"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.