Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
It started to become obvious, once you had money, who cared about it and who didn’t. Seven cared. Not about other people knowing he had it. He cared, yeah? In the beginning, when the hustle started, it’d just been about stuff. Brand name shoes, the nicest chain, bottles of top shelf that they drank in garage stairwells or somebody’s mom’s garage. When he got his first girlfriend it was stuff for her, blue boxes and earrings that weren’t cubic fucking zirconia, not that any girl from his part of the neighbourhood would have known the difference. Then it was cars, and the rims on those cars, and guns and designer suits and then power.
It all came down to fucking power. Seven had it. Money ensured that. Money made it so that his kid wouldn’t have to do the things he did, that his mom did, or to go without fucking anything. Money was a six-car garage, yeah, but it was also security and it meant he was about as far away from some shit-hole walkup in the Bronx as a guy could get without leaving the continental United fucking States.
So he liked power. But he also liked pretty things.
“Well, fuck,” he said, smacking the heel of his hand along the edge of the window frame and tsk-ing with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He shook his head, expression reading exaggerated regret as he glanced around them and then back up at Jamie from the driver’s seat, because the car sat low on the road. “The hot male dancer hanging around threw me off, not my fault.”
The grin had spread sideways as he angled his head a little farther out of the car. “Sorry. You’re hard to drive past without noticing,” and maybe he did look sorry, a little, but as he leaned forward and rested his chin against his arm where it was propped along the open window, he was mostly aiming for roguish with the smirk in place. The street was empty enough that only Jamie could hear as Seven's foot moved to rev the engine, deliberate. “What’re you doing here?”