He hijacked a yacht once. Off the French Riviera. In Cannes. There was this smokey night club at the end of the palm beach and, on one annual trip to the South of France, Dominic had stumbled drunk on the French shore, nearly walked right into the water, before hauling himself on-board one of the yachts parked along the waterline. He’d found the keys right near the Captain’s chair and had managed to guess at enough buttons to start them into the water. Now here Dominic was, years later, recreating the memory under similar circumstances. Except, now, switch out the French Riviera for the Silvercreek Riviera ( ha! ); switch out a rebellious teenager with a buck-wild impulses with an adult who just been dared that he couldn’t; and switch out the motivation of drunken pride with … ugh, well, no. If he was being truly honest with himself ( something he granted himself more than others would give him credit for ) this was drunken pride as well. He really couldn’t really say no to a challenge could he? A couple of friends were visiting from Manhattan - college friends that would coalesce only for a moment in time before scattering to the wind - and the night had gotten out of hand. They’d all decided to participate in this little race, their drunken impulses fueled with privilege and recklessness. They had decided they were going to steal yachts. All of them. For guts. For glory. For old-times sakes. And goddamn Dominic’s need to win, because he had decided as soon as the clock had started that he was going to win.
Dominic is all limbs as he pull himself of over the sleek white railing of the darkened yacht. Lacrosse had never encouraged elegance and neither did cross country while he’d participated in school, so he lets out small “Fuck!” of success as his feet land on the lacquered wood flooring. He’s a man on a mission and if this anything like Cannes 2011, the hardest part is over. It’s smooth sailing ( God, he thinks to himself, he’s fucking hilarious ) from here. He’ll find the helm station, he’ll push off the from the dock, and he’ll get to the second buoy out there on the horizon.
He can’t help though, pausing for a moment by the railing to admire the view. Of the still water and the dark sky. How the fuck did this place wind up being his home once more? The ladder of success had seemed so easy to climb in New York and in D.C. - but here, in Silvercreek, almost everything felt like a dead fucking end. Yeah, the last thing he could do was fail this stupid race. He had to push - to prove that this place hadn’t gotten to him.
He doesn’t get to dwell. As it turns out, he’s not alone. There’s movement behind him and Dominic spins around … and then he has the audacity to scoff. And really, what else is he supposed to do? He takes one look at this man that’s appeared and he makes a snap judgement. Dominic looks at the other’s threads, they’re far from fresh (or at the very least not this season), and in his drunkenness that measures up to only one thing.
“Hey, hey. Fuck you buddy.” Dominic says smoothly, far too casual considering the circumstances. He’s wearing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, all teeth like a shark because he’ll easily look for blood if he needs to. “Find your own yacht to steal, I don’t see your name on this one.”
Well, wasn’t this just fuckin’ sad.
James had to wonder if he’d finally reached the lowest point in his life because this sure as shit felt like it. What else could anyone call being drunk at three in the morning, dressed only in black boxers, a loose fitting Hawaiian t-shirt he’d gotten on one of his many stints in Hawaii left unbuttoned, and threads that had certainly seen better days.
To round it off, he was alone on his second-hand yacht, the one he’d renamed after his mother (and wasn’t that just sentimental of him?), thinking about shit that didn’t even matter anymore. He had money, fame, but little else.
He wondered if his mother would be proud of him. James laughed, the sound bitter, and took another swing from his already nearly empty bottle of whiskey. She wouldn’t. She’d have that same look in her eye Nevada always did -- disa-fucking-pointed. Would she hate him, too, for refusing to attend his father’s funeral?
Really, nowadays, he had to wonder who he hated more: his father or himself?
He knew which Nevada despised more.
James’ hand twitched, head a mess, emotions worse, the need to just control something rising into his chest, the weight of it suffocating. He wanted to hurt someone, wanted to do to them what he wanted to do to himself, wanted the release, the comfort of please, and more, sighs of pleasure and wet cheeks he could comfort, heal.
But such thoughts were interrupted when he heard a ruckus and the hell, maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. Further investigation brought him face to face with some tall, lanky, and posh looking asshole. He had dark hair, fine features, and eyes that held more challenge within that the lofty accusations that come pouring out of his mouth.
He should be alarmed, angry, even, but never let it be said that James wasn’t opportunistic. It was perfect, is what it was, some rich brat trying to steal his yacht. His mouth slipped into a grin that could only be described as arrogant, all teeth.
“What,” he drawled. “Don’t think Alice suits me?”
He stepped towards the man then, a perfect stranger, and placed his hand on the overhead beam, holding onto it as he leaned forward into the other’s space without a lick of hesitation. “Ask nicely and maybe I’ll show you how to start this thing up.”
Was James offering to help steal his own damn yacht? Hell, maybe he was. He’d officially lost control of his life and couldn’t find it within himself to give a shit.
