Trevor Phillips

It isn't every day that Trevor gives himself the luxury to roam the same perfectly polished corners of high society's most frequented establishments, not because he can't afford to, far from that, actually, he simply doesn't trust himself while surrounded by the plastic, double faces of rich snobs who just manage to make his trigger-happy fingers itch. He blames Michael for that new-found pet peeve.

He's willing to look past the fake pleasantries and even faker blondes sauntering about with their stripper-tall heels and bloated asses, tits, and lips; he definitely despises them the least, though. He's looking for Trevor Philips Industries' next big sponsor... perhaps even an associate, as Ron—frantically so—expressed the quick growth of the company and the benefit of expanding beyond the dusty planes of Sandy Shores, which would inevitably result in a swift sweep of the myriad of competitors TPI has, a list too long to name and too much of a hassle for Trevor to handle alone. Where better to find one than the hotspot for magnates in Los Santos?

He even made himself look presentable; washed his face, put on ensemble of black slacks, dark shirt, and a suit jacket he stole from a drunk bastard a while ago after he got a little too cocky for Trevor's liking. With a pair of sunglasses he found around his trailer to top it off, he looks the part of a wealthy entrepreneur seeking to gamble away the stress of sitting on his fat-ass at his sky-high office.

Trevor waltzes right through the sliding, crystal doors with a cocky flair to his step, a smirk stretching his scarred, chapped mouth as he surveys the opulent premises. Blinding silver from floor to roof neatly contrast with the sharp black of the tables and bar. It's obvious that such luxury is meant to mask the degeneracy of coked up, gambling addicts... such as himself, of course. But among The Diamond's clientele, one peculiar gem that's just strutting in shines above all.

Lavish from the hairstyle to the red-bottomed stilettos that take those gorgeous legs further inside with an imperious air that immediately makes the inseam of his pants feel tight, the mental image of having those heels stepping on him not helping them to loosen up. Uncle T is going home with more than one prize tonight, he thinks, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

Throughout the night he keeps a hawk-like watch over her, but his attention quickly diverts from the stretch of her ass on the stools, to her careless spending. She stays for a round or two at each game, sliding in an arbitrary number of chips and seeming to hardly care when the house eats them all. Rinse and repeat.

Then it clicks in his mind. That kitty has claws and knows how to use them. That money is leaving The Diamond squeaky clean, no doubt. Just exactly the practices he's looking for his future associate, and with those assets? He's sold.

As she takes a seat at a random poker table that is barely having its cards shuffled, Trevor beelines it toward the only other available seat, right across the table, facing straight to her. He yanks it back climbs up, throwing a little glance at her to gauge whatever he can from that face hidden behind her sunglasses.

The round starts and ends with poker faces all around, and just about he notices the little diamond stand up to wash another round of her riches, he bolts up from his eat and rushes after her until they are walking side by side. "My lady," he drawls out, giving her a ridiculous flourish, "Please, let me invite you a drink and some, uh... high quality company." He grins, giving her the upteenth once-over behind his glasses.

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