“You’re people too, aren’t you? Yes, you are! You are!” She cooed in a syrupy-sweet voice, scratching her dog under his jowls, the dagger points of her red acrylics clicking. Chachki dragged a pink tongue over the plate; most of the steak tartare, minus some bloody flecks, had already disappeared or ended up on the spotless white tablecloth. Ingrid laughed. Victory pleased her. Even such a meaningless triumph over some strung-out, underpaid waitress who was probably still shooting her dirty looks felt satisfying. With an upwards flick of her eyes, she now directed her attention to Bertie and her tone fell flat, drying out. “I don’t give a fuck. I’m not gonna eat this anyway, it looks vile.” The possibly-contaminated scampi was cooling into oily puddles on her plate, untouched. Ingrid regarded it with a delicate sneer, swiping a few stray blonde strands out of her face. “Five star fucking prison food. God, I miss Europe. Carbs were actually worth it in Europe.” In her “off-duty” Gucci sweatsuit and enormous Chloé sunglasses, there was still an air of careful arrangement to the messy bun, the highlighted cheekbones. Nothing ever unintentional. Some people in the restaurant had already craned to get a better look at the two of them, trying to decide if she was a celebrity in disguise— very often, she got them to believe that she was, just through sheer displays of insolence like the one she’d staged upon being told her dog couldn’t sit at the table. Because what other kind of person could act like this and think themselves capable of getting away with it? Bertie was picking apart his own entrée with little enthusiasm, but she could tell from the sly amusement in his expression that he was having just as much fun causing ripples in this quiet Sunday brunch scene as she was. His question was undeniably sarcastic; this prompted a downwards turn of her mouth. “Excuse you, pretending? I just played a show in London. What have you been up to, Bertram, other than letting my dog get fat?”
Bertie took a delicate bite of his shrimp, dunking the rest of it into a pool of cocktail sauce before tossing it into his mouth. “Just don’t give it to Chachki, he’ll throw it all back up onto the carpets in revolt.” The weeks where he’d been stuck with the care of the little dog had allowed him the opportunity to become intimately aware of the little creature’s finicky digestive system— after a week of calling the cleaner’s every day (how was he supposed to know that dogs couldn’t eat avocado toast?) he’d shipped off the frenchie to a kennel until Ingie came back from tour. “Why didn’t you just stay there?” His light brows raised and his grin indicated brotherly teasing; but there was a flicker of truth in the sentiment: Ingrid was always more palatable when she was overseas, expressing her affection though gifts sent via porter and with her distinctive dry tone softened by the thousands of miles it had to travel to assault him through the telephone. He speared another shrimp with his fork peering at it to try to assess whether or not the flesh was grey and poisoned before taking a delicate nibble. “Is it playing if you don’t actually,” the blonde male leaned in, his voice whispered and theatrical, “Actually sing?” Bertie was grinning as he leaned back, lifting a shoulder. “Don’t blame me, blame the kennel.” He paused, realizing his slip up (he’d sworn up and down that he’d taken care of Chacki all on his own, making up accounts of the dog’s day when she’d asked), “Whoops.” He steam rolled, continuing on with his answer of her question. “I’m so busy.” He leaned back in his chair, slurping at his cocktail. “Just wrapped up White Party and Fashion Week, so it’s Heaven on Earth until the next big thing. I might just take a weekend off soon and just treat myself to letting loose, you know? All this stress is taking it’s toll.”
“I bet they’re going to spit in your scampi,” Bertie sneered, forking a delicate sprig of arugula before popping it into his mouth. The words came as a reaction to his sister’s raised voice when demanding that her dog be allowed at the table at the dining locale. (This particular place promised world class seafood, Bertram was certain that meant they would be bent over with food poisoning in only a matter of hours.) He has rights too! Was a phrase that had left Ingrid’s pumped up lips, triggering a snicker in her brother who was contented to suck in his cheekbones and sip at the white wine that had been brought to their table after his very, very specific reservation instructions. As a result (it was very hard to deny a Raske), the dog now sat perched in his own seat, with a cloth napkin tied around his neck. Behind him, Bertie could hear far too many whispers about health code violations, but the dog munched happily at the tartare that Ingrid had ordered, pushing raw beef onto the white tablecloth as the waitstaff winced. “So,” he said finally, setting down his fork to look at his sister. It was always interesting to look at Ingrid, to see the reflection of twinness that had disappeared as a result of her addiction to cosmetic procedures, “Are you done pretending to be on tour, or are you going back to Europe again after the summer is over?”
☁☼☁( joao knorr. cis male. 22 ). welcome back to your summer paradise, BERTIE RASKE we were wondering when you’d finally show up! the town’s really missed how RISQUE you are, even if you can be a bit CONDESCENDING at times. we hear back home they call you the HEDONIST, makes sense considering you remind everyone of SATURDAY NIGHT PARTIES THAT BLEED INTO SUNDAY MORNING BRUNCHES, 10.5K INSTA FOLLOWERS, BLEACHED BLONDE HAIR and CHEEKBONES THAT SPARK QUESTIONS IF THEY’RE FROM GOD OR DR. DUBROW. ☁☼☁
Bertram Raske, (known also by his social media handle @betterraske) is a name that is synonymous with New York night life. The epitome of a trust fund brat, he’s been quite happy living a no-consequence life style in DUMBO with his twin sister of equally irrelevant fame.
His “work” involves the occasional youtube video and instagram brand deal, but is for the most part, party promotion. His name came to be known with it’s association with the Bartchsland Follies and Ty Sunderland’s Heaven on Earth, but his creativity never extended beyond promoting these events.
Life in the city is sweet but with summer making it almost unbearable, the Raske twins pack their things and hustle to the Hamptons for a reprieve from the tourists and the wafting New York stink. While most professionals find themselves darting to greener pastures on the weekends, he only gets away during the week (after all, his business hours start at Friday and end on Sunday night) spending the quieter nights of the summer (Monday to Thursday) sipping cocktails in Hidden Palms.
Bertie’s a full blown narcissist with hedonistic tendencies, finding enjoyment in quiet snickering behind people’s backs and lobbing careless insults in the direction of tired waitstaff. His biggest aspiration is to always be the best looking in the room-- and most of his energy is directed towards developing a “magnetism” that he swears only those with the most amount of money can buy.
He has very few real goals, or any direction to his life, instead, he’s enjoying it moment for moment, casting scathing looks at innocent passerby’s who give him too long of a second glance.
The icy hue of his hair is a result of tri-weekly bleachings and his bone structure is the source of many debates. Bertie only ever drinks using plastic straws and never, ever, brakes for turtles. He thinks cats are filthy creatures, can clock last season’s Fendi from across a county and is of the firm belief that people who ride bicycles as a means of genuine transport are of the lowest social caste.
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