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Alex Levitsky
The Donahues had meant little to him, just as the Delongpres and the Gallaghers meant little to him, the extent of his knowledge being limited to the occasional appearance of one of the younger daughters appearing opposite Kristin Cavellari in one of those trashy supermarket magazine columns for Who wore it best? Hint: it wasn't Mia Gallagher. Not that he generally made a habit of scouring the fashion critique sections of campy tabloids for his own entertainment or anything. He could honestly care less what type of collar style best fit an hour glass shaped figure (classic Lapels and Chelsea cuts - thank you very much for that useless bit of information, Lucrezia Moretti.) Yet somehow his line of work had evolved to include a large number of things he cared little for that were suddenly necessary for him to care for. Had he read the fine print and realized the little asterisk next to additional responsibilities may include off the clock work meant that he'd become a glorified babysitter, he might have reconsider his career options.
Alex had been looking forward to an evening off, having obtained tickets to a Knicks game when his phone lit up to reveal Luca's number in the caller ID. To think he could be two rows back from the home team's bench, two beers already in and a third in hand. Instead he was sitting in a limo staring idly up at a large porch lined with several Grecian styled columns all wrapped in green garlands. He had changed in the private jet on the way over, thankfully only once perhaps because Luca was too preoccupied with prettifying herself to make him endure the usual multiple wardrobe changes.
He had been patient the whole time, mostly, until the fifth dress change had made him snap and tell her she looked good in that dress (she did - it wasn't a lie). That dress. Not any others. The one she had on now. It was fine. It was perfect. And if she didn't sit her petite pretty little self down in that instant she would risk having to find another escort for having driven her present one to seek solace on the opposite end of one of the side emergency exits, 30,000 feet in the air. That had settled the matter, at least at the time. He knew it wouldn't be long before the torture session resumed itself. Oh, don't worry about it Vin. Alexei will walk over and help me out. Shall we? Case in point.
"Of course I will," he said through gritted teeth. Alex wasted little more time, all too eager to stretch his legs. When he finally got to the opposite side of the car, he made a point to sweep his arm in a grand flourish while the other hand held the door open for her. "After you, princess."
Sydney
Long lashes dipped with minimal effort to take in the whole of Lynette's ensemble before flitting back up meet her in the eye. The perfunctory smile that took shape on her lips had been her only acknowledgment of the famed designer responsible for Lynette's dress as if to say Oh, that's nice. Subtle, her cousin was. Very subtle. Lynette didn't bother to return the compliment, not that she was the least bit surprised. Instead Lynette revealed that she had been charged with organizing the singles auction that was to take place later in the evening, which explained the clipboard cradled against her chest. Sydney looked after Lynette doubtfully when she said she had crossed a line through her own name, suggesting that had somehow absolved her participation, but conveniently kept silent on the matter in the hopes it might be dropped before the subject of her own involvement could be broached.
Fortunately Lynette changed the subject without any prompting from Sydney's end.
And you are ... serving? Sydney stared after Lynette impassively as she gestured for someone to bring her a wine glass. She glanced from Lynette, to the bartender who had his back presently turned to them, and back again before finally saying, "No." If she were of a more spiteful and petty disposition, she might have left it at that, sipping away at her own glass of wine in a grotesque display of mockery. Sydney was of course not of that sort and being that it was almost Christmas, she decided to be accommodating. "Julian and I have been tasked with taking inventory for the bar and making sure everything is replenished as needed, but I would be more than happy to share my bottle of wine with you all the same," she said affably before pausing, smiling mischievously. "But you'll have to ask nicely." She took a gingerly sip from her own glass, the sweetness of the Moscato complimenting the bitterness of Lynette's tongue almost too perfectly.
"And you'll have to say, please," she teased after a beat.
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Woman? Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.
Last edited by degausser; 12-17-2015 at 07:09 PM
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