Post by shava444 on Dec 27, 2012 12:16:44 GMT -5
The letter was specific as his grandfather's accountant had always been. Seriously, the man could bore a caged bird while talking. He was all about numbers and figures and statistics and money; there was no interest in the social aspects of life or anything outside his little sheets. Jamison shook his head in amusement at the man's blindness, not seeing in himself several similar flaws which others could see some of. Reaching into his trunk (a Louis Vuitton of course) he pulled out a ledge book with marbled cover and opened the pages to the silk marker. Taking up his quill, he dipped into the ink carefully and then wrote the new numbers down, paying close attention to the small comments hidden amongst the others there.
There was a pattern there his grandfather had drilled him into following, seeing where the man's instincts pointed him towards little things which didn't match up quite. The last three updated letters had all pointed to one department in particular and Jam could feel his palms itch to get there and examine the people, find the culprit, but he wouldn't have any hand in it till next year, a major frustration to him. He had the tools, he saw how it all worked, but he wasn't allowed to touch yet. And that desire to stop living a half life and jump into the full thing drove him crazy! At least he could watch from the sidelines for a bit, had some idea of what he was getting into, but it bothered him to watch the mistakes happening in front of him.
Not that becoming the owner would get him any respect or people listening to him.
No, he got that from his status, his blood to some degree right now, but the adults would see him still like a child, pretending him respect when there was none. Sanding the page with a blotter to prevent sticky ink, Jam set the book aside to dry, reaching in for a folder. He opened it, filed the letter were the other had been from last week, and then closed it replacing the binding. No, right now and for the future he was powerless, but knowing. Drying off the end of the quill tip he cleaned it, sharpened it with his pocketknife (most of "his" things were his grandfather's but whatever), and then set it in it's box and closed it, putting it back in place. Jam sighed, wishing he felt like a real person sometimes and not an actor waiting for the screen cue.
Reaching over he closed the antique trunk, relishing the beautiful cloth interior before it shut and fastening the gold clasps with respect.
Standing he went to the head of the bed and reached behind it carefully with a glance around. halfway down his arm he found the box where it lay wedged and he pulled out a box, tipping a handful into his hand from one compartment and a twisted cellophane wrap from the other before replacing it. A careful look around after the prize was well hidden and he went to the bed, sitting down and grabbing his snack bowl tipping the items inside. Four cocoballs and a Lambanog chew. Popping one of the balls in his mouth he did not bite it or crush it; he savored it with hit tongue first and let it rest before he began to suck on it. There was something about strawberries and chocolate which was too good to ignore no matter how high up you were on the chain!
In his mind's eye he thought about outfits for the ball. it being winter there was a certain requirement towards men's colors and he wouldn't miss those, but he had to make sure of a dozen other restrictions most people wouldn't even think about from handkerchief placement to how his hair had to be done. He had more then a reputation to uphold, his very future depended on it, the only thing controlled by his date would be the color of her own outfit that it not clash with his own. How much did a hotel heiress know about that though? Sure, she probably had had some lessons in style, probably picked up some details here and there, but he was pretty sure she hadn't been saturated in it like he had been his entire life.
As he popped another in his mouth, the flavor of the last just beginning to fade he thought about what she might look like in a Lilli Catorze or a Imogen Maxwell. Leaning towards the Imogen, he wondered what she would do with her hair, ignoring the whole concept most guys would have about her form in a dress (most of whom would have been more interested in how the dress came off then how it looked really) and what they could do to get her interested in extending a date.