James Kerrington
"Can I get that for you, Mr. Kerrington?"
James' head sprung up, suddenly drawn away from the phone in his hands. People were bombarding him with texts, mainly his parents wondering if he was on his way to the charity event, a fundraiser. A few had asked if he had come home okay—those he responded to immediately. This was routine to him: come home to find his parents going about their usual charades, find some friends to mingle with, and lull back into a state of mindless work. It's how he operated and it worked for him. It gave him a solid ground to hold onto, so that he wouldn't fall amid the flurry of games and gambling that surrounded the Kerringtons. It wasn't odd to see his father's brilliant face on a magazine cover, grinning from ear to ear as he talked either business or scandals. His mother was no better and it seemed the stigma that the Kerringtons were a bunch of gossips had somehow traversed into his domain. More than not, he'd have a TMZ van parked right in front of his home, waiting for something juicy to put on TV. His life was barren of anything like that, but the paparazzi didn't seem to let up. Apparently all heirs, regardless of whether or not they now owned the company their parent ran prior, were supposed to be up to no good and knee deep in drugs, sex, and money.
It was enough to aggravate James just thinking about it.
Eyes drawn back to his phone, his chauffeur stood beside him patiently. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the placid look that dominated his features twisted only slightly. He gave his driver a look, but only for a fraction of a second, enough for the man not to have caught it. In an instant, he threw his coat over his arm and grabbed what luggage he could before signaling for them both to move along. James would deal with it as he saw fit, though the furrowed brows and narrowed eyes didn't let up. It was an average day back home, the sun just barely dipping under Los Angeles skyline. From tropical paradise to bustling city, James carried himself in a way that it didn't seem like he differentiated between the two. Life was ran too much like a company for him, compiled into various piles of reports and stacked neatly on a mahogany desk. Contracts signed, cuts made, profits rising or lowering depending on how the market felt that day. It was the only way he could deal with people raised on Voss water and five-star, gourmet food given to by nannies who they knew and who knew them better than their own parents.
It seemed his driver caught the distance in his eyes from the rear-view mirror and gave words to his thoughts.
"Is everything alright, sir?"
Drawn from the window he was staring out of, James gave a nod and replied, "Yes. I need to head back to change and drop my things off. Then, we'll head to the fundraiser."
He gave a soft sigh. "What is it?"
"Cancer research, your parents told me to bring you there immediately," the driver hesitated as he spoke, but had made the decision quickly after as he missed the exit to the fundraiser.
"I'd rather be Patch Adams entertaining kids with leukemia than discussing how 'terrible' cancer is," James mumbled, fixing a button on his three-piece suit. There was no glory in parading around throwing money at charities like it's what made a good person. He was entirely serious about taking up the Robin Williams' mantle.
"We're here, sir," the chauffeur called out moments later, stopping in front of the large house situated on Hollywood Road. Parking, the man stepped out and opened the backseat door to let James out.
Putting a hand on the man's shoulder, he smiled, "Go home, Red, I'll drive myself."
"But, sir—" the man started out, but James was already nearing his doorway.
Before heading inside, James smiled and waved, "Don't worry about it. I'll pay you out of my own bank account. Go enjoy your family."
With that, James made his way up the large staircase and into his room to change from one suit to another, remembering mid dress that he'd forgotten his luggage. Running back to the stairs, he barely noticed that the bags he'd packed were at the bottom, stacked neatly as if they'd been there the entire day. Smiling, James grabbed his coat and made his way to the garage. Unlike his father, he had a tendency to get friendly with anyone he had employed, simply because they were people he was most comfortable with. James, as a kid, only ever knew his nanny, only ever talked to the maids and butlers that kept the place tidy. The gardeners were the ones who'd watched him mess up his pristine clothing, happy as can be in the dirt of their vast backyard. The drivers kept him company on long drives alone. They were people who seemed to love him more than his own parents and it grew beyond that as he aged.
His father called it playtime in his condescending tone, as if they were kids as well. James called it being friendly.
Finding himself barreling down the highway, James' phone buzzed him out of his thoughts—most likely his father wanting to know where the hell he was. And just as he rounded the corner of the event, exiting his car to hand the keys to the valet and taking the ticket they handed out. The paparazzi cried out him, but he was already closed off, slightly peeved, and ready for everything to be done and gone. His mother, Raina had met him at the door with a porcelain smile and eyes that stared daggers into his own. She looked extravagant as usual, with a hair cut that cost more than his car and a dress that double that. She bent forward as they latched arms in the onslaught of pictures.
"You're late," she hissed, smiling brightly at the nearest camera before they both entered the building.
"Does it matter? I'm already ready to leave."
"Oh, so you don't care about the people dying of cancer?"
"Don't play devil's advocate; you're here for the publicity."
Raina gave him an exasperated look, but hadn't said a word in response as she motioned toward her table. James could clearly spot his name on a table they'd just past, but his mother made no move to release him. She sat him down, tossed the nameplate assigned to his seat behind her and proceeded to begin discussing something trivial with her latest husband, a man of her age who looked more like a bird than a person. Seated across from her was his father and her ex-husband with his latest mistress, a lady who had a fake smile that could combat some of the botox ridden faces of Hollywood. James gave a cursory glance at his father who had immediately locked eyes onto him, before he settled them onto the bar not too far.
He needed a drink.
"So, how was it?" a voice called back his attention.
"What?"
"The trip, how was it?"
"Fine, fine," James responded, not giving too much care to who had asked—probably his father—as he stood up and made way for the bar.
Settling in, he could barely hear his father's disgruntled sigh reprimanding him some few feet behind. The bartender immediately slid a glass in front of him, in which he downed quickly before glancing at the patrons next to him and smiling kindly as a greeting.
