Group: bad guy
Posts: 8
Member No.: 13
Joined: 9-December 07
|
It was nine o'clock in the morning, a time of day Mr. Aldaine rarely ever saw. In fact, until recently, he had never even known that it existed. The dark haired twenty-six year old had a knack for sleeping in until noon, naked due to late summer heat, limbs twisted between the cream colored sheets of his bed, charcoal black hair mussed and out of place on his pretty little head, steel blue eyes hidden behind fair lids and dark lashes until long after the morning had subsided. Some might consider the young Aldaine lazy. It was true that he could be rather slothful, but only in the respect that he liked to sleep. He much preferred being awake during the night time, and until some beautiful, scantily clad woman floated into his house to make him blueberry pancakes, he certainly wasn't leaving his bedroom until well past twelve. Especially on a Sunday, for chrissakes.
If he had been a proper potential dictator, he'd have checked his gold pocket watch he always kept on him, a gift from his father, Felix Aldaine, for the time every few moments. One might even expect it of the brunette, the way he fidgeted at times, always tapping his fingers with wandering eyes like an addict with nerves. He was only like this when he was being caught in an intricate lie though. Cavan didn't like being caught in his own lies. Especially ones he expected to be the truth. Eye contact was rare for him in any matter regardless though. He almost saw it as a symbol of respect, and only looked at his family when conversing. Otherwise, his crystalline eyes wandered the area like a maniac's.
Nine o'clock on the dot though. He knew it without checking the time. He had given out word to be there at exactly nine. And Cavan was never, ever late. If you were early, you were on time. If you were on time, you were late, and he was making mental note to reserve a spot for this specific fucker on his shit list. Who wasn't on his shit list these days? Probably everyone except the Sinclairs. And Sofie probably. They were different. Because they had history of never being on his shit list. They were shit list incapable. Pretty much everyone on the Sinclairs, Sofie, and members in his family, save for his parents, were shitlist incapable.
Cavan took a long drag from the cigarette stuck between his mouth. The smoke slithered down his throat, filling him with a calming sensation as it sputtered off into his lungs and filtered into the young tissue. He held it there until the tickling against his walls was enough to make him cough, and in one solid, soft breath, he released the toxic fume into the air to go and kill something else while it was still capable. His free hand slid into position against his knee, running across the fine material of his suit. It was probably a good twenty-five degrees hotter than hell outside and here the young man stood: legs spread apart just a bit in a stance, clean shaven, wearing clothing produced by a particular designer infamous for quality men's suits and watches.
Oh yes, he was ready to watch all hell break loose. After all, it wasn't his fault a specific customer of his was being particularly shitty lately. So in the process of sending out a personal invitations on cream colored paper complete with silky red ribbon to his one-man get together [fancy as wedding invitations mind you, he was never one to abandon class]. Hopefully things went smoothly. Despite the fact that he was prepared for all shit to hit the fan, he hadn't really dressed for such an occasion. And when things got messy, a lot became involved. And Cavan just wasn't sure where he'd hide all those bodies. Murder really wasn't his thing anyway. It was messy. And Cavan put too much money into his clothes to get messy.
Cavan was a good pawn though, or bad, depending on how you looked at it, and he stood waiting to make a deal he really needed. He had known for a long time that he was a pawn. A pawn for a big, fucking God no one seemed to believe in anymore, constantly playing with him. He was a pawn for the Sinclair Operation, a valuable asset with growing wealth every time he made another skilled deal. The trick about being a good pawn might have been realizing you were a pawn, but the trick with being a good leader was building shit from the ground up and following in no one's footsteps. Cavan was a tyrant in the making and he was just looking for the opportunity to make his millions.
Oh yes was he going up. He was going to smoke his expensive cigars surrounded by beautiful women. He was going to never have to work for anyone else again. Spill the blood of only those who personally offended him. Have others sell his drug for him. He was going to be his own man. Cavan wanted to call the shots, but right now wasn't that day. Not here, not now. He had no intentions of competing with good ole' Johnny Sinclair. That wouldn't be right after Johnny gave him his start. Cavan had big plans, and plenty of time to put them into play. Plenty of places to go to once he'd gotten that far.
But like every good potential dictator, Cavan had all the brains and all the vices. Maybe once he stopped swallowing his money in the form of cheap scotch and gambling it away, he'd save some back to get himself on a better track.
Cavan was starting to get pissed. It was going on 9:30, a half hour after his associate had been told to arrive. And he was bailing. Fucking pussy. If he did show up, Cav was really tempted to sock him in the gut. It wouldn't solve anything, but it would make him feel better about wasting his time.
Slipping his tanned hand into his pocket, Cavan produced a small box and sighed in recognition. How long had that been there? He hadn't seen it in six years. Had it really been that long since he'd worn this suit? He couldn't remember. He pulled the black velvet box out and examined the contents. A rather large pear shaped diamond, accented with two glittering emeralds set in white gold. A ring for a truly unique bride to be. It would have matched her eyes perfectly. It would have matched the emerald locket he'd bought her perfectly. But Cavan Aldaine had been faced with a question he couldn't answer. It'd been poor little Alexandra Stowe or the Sinclairs. And Cavan had opted for the more committed relationship of the two.
He pulled the jeweled ring out of the box and tossed it over the fountain and into the giant lake. It hesitated, but fell easily over it's weight and sunk into the man-made water below. Maybe someone homeless would find it. Or some guy on a date with his girlfriend. And he'd get credit for Cavan's amazing taste in jewelry. He didn't care. Cav slipped the velvet box back into his jacket pocket; it'd be a shame to lose something so precious as the box. As he turned away, he could swear he saw the engagement ring glitter before it disappeared.
The dark haired male turned away from the hotel, ignoring the fact that no one had showed up to his planned meeting. It was almost ten o'clock in the morning and he was already making his way into the bar, ready to down some cheap scotch and debate tonight's events assuming he wasn't drunk by afternoon.
|
maybe m e m o r i e s, [open]
