George is the son to parents that own a multi-million dollar eco friendly car company. Cars have never been George's favorite subject. He knows which are the most expensive on the market because of his father but he's never understood the hype.
Aft...
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Were off full throttle to the floor Street fight Adam Jensen
Maybe he'd dreamed the entire night. Deep in a tunnel of escapism where leather seats and burnt tyre clasped onto his conscious with a vise grip. Madmen and broken bones. Hundreds of eyes and voices lined up on a makeshift drag strip in the middle of... somewhere.
All the cars were their drivers. Bumper to tail they dripped with deeper personalities, deeper parts of themselves as people, some might even be foreign personas. What they strived to be, who they wanted to be, who hecould be. George had no clue how the fuck his blue bedsheets clung to his body.
How the alarm was nails on a chalkboard at 9 am. It was the first offense to George's fucked senses the second was the blinding star that warmed the torturous life he claimed to be living. It wasn't an alarm at all. Genevieve's caller ID lit up his phone screen. Squinting at the blue light and jamming a sore fist into its screen, he answered instead of declining.
"Hi, babe!" Genevieve's voice was worse than the chalkboard. Far too chipper chipmunk in the morning for George's ears, it was another reason he hated spending the night with her. The mornings consisted of this exact same deafening sound. Shrieks and harper melodies she strung together and called the English language. "It's nearly ten. And our parents expect us to make an appearance at The Club."
"The Club," George repeated into his scratching satin-covered pillow. One that Genevieve picked out.
She sighed, "are you not awake?"
"Awake."
"Great." Genevieve's voice dropped three octaves, the same way it always does when she's upset or when she wanted something George hated to give her. By context clues George believed it to be the former. "We are supposed to attend lunch on the roof at twelve. Be there, my father wants to discuss something with you."
"Yeah, discuss."
A soft defeated sound caressed his cheek through the speaker, "see you soon."
He hadn't remembered drinking the night before. A few sips of champagne and a glass of wine wasn't nearly enough for him to feel tipsy let alone blackout and forget the entire night. His last recollection of time was the gas station. A mango twist energy in hand and his god awful thoughts as company in the middle of the night. That was all his brain supplied and the harder he thought the worse his head started to throb. He had to get dressed, assess the damage of his aching body, figure out why his hand was wrapped in gauze, why the hoodie he was wearing wasn't his. The only answers his brain allowed were muddled images of poker chips and the sharp kick of tequila.
George hadn't registered that Genevieve's father wanted to talk to him until Genevieve's father wanted to talk to him. The glutinous soda sank low in his gut when Mr. Statler pulled him aside for a cigar. The aroma of leather pleated tobacco twisted deep holes into George's near shattered sanity. All lunch he'd avoided hard topics other than family small talk and correct answers his parents would approve of. They'd been overjoyed the entire afternoon with his pretty quips and perfect pronouns. It distracted them from his deep need to understand the small things that seeped back into his memory.
