Shoving the askew screen door opened, one worn, muddied boot thudded onto the stained once white carpet of the den. A cast of blue shone over the room from the TV, something on "court tv" or the "military channel" or some garbage playing, the soundtrack to Wayne Wentworth's life. Why the TV was seemingly always on, no one knew. After all, no one watched or listened to the endless droning of voices. They just always were there. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of his vegetative brain, Wayne knew everything about every court case and war that had ever graced their nation.
Keys, wallet, a smashed cigarette pack, and a zippo fell onto a table nearby the door, before the muddy boots were toed off, holed socks thudding across the filthy room. Littered with beer cans and empty plastic bourbon handles, it was obvious what the main fare around the home was. The scent of stale beer, cheap bourbon and old smoke filled the air, and almost made one feel dirty just from stepping into the room. The once white carpet was now a tetanus-y shade of grey-beige, and the ceiling stained with tar from a decade of chain smoking, lighting one off another.
Blue eyes fell on the passed out form of Wayne, as usual out cold on the worn out recliner. It was a rarity to see the man up and about from it, and even when he was, a perfect outline could be seen in the torn cloth. After all, the old man had spent the better part of a decade in that exact spot, drinking that exact booze and smoking those exact cigarettes while the news droned on about world changes that never affected him. Even the two light fires caused by the barely there vegetable passing out while smoking hadn't lit a fire under his ass to change. No, Wayne Wentworth was stuck in his ways.
Reaching down, Jesse grabbed a beer from the water-filled cooler beside the chair. Because, it seemed, the fridge was just too far. At this point, the twenty-three year old was amazed his father bothered to get out of that damned chair to hit the can. It was a Heaven-sent miracle the chair wasn't teeming with pissy mold. After all, he slept there. When he ate, he ate there. He sure as hell drank there. Hell, the old man would nearly go into cardiac arrest whenever his cooler ran dry and he had to fetch another case or half-gallon of booze.
Using one finger to crack the can opened, Jesse took a swig, eyeing his seemingly dead father with uncertainty. As usual, a hand shot out, pressing to the man's jugular to feel for the somewhat steady rhythm. "I swear one day I'm just gonna hook your ass to a monitor." He muttered, before heading down the hallway, to the "master bedroom." Really, the two bedroom house didn't have a master, it was just in the closest proximity to the bathroom, and larger by two feet. It was the cleanest room, though that wasn't much of a statement. Workstained clothes were the bedrooms theme, only few items being off limits and remained untainted, for when he hit the bars a few nights a week to get slashed. The apple didn't fall too far, it seemed.
Tanned hands tugged the worn light gray shirt over his head, disheveling Jesse's thick mid-neck length shaggy hair all the more. Raking a hand through the dirty mop, the six-foot-four man cut into the bathroom to clean up after a day of bottom-rung manual labor for barely minimum wage.
Not much later, the young man pushed through the door of a local bar. On a different strip from his usual watering holes and pool shacks, he and a few of his drinking pals had decided to deviate from the norm, and venture into fresh waters. It was a bit closer to his house, which would be nice at three a.m. when he was seeing five of everything and absolutely off his face.
Jesse moved to one of the barstools near an old highschool pal and shrugged off the grey jacket that had been pulled on over his somewhat faded black t-shirt, before allowing the denim to drape over the back of the stool. Soon enough, a cheap shot was placed before him, along with a half pitcher. The shot was hammered back within mere seconds.
Last edited by TehNemesis; 03-09-2012 at 02:19 AM.
"But just so we're clear, you're driving us there. Right, Hannah? You are driving?"
It was Friday night and Carmine Bergmann was ready to go. Just like she had been on Thursday, just like she would be on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and probably Tuesday. Wednesday she usually lazed around in bed with a headache. It wasn't that she was lazy and irresponsible, just, why work if she didn't have to? She was worth billions, thanks to her father's businesses and his various unscrupulous schemes. She didn't need to generate income, so she might as well use all that spare time to go out with the girls and drink.
It was still light outside. The daylight streamed through wide, floor to ceiling windows into the kitchen of the spacious estate Carmine shared with her father and a few live-in service people. She leaned her elbows on the counter, one of her hands occupied with her cellphone, the other managing a drink between her thumb and pinky and a cigarette between her index and middle finger. The young blonde had these long, elegant fingers that would have been lovely on the piano--wasted on her, as her older sister Marla had been the piano-player in the family. But Marla was dead, so whatever.
"Yeah, I'm driving. I'm taking Charlotte's car, though, since mine's in the shop...she's already started, but I think by the end of the night she'll be sober enough to drop us all off," said Hannah.
"Are you bringing along your boyfriend, whatshisname, Paul?"
"You mean my therapist Paul?" said Carmine. She set down the glass of Schnapps she had been sipping from and took a drag on her cigarette. "He said he was out of town this weekend." Carmine's relationship with Paul had been rather unprofessional. They'd screwed around a few times, and he was rather popular with her friends, many of whom had made passes at him.
"Where is he?"
"I dunno." Probably in about fourteen different trash cans, not that she could say it over the phone.
There hadn't been any falling out between Paul and Carmine, exactly. She just got bored of him and exasperated with his relentless insistence that there was good in her, and she could be a productive, happy person if she only took the first steps...blah, blah, blah, whatever. One day he'd come over, and everything was a blur, and something to do with a paring knife...
She wasn't particularly scared of the pieces of the body being found, or traced back to her. It wasn't the first time she'd covered up a death, though it was the first time she'd actually taken her hands to anyone. Back in her school days, she'd only ever tormented people until they broke down and took their own lives, and nobody could trace that back to her. This time, though, cover-up could get a little complicated, but she'd just get Daddy to fix it with money. All she had to do was say the words: of course I didn't kill my therapist! and he would eat it right out of her hand. He'd believe anything from her. She was all he had in the world.
"Well, I'm on my way now. See you soon!"
Hannah hung up. Carmine sighed. She didn't relate to her giggly, immature 'girlfriends' much at all. Really, she just used them for favors, but keeping them under her thumb required that she act shallow and girly like them. It was taxing. An absolute chore. I'm gonna need more liquor...
By the time the girls pulled up in Carmine's lavish driveway, she had three more glasses of Schnapps in her and was feeling rather tipsy, stumbling a bit in a pair of designer heels. The liquor had really gone to her head by the time they reached the bar. It wasn't exactly a posh location, Carmine noted. It was closer to the neighborhood Charlotte had just moved into after her foreclosure. But hey, alcohol was alcohol.
"Maybe you shouldn't have any more?" Hannah suggested as Carmine struggled to get onto a barstool.
"I've only had four, Hannah Banana," Carmine replied.
"I know, sweetie, but you're skinny as a rail and you probably drank them fast."
"Y'know what, Hannah, fuck you! I think I'm just gonna have a shot of fuck you," she added as an aside to the bartender.
"She means water," Charlotte tried to interject.
"I mean top shelf whiskey," Carmine insisted, throwing a generous tip on the bar. Who was the barkeep to refuse?
Both her friends drew in a breath. They knew how belligerent whiskey made her.
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"Three, corner pocket." Conner spoke before leaning over the table and taking his shot. Leaning somewhat on his cue, Jesse watched, nursing his draft idly. The red ball bounced around for a moment, before laying a few inches to the right of its intended hole. Jesse smirked a bit, before clicking his tongue with a shake of his head. Stepping around the table, he eyed the different stripes on the table.
Leaning, he set up for his shot. "Twelve," He spoke, the cigarette bobbing with the movement of his full lips. The blue tip of the cue tapped one of the holes, before he returned to lining up his shot. As he glanced at the stripe, pointed towards the entrance, he watched as the door swung open, several young girls walking in. As his stick connected with the white ball, his brows moved up, watching the girls strut across the room, ignoring as his ball missed mark.
Leaning against his cue once more, he watched as the trio strutted across the room, to the bar. It was quite a sight in a place like this. The three girl's didn't seem like the type to hang out in random dives. But, the ritziest looking of the three, seemed more interested in the booze than sneering at her surroundings. That alone intrigued him.
She was one of those girls that immediately got all eyes locked on her. Even hammered. She was wearing more than he probably made in two months as clothing. Her two friends struggled her into a barstool, where she ordered a drink. Or, rather, a lovely shot of 'fuck you.' The remark made him smirk, a light chuckle leaving the man's throat. Her friend interjected that it was water the girl needed, before she retorted whiskey. A flash of pale green was dropped on the bar, and the two companions exchanged uncertain glances. Well, this typical afternoon had just turned interest-
"-ey, Jess." A poke went into his side, a dot of blue showing on the somewhat tight black t-shirt as the cue poked his side. Jesse looked down, frowning at the blue spot as he rubbed the back of his fingers over it, trying to dust it off. Damn, that chalk stuck on shirts bad. What a dick. How was it that when they played pool, he never went home without blue dots on him?
"Fucker," He muttered, returning to jab before leaning over the table and slamming a seemingly half-assed shot, sending the black ball into its hole long before its time. Several others sat around the table. "Oops, I lose." He spoke, suddenly uninterested in the game. His mind lay elsewhere, and he didn't feel like sitting there tapping the balls around the table.
Conner rolled his eyes, before moving to re-rack, Jake taking the cue from Jesse. "I swear, we can never make it through a game with you." Conner joked, receiving a single finger as Jesse leaned against the high top beside the table. He took another swig off the draft, before taking another drag off the almost burned out white stick between his fingers.
Smoke blowing from his nose, he diverted his gaze from the attractive blond. After all, he didn't want to cross the line between "checking out" and "creepily leering." Eyes back at the pool table, he finished off his draft, and glanced to the other two glasses on the table beside him. Nearly empty as well, with only a bit left in the pitchers to his side. Reaching over, he finished off the two and slipped from his stool, holding the pitchers up in explanation of where he was headed.
Moving to the bar, he leaned against it, roughly two seats down from the trio of ladies. After the bartender was done finishing them up, he made his way to Jesse. Jesse pushed the two pitchers his way, and the guy took them to refill. Grabbing a napkin, he reached over the bar and grabbed the gun, blasting the napkin with a bit of soda. He wiped on the blue stain while he waited for the beer to return.
"Damn chalk," He muttered before placing the napkin on the bar, before glancing down at the girls. Well, it seemed the blond had gotten a jump on the other two. He offered a slight smile at the trio, before a simple "Hi." As the pitchers were placed down, he glanced back to the bartender. "Six more shots, three doubles." He requested, before grabbing the two pitchers and taking them to the table.
Upon returning, he grabbed the three rocks glasses. "Just add it to the table tab." He requested, the guy nodding. "So, any of you ladies play pool?" He questioned, looking their way. "Sitting at the bar, it gets pretty boring." He added with a smile.
All the while she was drinking, Carmine was becoming more and more aware that she was being watched. Of course she was. It wasn't like she was oblivious, and the vain knowledge that she was gorgeous didn't help her ignore the attention. And the more she drank, the less interested she became in her friends' petty conversation, her attention straying instead to the men playing pool.
So who's going to be the brave motherfucker who wanders into the snake den?
She put her bet on one of them, whose eyes wandered in her direction more than the others. Or maybe she just hoped he'd be the one to break away and approach. He was tall and built like a wage-slave...she could only imagine what other uses to which he could put the strength he'd built up from labor...could only imagine what he must be packing in his pants...she glanced sideways at her friends, her glare suddenly hateful.
Proud, haughty, and cold as she could be at times, she had no problem hopping into the kip with a stranger. The only reasons she ever had for not doing so were if he were just gross or if people she knew were around. If Hannah and Charlotte saw how easily she whored herself around, she could lose human capital--err, I mean, friends.
As if to fulfill her prediction, the man she'd been sneaking glances at came up to her and her friends. Hannah and Charlotte had this vaguely interested but nervous and doe-eyed look about them as he started to speak, but Carmine had none of that apprehension. And she was the only one of her friends who knew jack shit about pool.
"Everything's boring," she replied to him in a slow drawl. She staggered off her stool and took a few swaying steps toward him. Hannah held her back by the wrist out of compassion or some other stupid emotion, as if fearing she'd do something she'd regret later, but Carmine wrenched herself free. The resulting force nearly threw her forward onto the stranger, but she caught herself. "But I'm sure I could keep entertained for a while with a stick in my hand." She slipped her hand into his and gave a squeeze, initiating a weird, drunken handshake with no actual shaking. His eyes were blue, she noted as she probed them with her own. Blue eyes were easier to read for intention--or inebriation--because of how well the irises contrasted with the pupils. Dilated pupils means he's into you or drunk.
Hers were blue, too, so she supposed they were at an equal disadvantage.
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The three girls stared at him, and Jesse scanned across them. The two friends seemed nervous or uncertain, a slight deer-in-headlights look crossing their cute faces. By comparison, the blond was simply eying him, sizing him up. If she hadn't been quite so hammered, it probably would have been an intense gaze. As it were, the somewhat blatant air of intoxication made it less threatening. Perhaps added a hint of amusement
At the girl's retort, Jesse let out a half-chuckle, a simple laughing huff of air escaping his throat. Somehow, it did not surprise him that she felt that way. Most rich girls took a lot of stimulation to be amused. A simple barroom chat wouldn't be enough to entertain. He supposed when one was wealthy and hot, they got what they wanted, and so it was harder to enjoy or appreciate anything. Or something. Jesse was far from a psychologist, especially when it came to hammered rich broads and the catacombs of their minds.
Blondie slipped from the seat and headed towards him, one of the friends grabbing at her wrist. A slight arc formed in his brow. Was she a firecracker? It wouldn't surprise him. After all, it was obvious her friends were trying to keep the fire away from her, worried she'd get lit. Blondie ripped her wrist from the sweet girl at the bar, who seemed a bit worried what would ensue. The girl nearly fell over, Jesse's arm reaching towards her. Somehow, she gained balance on her six-hundred-dollar stilts, before letting a very nice double entendre slip from her lips.
Jesse couldn't help the somewhat amused smirk that fell over his lips at the words. Or perhaps it was the looks on her friends faces, the hint of worry that the night was about to get bad. She uttered her name, offering up some sort of drunken greeting. "Jesse," he responded, somewhat shaking her awkwardly positioned hand.
Using his free hand, he grabbed one of the shot glasses and tossed back the booze, making it a bit easier to grab the other two for the guys. "So, let's go get you that stick." He offered the girl, releasing her hand before taking a step towards the pool table. "If you think you're straight enough to play," He added over his shoulder, deciding to test the waters. The girl seemed the type who would banter well.
As he reached the table, the guys looked pleased by the idea he brought girls back. Really, he didn't give a damn. If anything, it would just help distract the two tag along girls that seemed intent on holding back Carmine. At least, he hoped the girls weren't too motherly and could be distracted.
Pouring himself a beer, he looked back at the blond. He took a swig off the glass before grabbing a cue and holding it out to the girl, before moving to rack. As he pulled the triangle from the balls and hung it, he grabbed his stick. "Your break," He offered, stepping back to have another gulp of his brew, and fetch a smoke from the crumpled pack on the table.
"So, out of curiosity," He spoke, his words a bit distorted as he lit the stick. "If everything is boring," Taking a drag, he released the smoke as he spoke. "What, pray tell, do you do for entertainment?" He placed the lighter back on the table, spare hand grasping at his stick once more. "Besides, you know, sip on 'fuck you' and go slumming." He added in a joking tone.
"Well, it certainly is a pleasure, Jesse."
Carmine took the cue in both hands, grasping it by the fatter end and glancing down at it. She deliberated a smirk, as if impressed by the length and girth of the piece of wood, before correcting her grip. She sat with one hip on the edge of the table, both high-heeled feet dangling midair, aimed, and shot the cue ball at the tip of the triangle, sending balls flying everywhere and sinking nothing. She was not a math person, she didn't know anything about how to sink balls based on angles and trajectories, and as drunk as she was, she was seeing at least two of every ball. She didn't expect to impress any of the guys with her skill at pool, but she had other things for the purpose of impressing guys--and yes, they were real.
"Oh, you don't want to know about my life," she said. "I go yachting...I travel, mostly." As she spoke, she unpocketed a pack of menthol cigarettes. It took her three attempts to light up and she nearly burned herself, but finally, she managed it. "Sometimes I kill people, you know."
"She's such a joker, isn't she?" Charlotte chimed behind her. Carmine smirked. She was sure she could keep up this 'joke' all night without anybody realizing she was joking. After all, no one would believe her. What business has a spoiled heiress killing anyone?
Of the many things she enjoyed about her wealth, probably the best was that nobody took her seriously. They expected her to be idle and self-serving and lost in her own little world of riches and finery--harmless. Because she was so high up on top, the real Carmine became invisible.
Which meant the real Carmine could get away with anything.
"Charl, why don't you and Hannah go and get more drinks?" she suggested. "Or, better yet, that gentleman over there looks like he'd like to buy you some." She pointed out the man at the far end of the bar. He wasn't looking in their direction, but Carmine saying so was enough to fool the other girls. They left giggling.
She turned back to Jesse and said, "They'll get lost in the crowd on the way back and we won't see them for the rest of the night. I don't know why I'm friends with them." She did, though, actually. Mostly it was because they were stupid, and therefore, would do and believe anything she told them to. "You smoke?" she asked, offering Jesse the pack of cigarettes.
Hey guys, if you like my dry, sarcastic wit, y'know what might be a good use of three bucks? Buy my book.