Alex hated being put on bodyguard duty. Whether the job entailed following around some government official for the better half of a week, or whether it entailed milling aimlessly around a gathering to check for potential assassins, he felt each one of these experiences further affirmed his belief that something went horribly awry for you, behavior-wise, once your net worth got into the range of the hundred millions.
The fact he'd been dragged out to America for this job didn't exactly make the job any sweeter, further.
The first thing he'd noticed when he'd arrived at the mansion was how startling new everything looked. The building was a structural nightmare cobbled together from gleaming glass and polished steel. If architecture could be hostile towards the idea of allowing human life to persist within it, this building was the most successful attempt at executing that concept thus far. Even as guests filled its halls, Alex struggled to smell the scent of the warm food he knew was stored in the adjoining dining room — the general sterile stench that pervaded the mansion seemed to tamp out sensory elements that might give the illusion of hospitality.
He'd long since split away from the young tech mogul he'd been assigned to surveil, as the billionaire had made it clear he didn't want to see hide nor hair of Alex until the dinner was actually served. The tech mogul seemed to be under the impression that the only time he would be actively in danger tonight was during the delivery of his ceremonial toast, and Alex had been too put off by his blustering to disabuse him of the idea. As such, Alex was sequestered off to the side of the festivities, struggling to stave off the onset boredom.
Purely by accident, Alex made eye contact with one of the guests in the crowd. Quickly, he dropped his gaze, but the brief interaction seemed to have piqued the stranger's interest.
The young man's posture practically oozed arrogance. Like many of the other teenage heirs in attendance, he was openly flouting the formal dress code. From the meticulously popped collar of his white button-down to the stark, wine-colored trousers he wore, he was a far cry from the black-tie formal wear donned by the majority of the older men in attendance. Looking back at Alex, he cocked an eyebrow.
Alex deliberately kept his gaze fixed on some vague spot in the distance. However, the damage had been done, and the party goer peeled away from the crowd to meander over to where Alex was standing.
"Ciao," the young man said, his Texan drawl adding a strange twang to his attempt at pronouncing the Italian greeting. He offered his hand to Alex, and the various gold-and-silver banded rings on his fingers gleamed in the low light.
Alex ignored him, pointedly jamming his hands into his blazer's pockets.
"I'm Elijah," the young man said, retracting his hand and resting it on the nape of his neck. "My friends call me Eli."
"Cool," Alex intoned, wary.
Elijah smiled rakishly. "Would you like to be friends?"
"What answer will get you to leave me alone the fastest?" Alex retorted, grinning back in a way that didn't reach his eyes.
"Now, you don't need to throw a hissy fit," Elijah chided, holding a hand to his heart in mock indignation. "I just came over to be friendly — I don't know what you're assuming, but I promise you, I'm not as shallow of a pond as some of the other folks you might see here."
Alex must have seemed a bit mystified, as Elijah leaned closer, lowing his voice.
"You stick out like a sore thumb, honey," he explained, giving Alex a once over. "A three-piece suit does not a member of high society make."
Trying his best to look suitably abashed, Alex looked Elijah dead-on, peering at Elijah's eyes through the sunset-orange tinted aviators the teen wore.
What a prick , Alex thought, still maintaining his air of faux-embarrassment at having been discovered. The 70s called, and they want to sue for the damage you're committing in their name .
"What gave it away?" Alex asked sheepishly.
Elijah seemed delighted at having his full attention. "Oh, it's nothing really," he waffled, waving a hand. "I just have an eye for people, you know? I only brought it up because I thought you might be...," he paused, mulling over the correct turn of phrase, "feeling a tad insecure. I wouldn't want you thinking I was chatting you up on a dare, or anything."
"Guilty as charged," Alex lied, reaching out so as to give Elijah's shoulder a friendly clap. "I appreciate it, mate."
Elijah's expression morphed into something coyer. "I'm no angel — I certainly had my ulterior motives for saying hello."
Alex couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes at the comment, and a peal of laughter erupted from Elijah.
"Oh, do tell me if I'm bothering you, though," Elijah chuckled, swatting Alex on the arm. "I'd hate to be making a fool of myself over here, especially when you already feel like a fish out of water."
"I promise I'll let you know."
"Thanks, er...?" Elijah faltered, waiting for Alex to offer up his name.
"Ian."
"That's a lovely name," Elijah said approvingly.
Alex snorted. "Thank my parents, then. I didn't choose it."
"Getting the parents involved so soon? Why, Ian, you're quite the charmer."
The watch on Elijah's wrist beeped, and the young man seemed to snap to attention.
"That's my cue," he sighed, shooting Alex a final smile. "Well, Ian, thank you for letting me make a fool of myself over you — and I wish you the best of luck tonight!"
Moving with surprising urgency, Elijah slipped back into the crowd of partygoers before Alex could offer more than a half-hearted wave goodbye.
Finally, Alex let a hand fall free from his pocket, his trigger finger cramped from resting on his tranq-device for the majority of his conversation with Elijah.