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~*~
James fixed his collar and examined himself in the mirror. His white button down shirt was crisp, his stylish navy blue vest was tailor-made, his navy dress pants were pressed, his fancy shoes were shined. His hair was gelled and his face was freshly shaven. An expensive silk tie adorned his neck, tied clumsily for effect and stuffed under his vest. He looked important, rich, and sexy.
The doorbell downstairs rang and a minute later Zeb opened the door to James' bedroom. He side-stepped the dirty clothes on the floor and looked around.
"Damn," he said to the mess. "Did your closet throw up?"
Too tired to deal with him right now, James ignored Zeb. He tended to do that a lot. Unaffected by the rude gesture, Zeb eyed his outfit with confusion.
"I know I'm special and everything," he started with a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "But you didn't have to get all dressed up for a tutoring session."
"It's not for you," James mumbled venomously. "I'm going on a date."
"Aw," Zeb pouted. "Wouldn't rather learn about complex parabolas and annexes?"
"No. Move." He pushed Zeb out of his way and headed downstairs.
James didn't like how Zeb wasn't phased by his rudeness, anger, or desire to be mean all the time. It urked him how he wasn't intimidated by his muscular physique or demanding stature. He was basically telling James he was in charge. But that wasn't how James worked. He was in charge. No one was going to take that position of authority away from him. He was taller, sexier, and much scarier than shorter, scrawnier, always-happy Zeb Wahlstrom.
Zeb followed James into the living room like a puppy would its mother. He had a small smile on his face; he always did.
James turned around to stare him down. "What are you still doing here?"
Zeb shrugged. "I don't know."
Clenching his teeth together James cracked his neck, trying to hold down his temper. Just then Spencer walked out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in her hands.
"Oh, hey, Zeb," she greeted through a mouthful of food. "Nice suit, James. Very sophisticated."
James just shook his head and trudged to the door, shrugging his coat on.
"Are you doing anything tonight, Zeb?" she asked.
He crossed his arms and looked at James with narrowed eyes. "I was supposed to be tutoring your brother, but he's being a douche and ditching me."
She laughed, punching his arm. "It's okay. You can stay and watch some movies with me."
Zeb smiled apologetically. "I can't. My dad is making me take a shift later at his diner. But I guess I can stay just long enough to go through James' drawers."
"You will not," James snapped, irritated. "Spencer, do not let him go into my room. And make him leave soon." He stomped out the door and into his sleek black car.
When he pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant he was meeting his brother and the twin girls, he pulled out a flask of whiskey and practically chugged the entire thing down. He didn't even wince at the burning sensation at the back of his throat; he was that used to it.
He reluctantly slugged into the fancy galleria where a snobby looking host stood behind a podium. He sat James with his brother immediately, ignoring the complaints of the people who had been waiting for over an hour.
Jed stood when James approached their overly decorated table. Jed plastered a fake smile on his face, as if he was happy James was here. James knew better. He knew Jed would rather keep both girls for himself, but they both had some amount of scruples.
"Hello, James," Jed smirked.
"Just sit down. You're making a scene, you ass," James grumbled.
As soon as he sat down next to one of the blonde haired girls, she was all over his arm, squeezing his muscles, massaging his forearm, and entwining her fingers with his. He really just didn't give a damn about this girl.
"Hey, big boy," she cooed in his ear.
Was that supposed to be sexy? he thought bitterly. It sure as hell wasn't.
"Hi," he uttered back. He motioned to the waiter.
"Good evening, Mr. Summers," the waiter saluted. "May I offer-"
"Get me your finest bottle of Petrus Pomerol," James interrupted. "The 1998 version, not the crap they try making today."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." The waiter left quickly.
"O-o-oh," the girl squealed. "Is that some sort romantic wine? Is it laced with an aphrodisiac?"
He sighed, wishing this night would come to its end already. "No, it isn't."
"Because if you wanted to get me into bed," she lowered her voice and pressed her lips to his ear. His upper lip curled in disgust. "All you had to do was ask." A rush of air flew into his ear and he pushed her away slightly.
"Okay, Natalie, you can get off now."
She pouted, crossing her arms over her surgically-altered chest. "My name is Natasha."
"Whatever." The waiter came back with the wine and filled their glasses with the red liquid. James gulped it down. "More."
Hesitantly, the waiter poured more into the long-stemmed glass for the young man. He wanted to say something, something about how unhealthy it was for such a young boy to be drinking so much. But it was James Summers, so he bit his tongue.
A few minutes after the waiter left, Jed and Sasha started shoving their tongues down each other's throats. He grimaced at them, then practically jumped out of his seat when he felt something hot and slimy traveling down the side of his neck.
"Mmm," Natasha hummed. "Your neck tastes so good."
He wanted to slap her away from him and tell her to keep her nasty tongue off his body, when James caught Jed's eye. He gave him a warning look. James knew what it meant. He sat still with a scowl on his face and let Natasha lick his neck like a lollipop.
Someone cleared their throat. James looked up and his jaw dropped open. Before he could close it, Natasha slipped her tongue into his mouth, and his arm went ballistic and almost punched her.
"Stop!" he growled. She looked offended, but was resilient to cling back onto his arm again.
James looked back to the server angrily. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I told you I had to pick up a shift at my dad's diner," Zeb reminded, smiling cheekily. Natasha eyed him up and down hungrily. She licked her lips.
"This isn't a diner. This is a French galleria," James corrected.
Zeb shrugged. "May I take your order?"
Natasha nodded eagerly. "Can I have him on a platter," she pointed to James, "covered in whipped cream with a side of you covered in chocolate?"
"I don't believe we have that dish, but I can check with the kitchen if you want."
Natasha belted out a horrifyingly high pitched cackle and reached over to slap Zeb's arm flirtatiously. "You're so funny!"
James' phone buzzed in his pocket and he whipped it out gratefully, glad to get away from this dinner from hell for at least just a moment. But to his dismay, it was only a text. From Jed.
Get in there, man. The fag's stealing your date.
James just shut his phone without responding and stood up. "I'm going to the bar."
"You have to be twenty-one to go in there," Zeb informed him.
"Like I care," James mumbled, already walking away.
~*~
Two hours later, James was still in the bar, and Jed was still out there with the two girls. He was going to be scoring double tonight, because James sure as hell didn't want any. He was already drunk, but when he was drunk he was sober. When he was sober, he was drunk.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one between his perfect white teeth. He didn't smoke often, and only kept a few with him, just in case of times like these.
"Hey!" the bartender called. "You can't smoke in here."
"Watch me," James said, searching his pockets for a lighter.
"Seriously, man. Please go through these double doors and into the smoking section."
James got up, but was too wobbly to intimidate the guy. Rather, he listened to him.
On a stool in the smoker's section, James still didn't have a lighter.
"Here," a gruff voice beside his grunted. A kerosene lighter was shoved into James' face and a flame flickered at the end of his cigarette.
"Thanks." James took a long pull from the cancer stick, and reveled in the feeling of the burning in his lungs.
"Name's Molly," the man said, offering a labor hardened hand. James took it and gave it a shake. "Call me Mo."
"Your name's Molly?"
"The 'rents wanted a girl. What's yours? Brandon or Henry? What are you, the star football player of your high school?" Mo had a thick Southern accent. "How about Austin? That seems like a pretty sissy name to me."
"It's James." He narrowed his eyes at Mo.
"Hoo-ey!" the man howled, lifting off his cowboy hat and circling it over his head like a lasso. "Well, howdy there, James. You play football in your high school? I'd believe it."
James straightened his back and puffed out his chest. "As a matter of fact, I do. And I swim, play baseball, and wrestle. Got a problem with that... Mo?" he spat sarcastically.
Mo laughed, his large hand resting on his pot belly. "Not at all. Does your daddy make you do them?"
"No..." James mumbled, looking down at the idling cigarette in between in fingers. Now that he thought about it, his father had forced him into almost every sport. Except swimming. That was James' passion.
"There somethin' bothering you, James?" Mo asked, spinning around in his stool to place his elbows on the bar's counter.
James sighed. "No."
"Don't believe ya."
"Well, there's nothing going on with me, so just drop it," James snapped ferociously. The few people in the bar turned to look at him. He lowered his voice considerably. "There's nothing going on."
"Come on, tell Uncle Mo," he prodded, pushing Jame's shoulder gently. James shot to his feet abruptly.
"There's nothing to tell and you're not my uncle." He stomped outside and down the steps of the bar, and stood in the freezing cold, sucking on his cigarette.
But suddenly, he didn't want to kill anymore of his brain cells. He didn't want to feel the burn in his lungs from the cigarette or the scratchy feeling at the back of his throat when he drank alcohol. He wanted to spill his guts about everything that was going on in his life. He wanted to tell someone, because he was ready to burst at any moment.
He looked back at the bar.
And there was Mo, ears at the ready and there. For him. No one had ever been there for him. No one had ever really cared about what he thought. They just wanted him to take the school to the championships, or get into his pants because he was just so goddamn hot. But did they ever stop to ask what was wrong? Why he was always so unhappy and ready to kill someone? No. They didn't.
And at that moment, James didn't want to feel anything. Not anger, not sadness. Nothing. He wanted to feel numb.
~*~
Whew! Two uploads in two days! I wish you guys would comment on this more. I really like writing about James. He's actually my favorite character. :) Who's yours?