Seth did not sit.

He lounged, like a king on his throne, like a princeling ready for his crown. The tall, leatherbacked chair was both elegant and expensive; one leg was crossed carelessly over the other, Seth reclining back, one elbow resting on the armrest to prop his head up. His other hand held a glass of red wine in his hand (a 2007 Vega Sicilia Unico, worth approximately four hundred dollars; chump change, really; Seth was very particular about his preferred reds), the stem held between nimble and experienced fingers.

"Что вы хотите меня сделать здесь?" he said into the phone, and his voice was lazy, relaxed, vowels sliding into consonants; a lilting, airy tone that made teachers immediately annoyed and everyone else suspicious. "I don't haff to answer to your every beck and call. I haff no wish to race you again."

On the other end, a male voice, brutish and aggravated, said thickly, "Volkov. You are your father's son. You should know better than this, you shitty, self-entitled, upstart brat. You son of a b***h. You can't just leave things like this, I want my money - "

"Dosvidaniya," Seth purred, deliberately rolling out the last syllable as long as he could, and then he hung up the phone.

He tossed it aside, letting the glossy, gold-cased object fall from where it had rested, propped between cheek and shoulder. It tumbled to the floor, and Seth pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to refill his glass, tipping it back and letting the last swallow of licorice, plums, and currants wash down his throat.

It really had been an excellent vintage. He should see if the company had another few bottles they could send.

Somewhere behind him, Seth's phone rang once more. He ignored it, as usual, and reached instead for the remote control. The television screen that spanned almost an entire wall of his basement theater was deliberately dramatic, meant for impressing and intimidating. Seth didn't even watch that much TV, and didn't care for all of the politics and celebrity drama and stupidity that came along with television; and besides, commercials drove him crazy.

He didn't have time or energy he wanted to waste on a thirty second ad about "Every kiss begins with K," or whatever else the ******** jingle said.

The phone, insistent as ever, beeped at him to indicate a voicemail. No doubt oafish, thuggish Brandon Sommerhill would leave him something nasty to listen to after their conversation. Brandon had been an associate of his father's, and had raced Seth several times over the course of their acquaintance; but Seth was bored of it by now. Brandon's car was a useless thing, and after playing the roads and practically smearing him every time, he was ready for something - and someone - new.

It was why he'd moved to Destiny City in the first place, after all. It had been a sporadic choice, because he could.

Seth did a lot of things just because he could.

His finger had pointed to this particular place on the map when he'd gestured vaguely to find a place to go. It wasn't even that much in the grand scheme of things; he could have picked Paris or London or maybe back to Russia, or maybe the Caribbean. But instead, Seth's finger had landed on Destiny City, United States of America, and he'd felt a peculiar interest in such a remote city. Maybe it wasn't London, but it certainly had its appeal, for a variety of reasons.

It wasn't as though Seth's parents cared - neither one of them cared a lot about anything as it was, anyway, and in spite of him having told them where he was going, all his mother said was, "быть осторожен" - "be careful."

As if he was ever not careful. Seth was careful with a great many things, such as his wine, his cars, his own life and his own self. Sometimes he might put a bit of pressure on one thing or another, and maybe he was a bit loose in the hand with the money - but when one had the trust fund that Seth did, one didn't particularly care about chump change.

His house was enormous; a full blown house for a single man and Seth was in love with how big and how impressive it was. Everything was shiny and chrome, an entire glass front spanning the length of the building. He cared little for what exactly the decorations looked like, as long as they were good; that was what he'd hired that girl and her team to do, after all, and now everything was perfect.

Now he was ready.

Seth tipped the bottle over his glass and poured out the precise amount necessary for a six ounce glass of wine, and then put the bottle back onto the counter. He lifted, swirled, inhaled the scent, and a slow, curving smile spread across his face, dark eyes glittering as Seth stared out though the windows to the city now sprawled in front of him.

He held out his glass, a mocking toast.

" 'To your good health,' " he intoned sardonically, and drank.


[ WORD COUNT: 865 ]