by Kim Holden
"Sure."
"Do it, Helena. Gus's nice, you should talk to him," Gemma encourages. There's a bubble of calm that surrounds Gemma and I love being on the inside of it. Helena is feeling it too. Gemma has a gift for putting people at ease. Her charisma is rare, not many people I've come across can draw people in like she can, even complete strangers. Just being around her makes me unbelievably happy. She's sunshine in a human.
Helena nods enthusiastically. "Let's do it."
I dial Gus immediately so Helena doesn't have time to talk herself out of it. I'm just going to spring the dude on her.
When his face appears on my screen, I cut him off because he's on speaker and I don't need Helena overhearing the no doubt crude, but creative, greeting he'll produce. "Hey, Gus."
He looks puzzled. I rarely call him Gus, so I automatically have his attention. "What's up with Facetime, dude?"
"Can't a guy just Facetime for no reason?"
He ignores my answer and continues as if I didn't say anything. "Are you with Nana? Lemme talk to her, her favorite great grandson wants to say hello." The last time I Facetimed Gus I was at the nursing home visiting my great grandma, who adores Gus like he's one of her own. She wanted to say hi to him because she hadn't seen him in a while.
"I'm not with Nana. But I am with someone who wants to say hello." I stand next to Helena and she goes stone still when she sees Gus on my cell. "Gus, this is Helena. Helena, this is Gus."
Gus smiles and tips his chin. "S'up, Helena?"
She raises her hand to wave. She's nervous as hell but her grin is ear to ear. "Ohmygod," she whispers.
"Helena is a Rook fan, man. She's a new friend of Gem and me." I turn the phone toward Gemma so he can see her. They trade salutations.
"Hola, Gemma."
"Hiya, Gus."
And then I turn back to Helena and me.
Gus joins in because he's nice and always knows what to say. "Any friend of Gemma and Franco's is a friend of mine."
We all talk for ten minutes, and by the end Helena is perhaps the happiest woman in the state of California. Gus and I have promised to send her Rook t-shirts, signed vinyl, and two VIP tickets for the L.A. show of our upcoming tour for her and her sister, who's also a fan.
After the Mr. Knott, Stupid Slag downers, the night ended on a good note.
As we're leaving, I take Gemma's hand in mine and stroke the back with my thumb. "Thanks for sharing your creation and talent with me, Gem. It was an honor to be there holding your hand tonight."
She smiles. "Thanks for your kind words. Your approval means a lot to me. And ditto, it was an honor to be there holding your hand tonight. I thought Helena was going to cry, you and Gus made her so happy. It was lovely."
"The woman deserved a medal of honor for putting up with Stupid Slag, it was a small consolation to call Gus and give her some tickets. It was probably no different than watching people fawn all over you tonight. People love you, Gem. I hope you realize that. You put out this light that people can't resist being drawn to. That's a gift."
She smiles. "I meant what I said earlier tonight, your mum raised a good lad."
"And your dad raised a good woman." He did.
Thursday, January 25
(Franco)
It's the big man's birthday today.
Gus is twenty-three.
Here's a little fact about Gus. He's a t-shirt whore. He loves them. So a few years back Jamie, Robbie, and I started gifting Gus the most horrendous t-shirt we could find on his birthday. Here's another thing about Gus—if he receives something as a gift, he'll wear it no matter what because he's sentimental as hell and he honestly doesn't give a shit if people laugh at him. I think he looks forward to seeing what kind of abomination we can come up with to celebrate his big day now that it's become tradition. Last year was downplayed because it was the month from hell, so this year the boys and I have been searching high and low for just the right tee to make up for it.
The laugh Gus barks out when he unwraps his gift tells us we brought the thunder and then some. "Oh shit, you've outdone yourselves." He immediately strips off the one he's wearing, shrugs on the birthday tee, and then spins in a circle to model for us.
Jamie turns to me and looks defeated. "It doesn't even look that bad on him. What the fuck?"
"He's too fucking pretty, Jamie. That's the problem." I have to laugh because only Gus could pull off a mint green t-shirt with a taco eating cat riding a unicorn on the front, and not look like a complete asshole. "We'll try harder next year. There's a shirt out there that's going to make him look awful and we're going to find it, goddammit."
Robbie tosses a bag at him, it's the other half of our gift. "And because we're enablers. Happy birthday, Gus."
Gus catches it and peeks in the bag. "You shitheads are too good to me. Thanks. This should last me a few days." It's fifty packs of gum. Literally, fifty. And he's not exaggerating, it will probably only last him a few days the way he burns through it.
We sing "Happy Birthday" to him, and stop at the donut shop on the way into the studio because it's the closest thing we'll get to cake today. We've got a long day planned out and lots to get done trying to get the last few songs fine-tuned before we go back to the apartment tonight.
MFDM can't look at Gus with the damn cat shirt on with a straight face the entire day. That alone was worth it.
Day made.
Friday, January 26
(Franco)
We went surfing early this morning at Trestles. Rented boards and wetsuits, because we all needed to unwind and get in the water. Surfing is critical to wellbeing for all of us, being away from it for too long manifests itself in negative ways. Riding, being one with the ocean, appreciating nature, is religion for me. The guys are much the same. It was an hour well spent. Therapy.
And besides the restorative, zen-like aspects, a sea lion popped up in the water two feet from Gus and he screamed like a terrified little girl. It was priceless. A spectacle that everyone within thirty feet of us in the water thoroughly enjoyed. Gus was heckled by friends and strangers alike, with absolutely no mercy. It's a good thing he's such a good sport.
Our last day as a band in the studio was gold after that.
The perfect ending. We're all happy. You know it's gone well if we're all happy. It's not that we're tough to please, we just have high standards. So, when we've reached a certain level of agreement, it's a sign that the planets have aligned, and the rock gods have blessed the project.
We picked up some tacos and a case of beer on the way back to our temporary home. A quiet celebration ensued on the balcony of the apartment. Redemption, in so many ways, is a reality.
Gus went to bed early because he has to be back in the studio to record a final guitar track early in the morning. He held off on it so his girlfriend and her cousin could be there with him.
Jamie and Robbie got in some Xbox time. Which is vital to their existence.
And me? I walked over to see Gemma.
She asked me to spend the night again.
I couldn't say no.
We're getting attached. I love it because I haven't felt this way about a woman in a very long time, if ever. And that scares me because deep down I know it's deceptive optimism. We will end. In a matter of hours when I leave in the morning, most likely. I'm trying not to think about it but I know it's true. Until then, I'm an ostrich sticking my head in the sand and choosing to blow off imminent reality. I've never done that before and it's a daily effort to ignore my nagging, doomsday subconscious.
When she flips off her bedroom light, I tell the realist in me to back the fuck off and I strip down to my boxer briefs and crawl into her bed.
She meets me under the sheets. And she's all skin. Every inch of her is bare. Guess the Biebs won't be spending quality time with us tonight.
It's instantaneous. I'm hard. The kind of hard that begs, kicking and screaming for contact and slow, gratifying, explosive relief.
"Franco?" s
he whispers timidly.
"Yeah, Gem?"
"Thank you for making my last days in L.A. memorable."
"I know realistically we'll probably never see each other again after tomorrow, Gem, but I just want you to know that it has been a pleasure spending time with you this week. I hope every last one of your dreams comes true. Because you deserve it."
"I wish the same for you. And I want you to know that I don't get naked for just anyone. It's been almost two years. Normally, I wouldn't be so bold," she confesses sweetly.
"I'm pretty fucking hot, I know that's damn hard to resist," I tease.
"God, I'm glad the lights are off. It's embarrassing how hot my cheeks are."
"Are you blushing?" I ask. I wish I could see it.
"A bit. Promise it won't hinder my enthusiasm though."
Holy shit, as if I wasn't already excited by this prospect. "One more thing." We're both lying on our sides facing each other. My hand seeks out her hip and rests there because I can't help touching her. My thumb brushing back and forth, is a barometer of the desire that's building.
She scoots forward until her breasts are pressed against my chest. "What's that, naughty American boy?"
I inch forward to meet her, until the rest of me is touching the rest of her. Everything housed inside my underwear is viciously berating me, Why didn't you shed the chonies, you moron! "I would fucking love to wholeheartedly earn that title tonight." I roll my hips into her.
A kiss butterflies playfully across my lips. "And because I'm a team player, I would love to help you in any way I can." She drapes her leg over mine and the grinding becomes a two-player game. The length of me rubbing against her sweet spot.
My hand is exploring, the small of her back, and then to the curve of her ass. "Damn, that's generous of you."
Her lips find my neck. Soft kisses alternate between the trace of her tongue and gentle nips of her teeth. "Can I tell you something?"
Fingers splayed, I give her backside a satisfying squeeze that makes us both sigh. "You can do anything you want, Gem. Anything."
"I've never known a man that lights me up quite like you do. My lady parts are in a fucking riot at the minute." When she pulls back, I want to vocalize that my man parts are likewise in the middle of a goddamn revolution...but she strips my underwear off and her hand wraps me in a carnal cuddle. And the stroking that ensues is the thing fantasies are made of.
"Fuck." It's a low, guttural, release of pure pleasure. "We should definitely address the riot and make sure its demands are heard and fully acted on." Rolling her to her back, I climb on top.
My mouth descends on hers. And hell yes, we're a fucking team. This kiss is different. Kissing in the nude always is. A naked body stirs everything into a goddamn frenzy. Need, anticipation, and raging desire make it next level intense.
But this?
Gemma and I?
We're nuclear.
One hand snakes under her head and winds up in her hair, the other greedily palms her breast. Lips are still engaged in the fray. The mouth is a magnificent tool to communicate intimacy—kissing, licking, sucking, nipping—it's screaming, I'm so fucking into you, without saying a word.
And it's at this moment that I wish I had more than five senses to relate to her with. I want more of her. I can't get enough.
I'm settled in between her legs, slowly creating friction. We've both hit the fucking roof, arousal seems an amateur term for what's driving us.
"Franco," she pants, "I'm going to lose my fucking mind." She's pleading for more.
Even though the last thing I want to do is leave this bed, I'm with her on the losing my fucking mind if fucking doesn't commence soon thing. I retrieve a condom from the pocket of my shorts on the floor, tear it open, and roll it on.
Climbing back on at the foot of the bed, I take an ankle in each hand and spread them wide. Fingertips tease the soles of her feet before trailing up her shins. Over her knees. To her thighs.
She quivers.
"Feel good?" I ask.
Approval is in the form of a moan, "Mmm hmm."
"What about this?" I trace the line of her upper thigh.
"Even better."
"And this?" Teeth take to the flesh of her inner thigh. Enough pressure to apply stinging pressure, before soothing it with my tongue, and a kiss.
"God, yes." Breaths grow shallow.
"And then there's this..." My thumb circles, replaced by my tongue. Parting her, I ease up and down once to tease her. Jesus, she tastes good.
Words are lost in the hum she emits and it's so damn sexy.
"I'm going to play with your body all night if you keep making sounds like that." That's me groveling for more.
She repeats the hum and it's like a flame introduced to gasoline.
I scale her body until our mouths connect. Kissing is clashing. It's needy and aggressive. Any hint of sweetness in this woman has been consumed by vixen. And I fucking love it.
Her nails are raking my back.
I'm pushing the boundaries of touch, spurred on by lust. Tweaking and rolling her pebbled nipple with one hand. The other slid under her with a firm grip on her ass cheek.
Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I whisper, "I'm going to make sure you never forget me. Are you ready for the best fuck of your life?"
"So ready," she whispers back.
There's no easing in. No gentle introduction. I plunge hard and deep.
"Oh God," she gasps.
"You good?" I question.
"Excellent," she sighs.
She bends her knees to gain leverage and her hips meet my every thrust.
Kissing is impossible. Sweat slicks our skin. Complimentary, but very dirty words are exchanged. Goddamn this woman speaks my language.
We change positions when she forces me to sit up and climbs onto my lap facing me. The moonlight slicing between the curtains highlights her, and the view when she proceeds to ride the hell out of me is spectacular.
She's clenching around me, tighter and tighter. It's rapture building.
And when I prompt her to let it all loose, that's all it takes.
She goes up in flames. "That's it. God, that's it... Yes... Yes."
It's all the spark I need. It consumes me whole in a blinding expulsion of unadulterated pleasure. "Holy fuck."
The pause to catch our breath and collect our wits post mega-orgasm is exaggerated. It takes a minute to come back to the present when your mind and body have just been blissfully razed and ruined in the name of lust.
I'm still inside her and she's making no attempt to leave my lap. "Franco?"
"Yeah, Gem?"
"I'm crowning you king."
I raise my eyebrows. "Royalty, huh?"
She nods her head appreciatively and her devilish smile plays at her lips. "Fucking royalty. Literally."
This woman slays me.
Saturday, January 27
(Franco)
My cell is vibrating on the nightstand next to Gemma's bed. I've been awake for a while but my arm is under Gemma's sleeping head and I don't want to wake her so I'm still in bed. I pick it up with my free hand to silence the noise.
It's a text from Gus, We're on the road headed home and I just realized I forgot my black hoodie at the studio. If you have time before you leave town can you grab it?
Followed immediately by another text, If not, no worries.
And another, It's only my favorite.
And another, I'll probably cry for days if I lose it forever.
I reply to stop the whining, If you shut up I'll stop by and grab it.
His response is quick. It's a link to the YouTube clip of "Holding Out For a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler.
I can't help but laugh because I know the song and video in all its eighties gun fighting glory. Gus and I smoked some weed one night years ago and stumbled upon this little nugget of gold. We watched it over and over. What began as pure cheese was somehow brilliance after an hour of viewing it repeatedly
. The weed was good. Obviously.
Another text comes in right behind it, My hero accompanied by several dozen emojis starting with a pink heart, kissy face, thumbs up, and party hat, but when I get to the bowling ball, Australian flag, and pineapple, I realize he's just poking buttons to fill up the screen and I stop reading, but my chest still rumbles with amusement.
"What's so funny?" Gemma's sleepy voice asks as her face tilts up to look at mine.
I stroke the hair out of her face and whisper, "Gus texted. It was funny. I'm sorry I woke you."
Her eyes are still hazed with sleep, but her smile is bright. "S'okay. I need to get up." She traces the lines of the tattoo on my chest. "Just don't want to because when I do you'll have to leave."
I wrap my arm that's already under her head around her and rub her upper arm. "We should shower first."
The shower sex was spectacular.
The goodbye that followed wasn't. It was the opposite of spectacular. It was shit-tacular. Because this is where it ends. We both know it.
I go home today.
She goes home tomorrow.
The temporary us remains here. A memory.
In a funk driving out of the L.A. apartment lot I almost forget Gus's sweatshirt, but I make a U-turn and go back for it.
The red lights are all lit inside the studio when I enter, so I take it slow and quiet. Our producer, MFDM, is at the controls in the sound booth. Tape is rolling on a guy playing acoustic guitar in the booth opposite. He's probably Gus's age and his sound is soulful. He's not wearing headphones, which is strange for many reasons. His eyes are closed, the lids barely touching, as if he's walking a razor's edge of deep concentration. The body of his guitar is held flat against his torso, the hold on the instrument unconventional. But the longer I watch, it's not. He's one with the guitar, like it's an extension of him. His body sways slightly in response to the music he's making. Every musician I've ever known, no matter the instrument they play, reacts differently to music. Playing and creating is one of the most intimate acts a human can engage in. It's personality and heart projected, that's what art is. But this guy, there's something different about him. There's something about watching him that reminds me of Gus. They're nothing alike in the way they look or play, but there's this feeling that what you're witnessing is special. That there aren't many people in the world who have the gift like they do.