George is the son to parents that own a multi-million dollar eco friendly car company. Cars have never been George's favorite subject. He knows which are the most expensive on the market because of his father but he's never understood the hype.
Aft...
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Well, I can't be myself imitating someone else. No, it won't end well. Do you ever Phil Good
Do you have any tattoos?
I have one.
George gazed flatly into his reflection. The bruises from his first night at Las Nevadas hd faded, not even a scar was left.
Dinner with his parents. He needed time. This was his only chance to ask for it. No Genevieve. No expectant parents. It was just his mother and father. God, he could feel their disappointment already.
His fingers fumbled to knot the charcoal tie around his neck. It felt like he was tightening the leash his parents had on him. A show dog of sorts.
You want a tattoo?
My family would disown me.
Mine did a long time ago.
Dream's texts had come in a day after he hopped from car to car like a maniac. It was one simple insult and George was a tap away from blocking the number. Now he stood split between his perfect reflection and Dream's bad influence. He chuckled oddly and turned off his phone. Now or never, freedom was within his grasp. At least some form of it.
George remembered why he never got his hopes up.
Genevieve and her parents sat adjacent from his own on the luxury dining table his mother loved. It was dark stained mahogany with cracks of gold streaked through it. George felt it was impersonal and unwelcoming, his mother said it gave their home character. His comment on how their old thrifted table in England had more characters didn't go over well.
Genevieve tugged on her puffy emerald princess sleeve and smiled brightly at him. The blond strands of her hair twisted up into an intricate knot on the back of her head leaving curtain bangs to carry the weight of shaping her face. Genevieve's mother was basically Genevieve, only 30 years older. Skinny as a teen with several rounds of plastic surgery to rid of her crease lines. Her father was a rounder man, hefty in his beard and his arms. George sighed and felt the life seep out of him.
"George!" His father lit up. "Glad you could join us! Come help me fetch the wine."
George followed wordlessly after his father. Both hands snuck their way into his defeated pockets and he tried not to slouch. His parents hated when he did that.
"I believed that Genevieve's parents weren't joining us." Precision of language, this wasn't forced when they lived in England. It was enforced the moment they stepped onto the US soil. But George still remembers his father's crass expressions that once made his mother ugly laugh.
