@w4rfared / cont.
Richie may not like this sort of crowd, but he's the right choice for it. He's carefully toed the line between rich asshole and charming socialite, easing their entrance to an event neither of them should be at. It is, in fact, second nature to crowd into Price's space as soon as their secrecy is threatened, conducting himself like they've been at this a while, one hand around the back of Price's neck, the other all the way down at the back of one of the captain's thigh's like he's trying to coax him up. Nothing to see but a couple of randy queers, and he's hedging on security deciding they're not paid enough to get involved.
It turns out to be a safe bet.
"What, you didn't like it?" Brash and tinged with an open-mouthed smirk of a smile, it takes Richie a moment to back down from the persona he's occupied for the night. Ten or fifteen years ago, he was this, loud and presumptuous, proudly carrying himself with the air of someone born and raised in privilege.
He grimaces mildly and tries to ignore the way it shifts the prosthetic skin someone had decided necessary to hide his facial scaring. (Something about anonymity and unremarkableness, he understands, but he doesn't have to like it, between the unnatural pull of the adhesive and the smooth lack of his usual facial hair.) "I've found the less something's progressed, the more likely someone is to interject if they stumble across some necking."