That Blue Gibson: Etc.

Blind Item

He's so young, she thinks.

But tall. Tall enough that she has to tip her head back to look at him.

Or maybe that's just because he's standing so close.

He's in constant motion, she's already adept at dodging flailing hands at this point in her life, but his heavily tattooed arm clumsily grazes her back with increasing regularity that she notices. A discreet step to the side only presses her further into the woman on her right, a fellow redhead with a heavy caliber last name. They meet eyes, matching green eyes, for less than a second and that's all that's necessary for their hands to entwine with mutual understanding.

But the man on her right presses in, forward and to the side, further into the handful of people around them and undoing the effort she just made to give him room. She's certain it's unintentional, she saw him walk in two steps behind one of the most famous and arguably beautiful women on the planet, so she ignores the mild irritation.

He's just enthusiastic about his immediate audience.

Her friend's delicate hand squeezes around her own when the conversation drifts to her father - he's got a big birthday coming up - and they want to know what the plans are. She watches her friend reply, studying her face while a generic non-answer is given, and she marvels over how this woman can look so much like both her father in one syllable and the spitting image of her mother in the next.

She's lost enough in it that the dialogue around her fades in and out, and she's happy with her disassociation technique. How can one family have so much fucking talent? Her father is the greatest musician to ever exist, her mother was a well-rounded photographer and musician in her own right. And she? She could have coasted her entire life, but she followed her own path and went into fashion.

In fact, the silver party dress she had on was one of her friend's designs.

She only realizes the conversation has stalled when it's gone too quiet. She briefly panics thinking maybe someone had addressed her while she was busy fawning over her friend, but then the man beside her cracks an incredibly crass joke. Something about his mom being a widow, something about... oh my god are we joking about that now? Already? 2001 was just a few years ago... wasn't it?

He's funny, sure. But in the way the boys at the local skatepark were back when Jackass was still a new thing. No nuance, no intelligence behind any of it. No effort needed to guffaw with your stoned buddies over Mountain Dews and twizzler sticks.

He's laughing into his hand, hard enough that he can't finish his sentence, and she's scanning the faces around her, comforted that they seem as uneasy as she is. Someone asks him, steers him from the subject by asking about his job. How is Lorne? When is the season finale again? And everyone's favorite question, Who's your least favorite host?

No one loves Hollywood gossip more than Hollywood.

"You know," his voice drops an octave and he casually raises his impossibly long arm to drape over her shoulders, "My boss told me to ask you..."

"No!"

A sharp, deep bark from the depths of the party answers what was already on the tip of her tongue and she whips her head to the side just as he bursts from the wall of party dresses and designer jeans.

"Absolutely not!"

The other small groups of people around them part immediately, turning to get a front-row seat to a promising celebrity altercation. Her friend just laughs, brightly and loudly, shaking her hand loose to make room for the man stomping into their fold while panic floods the man on her right.

His arm flies away as if he's been burned, colliding with the back of her skull enough to make her blink, and he holds his hands out in an overly conspicuous show of defense, "We were just talking, man! I swear!"

"How the fuck do you think I got my hooks in her?"

In just a split second he'll be close enough that she'll brace herself for impact. Close enough for his arm to loop around her and pull her off-balance, for her weight to collide with his. But there's enough space and time between the edge of the crowd and their little group for her to look him over and she takes full advantage.

His black jeans are brand new, fresh out of the dryer for the first time earlier that day while she finished her makeup. The plain white shirt is still wrinkled at the waist from the car ride over and his suit jacket had one tiny white tuft of fur on the shoulder - a gift from the cat he insists he hates but still snuggled for five entire minutes before leaving the house. His dark hair has a crease in it, just above where the curls start, from the elastic tie he snatched from her bathroom drawer just after his shower. He has a dentist appointment in the morning, she remembers, but she's not sure he does.

"I dunno... Dude, you were in Nirvana! Doesn't that reel 'em in?"

He stops in the perimeter of their group and his mouth opens to retort, only to think better of it and turns to her for an explanation.

"I mean, it helped," she admits with a weak shrug and lets the laughter bubble around them while she pivots, "It was nice to meet you. Please tell your boss that my husband is far more qualified to host than I am."

The hand she extends to the man on her right is grasped and the air around them stills. These ridiculously famous people wait with bated breath for one of the oldest gags in the book and she rolls her eyes. All attention is on her husband anyway, pressing their laughter behind their teeth as his eyes narrow for full comedic effect. Lips tenderly brush against the back of her hand and suddenly she isn't even a player in the game anymore.

"I know your track record, motherfucker," he growls without an ounce of malice and tugs at her free arm, pulling her around his back in another overt display of dramatized possession. He makes a show of tucking her under his arm and away from the taller man, "Stay away from my wife!"

The other man laughs, everyone laughs, but she can see the disappointment in his eyes that has absolutely nothing to do with her and everything to do with her husband not hanging around long enough. The crowd parts again and they're tunneled with laughter until the massive door holding all the money and fame and bullshit inside that gaudy mansion closes behind them.

The rains had come and gone while they were ensconced inside, the fleeting early morning humidity rising in wisps off the desert concrete. A coyote yips somewhere in the canyon followed by a cautious bird chirp, the last of the night giving way to the dawn.

He sucks in a deep breath while she wonders how well their kids behaved at their grandmother's.

"That was a good out, right?"

His voice is gravelly, he's tired and probably still a little stoned from that joint they were offered earlier.  She checks over her shoulder at the closed door, listens to the still-tittering laughter inside, and smiles, "It was."

His arm is around her again, this time tighter so he can press a kiss into her temple as they walk down the stairs to a waiting car, "Hungry?"

"Of course."

"In-N-Out?"

"Always."