed to the champagne table for a refill, I hold my palm up facing her and whisper, "Remind me not to fight your battles
for you from now on, killer. That was classic."
She high fives me. "Stupid slag. Can you believe the nerve of her?" She's still fuming.
"Nope." I offer her the bowl of mixed nuts on the table, which she refuses with a cute scrunched up nose. So I kiss her on the side of her head instead. "Some people just suck. We should introduce her to Mr. Knott."
She laughs reluctantly. "They'd be a proper match." And then the giggle turns sincere. "I might've taken it a step too far broadcasting the size of your tool."
"That was my favorite part. Can you say cock again? Please?" I may be toying with her now, but it was hot.
"Cock," she says it so slowly it sounds like two syllables.
Pointing to the server walking through the room with little goodies on a tray, I say, "Me and my massive cock are just gonna go grab us a snack. We'll be right back."
She smiles. "You do that. And be careful with that thing."
I'm still laughing as I stop the dude and relieve him of two napkins topped with what looks like bruschetta.
When I return, Short is apologizing to Gemma for Tall's behavior. Tall, or Stupid Slag, as she'll forever be known in my memory, is a model. Short is her personal assistant. Her name is Helena.
We chat up Helena for a few minutes and she's definitely a nervous repeater, but when she relaxes a little she's witty. We cover a few topics before her cheeks burst into flame and she quietly tells me she's a Rook fan and asks for my autograph. She's a cool girl. I sign a dollar bill she digs out of her purse, because she doesn't have any paper.
"The rest of the band's not here, are they?" Helena asks shyly, but hopefully.
"Nope. Hoping for a glimpse of the blond wonder, huh?" Females love Gus, it's a scientific fact.
She shrugs unevenly. That's a yes.
"We could call Gus if you want?"
Her back straightens stiff and tall and she's shaking her head briskly. But just as quickly she freezes and asks, "Really?"
"Sure. We'll Facetime him; you can say hi."
Her eyes are darting around the room like pinballs as she thinks it over. "Really?" she asks again.