(The RP has begun. Those who want to join are very welcome to do so in the OOC thread located in the main RP section.)
Good lord, this was a boring, dreadful place. David had had enough of the club the moment he had stepped inside of it. It was a nice place, he supposed, what with towering fish tanks of nigh unbreakable glass, and lights that made everything seem as if it were rippling, but the employees, ugh, he’d never seen a more irritatingly bland group of people in his life. Few of them knew how to carry on a conversation with someone of David’s grand social stature and as such, he considered them beneath him. Of course, he would act pleasant if necessary, but sometimes it pained him to do so.
His recent interview with Sierra Mills had proved that David was excellent at presenting a façade. In the public eye, he was gentle, charming, and a nice man to be around. Frankly, he was everything he actually wasn’t. He may have had some redeeming qualities, such as a fierce will, unmitigated courage, and an unending ability to defend those he deemed worthy, but in reality, David was blunt, mean, irritated, demanding, and an all around unpleasant fellow who was nearly impossible to satisfy. Sierra Mills had become acquainted with the latter fact after she had offered a more “in-depth” interview. She was good with her lips, but her tongue left a little to be desired. David had enjoyed it, of course, but he had had better. It was nice. Not thrilling, but nice. She had since left, most likely gone back to the studio to tell her friends the juicy details, and David had of course, gone back to what he was doing before the interview.
Drinking and waiting. Every so often, otherwise referred to as “at every possible chance”, David’s lips welcomed the taste of Captain Morgan’s rum. He had been sipping at it all day. He sat on a very comfortable couch, the same one before which Sierra Mills had so recently knelt, his eyes flicking from the papers in his hand to the empty stage before him. He was, in order to pass the time, trying to remember names he would hardly care enough to recall later. They were the names of some of the musicians who would audition later that night and David was hardly impressed. Peons, fools. If they had expected to actually have any power within the band itself, they’d be horribly mistaken. David needed a band that lived up to his expectations, not some rental group from down the lane. They were to serve as a backdrop, pleasing figures standing in the background while David was at center stage.
“Mr. Bourne?”
This irritating intern had been at David’s heels all day. The nosy little anklebiter was only a junior in college, majoring in stage management, and had landed the role of David Bourne’s assistant for the day. It was a job many would have killed for. In order to accentuate this fact, and therefore his own self-importance, David had taken to dressing especially “nice” for the occasion. He wore a somewhat tight black shirt that managed to show off the muscles he had, and a silver pendant on a short, steel chain. His lower half was clad in a pair of low-rise boot-cut jeans, made out of dark blue denim. The top of his boxers, emblazoned with the brand name “Quiksilver” peeked just over the top of his pants, giving anyone who might see a little taste of what was to come if they got lucky. His feet were encased in black sneakers, somewhat worn, yet amazingly comfortable. All in all, David felt hot, a feeling he found justified by the fact that he was, in his own mind, amazingly attractive.
David struggled with the choice of being pleasant or ripping the man’s throat out for bothering him. Perhaps it would be good public relations to be nice to this kid. He was in college, after all. He had connections to David’s audience.
“What?”
“Is the lighting okay on the stage?”
David didn’t even bother looking.
“It’s as good as it’s ever gonna get.”
Good lord, this was a boring, dreadful place. David had had enough of the club the moment he had stepped inside of it. It was a nice place, he supposed, what with towering fish tanks of nigh unbreakable glass, and lights that made everything seem as if it were rippling, but the employees, ugh, he’d never seen a more irritatingly bland group of people in his life. Few of them knew how to carry on a conversation with someone of David’s grand social stature and as such, he considered them beneath him. Of course, he would act pleasant if necessary, but sometimes it pained him to do so.
His recent interview with Sierra Mills had proved that David was excellent at presenting a façade. In the public eye, he was gentle, charming, and a nice man to be around. Frankly, he was everything he actually wasn’t. He may have had some redeeming qualities, such as a fierce will, unmitigated courage, and an unending ability to defend those he deemed worthy, but in reality, David was blunt, mean, irritated, demanding, and an all around unpleasant fellow who was nearly impossible to satisfy. Sierra Mills had become acquainted with the latter fact after she had offered a more “in-depth” interview. She was good with her lips, but her tongue left a little to be desired. David had enjoyed it, of course, but he had had better. It was nice. Not thrilling, but nice. She had since left, most likely gone back to the studio to tell her friends the juicy details, and David had of course, gone back to what he was doing before the interview.
Drinking and waiting. Every so often, otherwise referred to as “at every possible chance”, David’s lips welcomed the taste of Captain Morgan’s rum. He had been sipping at it all day. He sat on a very comfortable couch, the same one before which Sierra Mills had so recently knelt, his eyes flicking from the papers in his hand to the empty stage before him. He was, in order to pass the time, trying to remember names he would hardly care enough to recall later. They were the names of some of the musicians who would audition later that night and David was hardly impressed. Peons, fools. If they had expected to actually have any power within the band itself, they’d be horribly mistaken. David needed a band that lived up to his expectations, not some rental group from down the lane. They were to serve as a backdrop, pleasing figures standing in the background while David was at center stage.
“Mr. Bourne?”
This irritating intern had been at David’s heels all day. The nosy little anklebiter was only a junior in college, majoring in stage management, and had landed the role of David Bourne’s assistant for the day. It was a job many would have killed for. In order to accentuate this fact, and therefore his own self-importance, David had taken to dressing especially “nice” for the occasion. He wore a somewhat tight black shirt that managed to show off the muscles he had, and a silver pendant on a short, steel chain. His lower half was clad in a pair of low-rise boot-cut jeans, made out of dark blue denim. The top of his boxers, emblazoned with the brand name “Quiksilver” peeked just over the top of his pants, giving anyone who might see a little taste of what was to come if they got lucky. His feet were encased in black sneakers, somewhat worn, yet amazingly comfortable. All in all, David felt hot, a feeling he found justified by the fact that he was, in his own mind, amazingly attractive.
David struggled with the choice of being pleasant or ripping the man’s throat out for bothering him. Perhaps it would be good public relations to be nice to this kid. He was in college, after all. He had connections to David’s audience.
“What?”
“Is the lighting okay on the stage?”
David didn’t even bother looking.
“It’s as good as it’s ever gonna get.”
