»opulence{miles kane x alex turner}

c o n n e c t i o n

hiya, sorry it's been fuckin ages but i've had a lot going on recently, i SAW TLSP AYY and then i was ill and busy but i've finished school for the year so i'll update v frequently now cause i'm so free atm i'm basically american

i didn't check for typos, but you can comment if you see any. or just comment anyway i fucking love comments it makes me feel special

-georgia

"Wanker!"

There was a sharp and grating squeal of brakes that accompanied that disgusted yell, as Miles fought not to rear-end the shitty red Corsa in front of him that had taken the green light blinking above the pavement as an indication to do absolutely fuck all. There was an echoing-sort of car-horn symphony that followed the screamed insult as it seemed the entire road full of drivers was as instantly wound up at this seemingly minor thing as Miles was. He often found himself agreeing with the people who backed him up where knobhead drivers were concerned, although that may have just been due to the fact he was currently driving a jet-black Maserati, and not even the darkest kind of sadist wanted to see anything happen to a car like that.

The driver of the Corsa offered a pathetic wave of apology before the engine guttered again, and the red car rattled off across the lights and down a side road. Miles barely noticed; any other time he'd have pulled off with a roar of the engine and shook his head and sighed loudly if only to make himself feel better, but this particular morning, his thoughts were rather preoccupied. He was uncomfortable and the beginnings of the warped kind of tycoon-anxiety that he knew exclusively was fluttering in the depths of his stomach, his tie was too tight and the air conditioning was doing nothing for the fact that he felt like he was sweating profusely, despite the morning being a brisk London In November special- pissing down with rain and blowing a particularly violent gale.

Miles Kane was on his way to speak to Alexander Turner, and that thought in itself was driving the nails into a coffin that the first man had rather imagined- filled with his reputation and his assets and his money, his image and credibility. Working with other people was not, nor had it ever been- one of Miles' strong points, and so working with someone who wasn't even his first choice of business partner was rather damning. Taking Alexander up on his offer of investment was rather a last resort before he bid farewell to his hefty business plan completely, and as he sat in the congested traffic of early-morning central London, Miles found himself checking his hair and his tie far too often in the pull-down mirror above the dashboard and cursing Jamie Cook with everything he could think of.

As far as Miles was concerned, this was all Jamie's fault. True to the 'spoiled tycoon' stereotype, the Kane had a complete and unapologetic inability to take the blame for anything, regardless of whether or not it was actually his fault. He was the one who hadn't turned the Turner down that night he'd offered his services, instead choosing to keep up the unarguably desirable aura that he had mastered so well. Jamie had merely found the number in Miles' jacket and offered it back, but since the Kane had made that decision and found himself to be rather disgusted with going for a last-ditch, it was Jamie's fault. He also possessed the reverse of that characteristic, a rather unpleasant plagiarist tendency to take credit for successes that had nothing to do with him. Miles Kane had spent years deciding what he'd show people, and he'd sculpted himself into the kind of man that wouldn't be out of place in a hitman-orientated crime ring drama. As a matter of fact, he found that thought creeping into his head quite often.

There was a woman's voice calling out into the interior of Miles' car- and though he'd barely noticed the sat-nav (the sat-nav he refused to use properly in case it marked the windscreen, and had instead been confined to the depths of the glovebox where the voice was somewhat muffled and therefore less irritating), and followed its directions without much thought. The steering wheel dragged through his hands in a slick, measured action as he slid around a corner and found himself on the rutted road towards the Turner mansion. Since it was such an obscene place to live, it was secluded and the only entrance being a tiny sliproad off the motorway that was covered with trees and only really there if you knew what you were looking for. Miles Kane most definitely did know what he was looking for, in rather more ways than one.