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?"