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Alexander Lincoln
Situated cross-legged on a scrap of sand a few feet away from the effulgent bonfire, Alexander Lincoln attended to a bottle of Zephyrhills while absendmindedly picking a loose thread at the ankle of his jeans. While peers around him indulged in the taboo of alcohol, Linc knew better: consuming an incognizable amount alcohol tonight = unnecessary throbbing headache tomorrow morning = bad showing at gig tomorrow night = something Linc was not willing to compromise. Thus, Linc opted out of the notorious red cup in favor for a now half-empty bottle of water. This, however, didn't stop his friends from trying to pressure him out of his prudent decision; if he had a nickel for every time one of his boys attempted to thrust a cup of alcohol in his hand, Linc wouldn't be a slice of one of Seattle's ascending rock bands; he'd be a Hollywood mogul.
Upon hearkening Jeremy's inquiry, Linc plucked his eyes away from the incandescent colors of the bonfire's flames. He tipped the base of his water bottle upwards and pivoted his chin in a greeting, a minuscule grin tugging a corner of his lips heavenward. "Nah, man. Been here for a while. Sit," he said, scooting towards the right a few inches and patting the relinquished patch of sand next to him. He had been sitting in the same spot for nearly forty-five minutes then, and was thrilled to finally have some company -- though he would've preferred his girlfriend over Jeremy, because then he could at least get some action tonight. Kristin, however, was nowhere to be found and further, was not anwering her cell phone; to say Linc was a tad annoyed would be an understatement.
But, nevertheless. Linc snagged a sip off of his Zephyrhills. "How are you, man? Up to anything interesting lately?"
Everyone else in a couple of hours -- must scurry off to fail a Lab test.
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