Re: Deluxe floor: 12:10 am
Trenton had been getting into his car when the clock struck twelve. Dusting off the cool, thin cotton threads of a nondescript oxford shirt, he slid into the driver's seat. Distantly, he could hear church bells or a clock tower chiming the time. He took a moment to cuff the bleached sleeves up to the firm crest of his elbows, enjoying the warmth that purred from the interior vents of his BMW Roadster. He'd had every intention of heading across town for an after party, but suddenly wanted nothing more than to return to Bellum. Trenton hesitated, glancing down at the phone number sketched into the flesh of the back of his hand. The script was decidedly feminine in pink felt tip ink. A forget-me-not of naivete. A smile broke across the edges of an untame mouth, and Trenton dropped his chin to lick the phone number. It bled at the edges, just like a broken heart. Uncouth blue eyes slid up to the rearview mirror, captured by his own likeness. Goddamn, he was good looking.
The blade of his tongue ran across the number twice more before it melted into nothing but a sad, tinted blur. Then, forgoing his seatbelt, Trenton put the car into drive and sped back toward Bellum at a breakneck pace. But, by the time he pulled into the parking garage, he was having a problem. He'd become somehow unfamiliar with the steering wheel and the pedals beneath his feet. Trenton observed the odometer like it was something he'd never seen before. But this was his car.. how could he be so incredibly unfamiliar with it's technology? What kind of carriage was this?
When he wrecked, his foot had been off the gas pedal for a good while, so the damage was minor. His BMW scraped across two parked cars and into a concrete wall on the first level of the parking garage. But no matter, the carriage shuddered and stopped in it's strange tracks. Even if it did continue to growl like an irritated animal long after Trenton -- no, not Trenton, Dorian -- figured his way out of the driver's seat. The keys were left in the ignition, and the door was left wide. All he really bothered with collecting was the curved, sterling handle of his cane. Oh, and that stark, brimmed top hat from the passenger side. You know, the important stuff.
On his way through the lobby, he adjusted the wine colored cravat where it fed into the coal black of his shirt and silk vest. A sapphire stick pin tacked one lapel of his fitted tuxedo jacket, with it's operaesque tails. But if this outfit was any different from what he'd left the building in, he didn't seem to notice or mind. Why would he? He looked fairly amazing, if he said so himself. With a new, elegant swagger, Trenton boarded the elevator and jabbed the penthouse floor button with the sterling handle of his cane.
Of course, instead of stopping at the penthouse floor, the doors opened at the Deluxe. Although, he couldn't say that he minded when the first thing he noticed was the blonde woman making her way down the hall. Ah! Someone to fawn over him! Perfect!
"My lady," he removed his hat with a brief tilt of his head. Only after the polite words ran free from his mouth did Trenton realize that something was off. My lady?