isaysimplewords (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
isaysimplewords) wrote2008-08-09 11:42 pm
isaysimplewords) wrote2008-08-09 11:42 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: upper hand
Business concluded, Cal rises to his feet and swipes the small bag of precious powder from his uncle's unresisting hold. Swipes back, really, because it was his stash to begin with.
"Thanks, Uncle Grahame," he says, lingering with a smirk to enjoy the way Grahame refuses to meet his eyes.
"Get out of here," Grahame snaps, "before your mother comes looking."
As if that's going to happen right this second. Mother's probably two-thirds through her daily bottle by now. He does want to hurry and get this cooked up, though. Cal tucks the bag into his pocket and says,
"Glad we could work something out. I'll let you know if I - need anything else."
Grahame does glance up sharply at that. Cal gives his uncle his very best Charming Politician smile.
"Go," Grahame spits. Cal laughs and goes.
His good luck lasts approximately ten seconds. Then he hears footsteps - heels clacking on the polished hardwood floor. It can only be Mother, she's the only one who wears high heels around the house. Cal backs up a few steps and jumps into the bathroom, closing the door just before she turns the corner, calling Grahame's name. Grahame won't give him up. He better not. No, he won't. He'll want Cal coming to him for help from now on . . .
Cal listens tensely to Mother's footsteps receding, then ending abruptly as she goes into Grahame's study and closes the door. He gives a long sigh of relief, then rolls his eyes. Figures she'd choose today to be sober. He better get the hell out of here and back to his room before she's finished with Grahame. She'll search him herself if she sees him, then - he shudders. Anyway.
He reaches into his pocket to touch the bag, opening the door with his other hand. Anyway, shit, he's got to figure out a way to get this into his system with his syringes go -
Wait a minute.
". . . What the hell?"
"Thanks, Uncle Grahame," he says, lingering with a smirk to enjoy the way Grahame refuses to meet his eyes.
"Get out of here," Grahame snaps, "before your mother comes looking."
As if that's going to happen right this second. Mother's probably two-thirds through her daily bottle by now. He does want to hurry and get this cooked up, though. Cal tucks the bag into his pocket and says,
"Glad we could work something out. I'll let you know if I - need anything else."
Grahame does glance up sharply at that. Cal gives his uncle his very best Charming Politician smile.
"Go," Grahame spits. Cal laughs and goes.
His good luck lasts approximately ten seconds. Then he hears footsteps - heels clacking on the polished hardwood floor. It can only be Mother, she's the only one who wears high heels around the house. Cal backs up a few steps and jumps into the bathroom, closing the door just before she turns the corner, calling Grahame's name. Grahame won't give him up. He better not. No, he won't. He'll want Cal coming to him for help from now on . . .
Cal listens tensely to Mother's footsteps receding, then ending abruptly as she goes into Grahame's study and closes the door. He gives a long sigh of relief, then rolls his eyes. Figures she'd choose today to be sober. He better get the hell out of here and back to his room before she's finished with Grahame. She'll search him herself if she sees him, then - he shudders. Anyway.
He reaches into his pocket to touch the bag, opening the door with his other hand. Anyway, shit, he's got to figure out a way to get this into his system with his syringes go -
Wait a minute.
". . . What the hell?"