Thursday, January 18
(Franco)
"Let's go, twizzle tits!" I swear Jamie and Robbie are the slowest creatures to walk upright on two legs. Okay, that's a lie, Gus is the slowest. But considering Jamie and Robbie do everything together like they're conjoined, it doubles their slow quotient and puts them slightly ahead of Gus.
"What's on the agenda tonight?" Gus asks.
I can't help but laugh at the obscene amount of gum he's talking through. I know he started chewing gum because it's helping him quit smoking, which I'm proud of him for doing, but his new vice is fucking hilarious.
The chewing halts and he narrows his eyes at me, which only makes me laugh harder. "What, dude?"
Shaking my head through the last of the chuckles, I answer, "The gum. You're killing me with the gum, man. How many pieces are you chewing?"
His middle finger is flashed impressively quick and with the authority of someone who means it, but the, "Fuck you," that accompanies it is half-hearted and sounds more like an agreeable, "I know."
"We're going to the Y-Not. Wanna come?" The Y-Not is a little bar around the corner from the apartment we're temporarily housed in. It looks unassuming, which is so not L.A., and the name is endearingly and horrendously cheesy, which all adds up to a must-see in my book. It's a fairly new establishment, in that it wasn't here a year and a half ago when we recorded the last album.
"Nah, dude, I'm just gonna chill here. Maybe watch some shit TV and get some rest." The way he says it puts my mind at ease. I've never been so okay with being turned down in my life. Gus's past year has been the things nightmares are made of. Losing people you love is a bitch. But losing your best friend, especially someone as fucking outstanding as Kate Sedgwick, rocked him to his core. He was a hollowed-out shell going through the motions for months and months. Looking at life through lifeless eyes and seeing absolutely nothing but the void she left behind. It was devastating to watch, because a) I couldn't help him, b) I missed her too, and c) I knew the pain and loss I felt must be amplified by one thousand percent in his heart—and that kind of grief was unimaginable to even consider.
But the past two months I've witnessed life slowly breathing back into him. At first it was gradual, and I almost wanted to deny the progress I was seeing, because if he plummeted again I didn't think I could take watching it. So, I stood by with reluctant and slightly pessimistic hope that my best friend was recovering and clawing his way out of the depression that gripped him. And once the steady climb became noticeable, it skyrocketed. His confidence in his talent has never been what it should be, but the Gus I watched from behind my drum kit performing in front of me on New Year's Eve was the fucking rock star I always knew he had inside. And I don't mean a showy, cliché douche, because that will never be Gus—I mean a front man, with the confidence to back up his undeniable talent. And watching him in the studio these past couple of weeks confirmed the evolution. It's next level. I'm so proud of him.
"You ready?" Jamie asks as he and Robbie join us in the living room.
I laugh because he says it like they've been waiting on me. "I don't know..." I run my hand over the top of my freshly shaven and smooth head while showcasing my Twin Atlantic t-shirt with my other hand. "Clean shave, clean shirt, brushed my teeth, what do you think? It's not just for show."
Robbie just smirks and shakes his head because he knows I'm busting their balls. "Let's go, showboat."
Walking toward the door, I call him on it, "Damn right, I'm gonna meet someone tonight. I can feel it in my—"
Gus interrupts me, "Balls?"
"I was going to say gut...or even heart...but yeah, balls works too. Later, twat biscuit."
"See ya, dicksicle. Have fun and be safe," Gus calls as the door shuts behind us.
The air is warm tonight, and it feels good to be outside. We've been cooped up in the studio recording our second album for a couple of weeks now, and don't get me wrong I love what we're doing, playing drums is what I live for, but I also love being outside. Being in the water surfing, or walking the beach, or riding my motorcycle is where I am if I'm not playing drums. Every day we aren't on tour, I'm outside. I go a little stir crazy when I'm penned in by four walls for too long.
Jamie and Robbie are arguing with the passion of two scorned teenage girls about a video game they've been playing. I've never been much into gaming so it's like following a foreign movie without subtitles and I tune it out.
The first thing I notice about the bar when we step inside is how mellow it is. L.A. is a pretentious bitch; everything in this city is based on looks, appearances, stature, success...or a damn good fabrication of those. It's an illusion that houses nuggets of authenticity. And I feel like those nuggets are so few and far between that I gloss over them because it's too hard to distinguish the real from the fake. L.A. is not my scene, so the atmosphere in here makes me smile and forget about the people not so far away trying to be someone they're not.
"Modelo okay?" I ask Jamie and Robbie.
They give me two thumbs up because it's a little loud to talk over.
"Cuervo shot, too," Jamie mouths.
I nod, and then gesture with my chin at a door leading to a patio. "Go see if you can grab us a table out back. It's too nice to sit inside tonight."
They nod and make their way past the pool tables, through the throng and disappear out the door.
There are three bartenders: two dudes and one cute little brunette. I get her attention and smile, being the flirt that I am, and she saunters my way.
"What's it gonna be, handsome?" She's even cuter up close.
I pin my pointer finger down with my thumb and show her three digits. "Three Modelo, three Cuervo shots."
She flashes a pouty smile, all full lips, and quickly turns and walks to the other end of the bar to fill my order. My eyes drop to her ass as it comes into view moving away from me. She's wearing shorts so tiny her cheeks are hanging out. Don't get me wrong, it looks good, she's in fantastic shape that's for sure, but here's the thing...I like some modesty. I know that's weird for a twenty-six-year-old guy who has a Ph.D. in flirting, but I think a little modesty reveals humility, which is one of the sexiest traits in a woman. I like a girl who's pretty, but doesn't know it, if that makes sense. Pretty, but doesn't shove it down my throat. Unassuming does it for me. So, when the bartender returns with the shots, she's somehow made the transition from cute to an afterthought. That's how quickly I can write potential off, in a split second. I know, I'm fickle, but if I'm going to spend quality time with a woman, I want to enjoy their company. It takes all kinds to make the world go around and I've dated them all, believe me, maybe that's why I'm so damn picky. I'm not looking to settle down or fall in love, but I still treat dating like an interview process, and vet like a mofo, because crazy or high maintenance isn't something I'm willing to entertain even on a casual basis. I don't care how amazing they are in bed, it's not worth it. Needless to say, I don't date much these days.
She pops the bottle caps off the beers and places them on the bar top next to the shots and flashes her smile again. "That'll be twenty-one dollars, sugar."
I hand her twenty-five and ask if she can help me carry the beers outside. She eagerly obliges, and when Jamie eyes her walking toward their table, with me walking behind, his sober expression lights up into mischief. He's into her. The kid can't hide an emotion to save his life. He sucks at poker because, you know, no poker face. The only person he can beat is Gus, and I half think that's because Gus lets him win.
She sets the beers on the table. "Hi, boys."
"Hi," they both answer. Robbie is unimpressed with her saccharine tone. He's only into blonds, so Miss Mahogany Mane doesn't stand a chance anyway, but he's not even trying to hide his displeasure. Jamie, on the other hand, is still grinning like crazy.
She turns to me and bends over slightly, so her cleavage is strategically at eye level. "Let me know when you're ready for more, hun." It seems she's one of those people who's incapable of ending a sentence without a pet name.
I kind of hate that, too, but I'd like good service tonight and I don't need her spitting in our next round of drinks, so I wink and offer, "Sure thing."
She sashays away, ass swinging like a clock pendulum while Jamie drools.
"Wipe your chin and close your mouth, man, it's embarrassing," I say to Jamie when she's out of earshot. I'm laughing at him, God this kid kills me. He's like a mini-Gus, except they're nothing alike. They share a lot of the same personality traits, but they project them differently. They're both insanely nice and generous, but while Gus does it with an easy, it's-who-I-am attitude, Jamie is more naïve, like a baby animal that you want to protect from the fierce, vicious world outside for fear he'll get eaten alive.
Jamie's smiling because he knows I'm joking, but his eyes are still glazed over with the prospect of getting in her very tiny shorts. For being on the shy side, the kid gets his fair share of tail and then some. Chicks dig his innocence. Women are attracted to Gus and Jamie like moths to a flame. Though Gus has been converted to monogamy by Scout, and I love seeing that change in him. "What? She was hot," Jamie defends.
I nod. "She's cute." And shrug. "Not my type."
He nods slowly, and a smirk plays at his lips. "She didn't pass the test, huh?" He knows the list of shit that turns me off with women is long and getting longer by the day.
I take a long pull on my beer before I answer his taunt. "Nah, I just didn't like the fact that everyone else has seen ass-ets before I'd have a chance to unwrap them myself. She's all yours."
Robbie holds up his tequila shot. "I need to unwind. Let's get fucked up." He's a man of few words.
Jamie and I raise our shot glasses, and as the three clink together, we repeat after Robbie, "Let's get fucked up."
An hour passes in no time, and we've downed two more rounds of drinks when it starts sprinkling rain, which is pleasant until the clouds open up and it turns into a downpour chasing us inside.
I glance at my watch—it's only nine o'clock and I'm already feeling a little hazy. "You two wanna play some pool before we have another beer?" I need to slow down if I want to walk out of here tonight of my own volition, instead of carried out by my compatriots.
"Sounds good. I'll take your money. Rack 'em up," Jamie says confidently.
I'm shit at pool. I know it's a game of geometry and angles, but my mind doesn't work that way, which means I always lose. And we always play for money, so not only do I lose my dignity, but I lose cashola, too. Technically, it should be the last thing I enjoy doing, but I love it. I have a pool table at home, and I can play whenever I want, but I'm still shit even with the practice. I guess that's proof you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it.
Robbie and Jamie are both skilled, and they kick my ass quickly, jabbing me with put-downs the whole time. I accept them graciously, which is kind of unlike me not to verbally, good-naturedly poke them back, but my attention keeps being drawn to a couple sitting at a small table not far from us. They look tethered, like an invisible, giant hand is holding them down in their seats even though everything in them wants nothing more than to jump up and run for the door like the building is on fire. The guy is average in the looks department, but he looks cynical and jaded. I'd wager his day gig has him confined to a cube farm doing mundane work that has already stolen his soul and left him a cookie cutter soldier of boredom and mediocrity with no hopes or dreams. I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm good at reading people and this dude looks like he would be torture to spend five minutes with, as if he could suck the life and creativity out of you like a dementor in the Harry Potter films and you'd be left only a zombie like him. He's frowning, sulking like he's Captain in charge of the S.S. Asshole. I'm not a fighter, but I kind of want to kick his ass, because he's so blatantly treating her like an irritation.
She, on the other hand, is a completely different story. Her hair is strawberry blond, more red than yellow, and it's the first indicator of the fire housed inside. She's wearing a You Me At Six t-shirt, which has me smiling because I already like her taste in music; a determined smile that seems to be a defiant, feisty, fuck you to his lackluster and piss-poor demeanor; and leopard print flats on her feet that for some reason just scream vixen to me, and not slutty vixen, but sassy, I-dare-you vixen. She has my full attention.
I'm out of our game of three, and Robbie and Jamie are still playing, so I take a seat on a stool next to their table. I'm eavesdropping, and their conversation is sporadic and limited at best—single or two-word exchanges.
"Hungry?" She's not kissing his ass, but it's a polite attempt to relieve the awkwardness.
Which he deflects with a simple, childish, pouty, "No."
"Another drink?" She needs, more than wants, another drink to cope with her predicament, I can hear it in her voice.
"No." He really could care less if he's coming off as a dick. I hate that.
"Play pool?" She's about done. That was short and sweet and sounded annoyed as all hell.
"No," the asshole replies.
I'm straining to hear her say something else. Please say something else. Anything. Because she has a British accent that's broken and a bit rough—not the stuffy, proper, royal type. She's just gone from intriguing to downright sexy.
"Toilet." It sounds final. She points to the restrooms on the other side of the bar.
He raises his eyebrows lazily to acknowledge the announcement and continues to look miserable.
And when she stands and walks to the restroom, I follow her. She's not aware I'm following her because I'm not tailing closely, but I can take her all in. She's maybe five and a half feet tall, loose curls fall to the middle of her back, her t-shirt's oversized and knotted at her hip, and her legs are wrapped in skinny jeans. She looks casual, but fucking adorable.
I hang outside the ladies room door for her and when she exits I step in front of her and block her progress.
She looks up at me and cocks her head. "Sorry, I need to get by."
The accent? From two feet away? Directed at me? I just died. I give her my most non-threatening grin because I don't want to scare her and come off like a creeper. "You really in a rush to get back to the walking dead?"
She shakes her head adamantly, but she's trying not to smile, I can tell. "Nah, I'm in a rush to leave while the wanker's not looking. Sneaking out the back proper getaway-like."
I laugh, because just listening to her accent has my heart smiling in my chest, but her attitude has me wanting to take her outside in the rain and have a long, drawn out conversation with her to see what she's made of. "Is he your boyfriend?"
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.