Jenny laughed. “You guys are all the same.”
“Trust me love,” Gates replied, sporting the infamous grin that had made knickers drop from here to the Medusa Cascade, “you’ve never met anyone like me.”
“Trust me,” Jenny said with a smirk, “Bet I have.”
Gates gave her the once-over. She was baseline human, maybe 22 years old. Short black hair that looked like she cut it herself. By her accent and clothes (leather jacket, skirt, tights, oddly accessorized with a pair of aviator goggles and a white silk scarf) Gates guessed she was from the 21st century. By the scuff marks on her motorcycle boots, Gates figured her for a traveler. And judging by her attitude, Jenny had seen and done a lot for her twenty-plus years.
“So, you done checking me out or what?” Jenny asked impatiently.
In centuries past, Jenny might have been called a “firecracker”.
Firecrackers were fun. They could also explode when you least expected.
“Almost,” he said. “Give us a little turn so I can see what the rest of you looks like, yeah?”