Robert Saint-Leger Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 His life was fucking over. OVER. He was a dead man. His father was going to kill him. It was going to be son-i-cide or heiricide. Bev could not remember the proper term for it, but then again greek tragedy and classics was never his forte at school. A mate had picked him up at the station yard, and he did not want to go home. Not one bit. It was going to make the papers. There was no hiding it. Fuck, his cars were going to be gone, his motorbike...and more importantly his quite extensive allowance. No more partying for at least a few fortnights which meant no easy fucking of commoners who wished to marry him so they could be a countess one day; knickers dropping just for a night with a 'lord'. They were a bit better than the 'ladies', and he would likely rather damn well marry one. Prince William had done it, and Prince Harry partied harder than Beverley had ever, well, erm, gotten photographed or caught doing. Knowing he was dead, there was little point in not lighting up a fag, sucking on it while bemoaning the situation, trying to calm himself. His knee would not stop bouncing. He kept running a hand through his hair. Jackson dropped him off outside the front door to the mansion with a "Good luck, mate. See you when your father-imposed house arrest is over." "Fuck off," was his only reply as he twisted the cherry out the window and pocketed the butt, not wanting to leave the evidence on the front drive out of habit. His father would smell it a mile away and his last worry was a fag considering what he had been busted with earlier that night. Jackson chuckled as his Audi R8 fired back down the drive. Bloody Grand. At least he had done a line of someone else's charlie instead of having any on him himself, because if he was caught with cocaine instead of marijuana, his father might have had a heart-attack and accelerated Beverley's acquisition of his inheritance and freedom. The marble floor echoed his footsteps, and he bounded up the stairs quickly, not counting on the network of people his father used to keep tabs on him having already appraised Lord Brooke. "BEVERLEY!" Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity FUCK! His alcohol, drug, and stress-induced migraine was likely to rise to head-popping proportions. He turned to see his father with his arms cross just waiting for him in the wide hallway. Beverley cleared his throat and walked over, knowing by the look on the salt and pepper haired man's face that he already knew about him being brought in by the police. It would go fucking nuclear when Brooke realized his son had lost three-thousand pounds betting on his polo match earlier that afternoon before he had gone out. The vein on the man's forehead perhaps suggested an impending stroke, and his words were clipped and barely contained from an undignified explosion. Brooke thrust out his hand. "Keys..." And it began. Beverley plopped his keys into his father's hand. "Wallet..." And gone went his cards and his cash as he fished that out of his trouser pocket too. "Phone..." Well, at least there was his iPad in his rooms and his computer and his telly. He could skype and tweet away his misery. The tool of life was also placed into his father's hand and stashed in the man's pocket. "Anything to say in defense of your appalling behaviour?" Beverley shook his head. What was there to say? There was no denying it. He simply pursed his lips perhaps with a bit of childish defiance, as if to say he did not care when Bev truly did care. It made him feel a bit more in control to pretend he did not. SMACK! His father's ringed backhand had been expected, but fuck did it still hurt! SMACK! Right, well, the reverse slap had not quite been expected. Ears ringing and both cheeks stinging, he stared a bit stupidly. "You reek of alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes..." A sniff. "And sex." Bev put a hand to his cheek and raised an eyebrow at his father, offering his best childish pout, hoping the kicked puppy look might protect his face from further assault. "Temple told me over brandys that you lost three-fucking-thousand pounds over the bloody polo match!" His father fumed, quickly loosing his dignified bearing. "And as if to outdo yourself in your own idiocy, you get dragged down to the station yard for smoking marijuana on the fucking street like a busker outside of some underground club!" SMACK! Fuck, a third one, he must have his pants in quite the twist! "And you have nothing to say to your father?" "No, sir," he replied. It was better that way. If he said nothing, he couldn't fuck himself worse than he already was, right? Right. "I have half a mind to show you what my father would have done to me if I came home in such a sorry state, which would have been to make 'twelve of the best'* look like a godsend or gift from your fairy god-mother for this unreal world you think you live in!" "Twelve of the best?" he parroted in stupid disbelief. Then he huffed. "I'm too old for that." Which apparently was not the smart thing to say, and he should have remembered his resolution to not say anything but 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'. "We shall see," Brooke replied, grabbing his ear stealthfully and twisting it, dragging him down the hallway by it, giving him an extra good thump on the top of his head for measure. "Ouch!" Bev yelped. Apparently he was set to make immediate good on the threat. "And you will go to that charity event with your mother and I, and you will escort that Howard girl like a perfect gentleman. I do not want to hear one complaint that she looks like a crow or you will get some more tomorrow!" "But, but Papa......" Another thump on the head shut up his protestations. "Nor do I want to hear one complaint that your arse hurts in the polo match this weekend either, because make no mistake, it fucking will!" Holy Jesus, his father had said 'fuck' again. He meant business. And escorting that Howard girl and having everything taken away AND getting his arse beat literally? His life really was over. Could he just get shot like a hunting dog and put out of his misery? Melodrama was a bit of a forte for Bev. His poor father. *a 1960s/70s term or phrase for getting 12 strokes with a cane or rod. (Feel free to give us a view of your character in modern times by adding to this ) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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