<strong>Name:</strong>Terry Hunter (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=264761.msg13074475#msg13074475)<br/><strong>Time / Location:</strong>Evening - Eames Residence<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Teagan, Yvonne, Greg, anyone present at the party<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Man, fuck this 'burb<br/><br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/Setting%20and%20RP/black-metalhead-2.jpg?1490501433475&amp;1490501435218&amp;1490501437401)</div><em>Jesus Christ this bitch talks a lot,</em>Terry thought to himself. He chuckled, which fortunately seemed perfectly timed with one of her clever phrases, allowing the laugh to be received as compliment to her wit. If she could maybe cut what she had down to say about<em>half</em>, he was sure he'd be doing a better job listening, but as it was he just did. not. give. a. fuck.<br/><br/>He stayed behind far enough to examine those bows on the back of her thighs, at least, as well as the swish of her too-short-skirt inviting the gaze to the backside. A gaze she no doubt was hoping to invite. Once, when he was young(er) and (more) stupid, he would have viewed her obvious interest in him as an opportunity to get laid. Which, hey, there would be, no doubt, but it wasn't going to be tonight. Which was just as fine. He needed to figure out if she was the sort to be fine with a fuck-and-forget, or if her proverbial vagina dentata grabbed on and refused to let go.<br/><br/>In the meantime, Terry's gaze wandered the various backyards they were cutting through, even hopping a fence once. Fortunately not one of the ones with a dog to worry about, though he imagined the majority of such pets were pups for the purse. He noted a backyard filled with stuffy looking shirts and dresses, self-important adults (wait... wasn't<em>he</em>technically an adult?) huddled in one of the fancier backyard patios, a whole spread laid out.<em>Must be that meeting Uncle Gav was talking about,</em>he thought to himself. Turning to the direction the goth girl continued walking, he noticed the party was...<br/><br/>...right across the damn street? Seriously?<br/><br/>Whatever. He was tall and could run pretty well, and that was only if he<em>needed</em>to. Truth was, wasn't his party, he wasn't serving any alcohol, and he was legally of age to partake. So he followed her across the road and around the house towards the back.<br/><br/>"I'm Tae.  If you get your dick sucked by some sloppy whore wearing a cross around her neck, then you<em>totally</em>owe me for-"<br/><br/>Terry gave her head a bit of a pat as he walked past, losing her in the mass of bodies. Already he felt uncomfortably old. Some of these kids had such baby faces. High school wasn't<em>that</em>long ago, was it? Jesus Christ.<br/><br/><em>Jesus Christ!</em>Was Jack Daniels, Jim Beam and Fireball really the whiskey kids drank? Was he<em>ever</em>so... so...<em>ignorant?</em><br/><br/>"Aw Hell naw," he shook his head, turning around just as Tae managed to step up to the table to dispense her own contributions. He didn't bother greeting anyone, though he certainly got looks. Looks of curiosity, smiles, even lustful gazes so early, as well as suspicious or intimidated glances. Yes, his skin color meant he stood out (despite how dark it was, even!). However, he let it roll off of him as he stepped through the back door of the house and wandered in, hunting for the kitchen or wherever the liquor cabinet would be. Ah! There. Some<em>real</em>glasses instead of nasty red solo cups. You just did<em>not</em>drink whiskey from a fucking solo cup. He snagged himself a clean tumbler and -- ah! Buffalo Trace!<br/><br/>"There's the good shit," he said with a grin, pouring himself a finger... two fingers... okay, just three fingers... fuck it, four fingers. He placed the bottle back, stepped into the kitchen where he could wet his finger under the faucet, flicking a couple of droplets into the whiskey to release its flavor. He sniffed and swirled, stepping back to the party to show these white kids some class when--<br/><br/>What the<em>fuck?!</em>Was that a grown-ass woman in the back yard? Drinking a damn beer like she was some College floozy? And she brought Old Man Willard with her?<br/><br/>"The fuck is wrong with his place?" he grumbled, stepping through the back door and towards the outer edge of the party, looking to not only keep out of sight but also have an escape plan handy.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Gavin Brightman (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=264761.msg13077767#msg13077767)<br/><strong>Time / Location:</strong>Evening - St. Clair Residence<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Greg, Anyone<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Whatever, fuck this shit, just get it over with<br/><br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/Setting%20and%20RP/article-2217762-157F7C5F000005DC-127_634x823.jpg?1490501433476&amp;1490501435219&amp;1490501437403)</div>Gavin had finally been getting the red tie on when he saw young... young... Tara? No, that wasn't it... She was a troublesome one, either way, and she had lured Terry away from the garage.<br/><br/>"Shit," he sighed to himself, tightening the windsor knot around his neck. He had finally managed to pack together enough nice clothes, nicer than what he was bothering with for this farce, for his time in the city. He already had a hotel booked that he knew came with an iron and ironing board, so he'd take care of the creases once he got into the city.<em>That</em>meeting was important. He was meeting with producer and director about getting him on board some new project. Something that "is really gonna be summer blockbuster material". All he knew was that Sony Pictures was involved, which meant his step back into the world of real cinema.<br/><br/>But Jesus Christ, Terry, don't bring that girl back<em>here</em>. The last thing he needed was for some bitch's pocket knife to carve some tiny dick insult into his couch.<br/><br/>Whatever. At least Terry was getting out of the house. He trusted the young man to have better judgment than most. He wouldn't get into too much trouble. Gavin, though? Who knew what violations he'd already made, and who knew what bullshit James was going to go on about now. In a dark blue suit with his red tie, he grabbed the luggage and hurried himself down the stairs. He made sure the house was locked up, but didn't bother with the alarm since he knew there was nothing to really worry about. Besides, he wasn't sure he gave Terry the code yet. He almost stepped through to the garage when he realized that James would be expecting some sort of house gift. With a curse he wandered over to a liquor cabinet, grabbing one of the Dewars bottles.<br/><br/>It was silly, packing himself into his car just to drive around the corner, but he wanted to be as close to his getaway vehicle as he could once the meeting was over. Into the city, clean up some, get ready for some meetings in the morning, and be back by tomorrow night or the next night after with a brand new writing project. His daydream was interrupted by a pair of young kids failing to look both ways crossing the road, forcing him to hit the brakes. He nearly screamed at them, but they didn't even acknowledge the existence of a car almost hitting them.<br/><br/>"Fucking kids," he sighed, exasperated. Unfortunately cars lined the road. Gavin had to make do parallel parking in front of a fire hydrant two houses down from James' home. With a slight jog to his step he approached, no doubt the final adult arriving. He saw a silver-haired woman walking up the sidewalk, but he paid the girl no mind as he assumed she was there for the party across the street... which, no doubt, is where Terry was right now.<br/><br/>"Fucking kids," he sighed again, crossing the threshold into James' home.<br/><br/>"--parking on your street on street sweeping days is going up to $250. Yes, this is more than triple the previous fine, but some people were flat-out ignoring it, and that makes the street sweepers' job hard."<br/><br/>Thankfully the slight rumblings of disapproval made Gavin's late arrival a<em>bit</em>less awkward... well, except for the loud bass and high-pitched hollering from the teenagers across the street piercing James' speech as the door shut.<br/><br/>"Eames, will you go take care of that, before we have to call in Security, and fine you for noise violations?"<br/><br/>Ah, Greg's son. Terry's own noise violation saved by the sacrifice of Greg's boy. While Gavin and Greg weren't what you'd call good friends, they were at least chums that enjoyed a good drink together from time to time. Though the man was unaware of it, Greg was no doubt falling on<em>one of</em>the grenades that would have bounced into Gavin's trench otherwise. For that... well, Greg was certainly more deserving of a drink than James was. As Greg stepped through the chairs and made his way out -- followed by a surprisingly stunning redhead (Greg's new squeeze?) -- Gavin approached, handing him the bottle of scotch. He then gave the man a clap on the shoulder and a silent "Cheers, mate". If the man had any sense he'd keep the bottle for himself and the redhead.<br/><br/>"Keep my seat warm--just behind Tommy."<br/><br/>Gavin shrugged and did as requested, stepping past the various citizens of Towering Pines. Some he recognized, some he didn't. Very few names recalled. He took a seat, crossing one foot over the other and folding his hands over his stomach. His jacket was unbuttoned, showing that his shirt beneath didn't fit as well as it used to, the tie slightly crooked, still unshaven. He looked up at James expectantly, awaiting for him to continue with his meeting.