e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
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Carrying women to bed have been somewhat of a hobby of Thomas's.
No, more like a routine.
But carrying Her Majesty Lady Irene Grosvenor was a different experience. For starters, Irene can throw a perfect punch, even in the state of heavily intoxicated. The force was dismissed by Thomas easily as he tried to manoeuvre his way to carry the socialite. Once Thomas threw the whole weight of Irene on his shoulder, she did not settle; oh no, she did not.
That girl threw slap after slap on his back, something he found endearing since those slaps did no effect on his pain whatsoever. But he would admit, it was getting harder to hold on to the back of her thighs as he made his way through the pavement to his Bentley.
Thomas scowled when John laughed at him just a few feet away. He had told the boys to carry the other two ladies, Ada and the sister of Irene, Isabelle. Thomas instructed Arthur to bring Ada straight home since her boy was probably already there, making her mum a cuppa since he already knew her antics. Her drinking before it's even noon. Arthur walked away with a lot of grumbling.
Thomas told John to carry Isabelle to his car; he's going to bring these girls to his crucial meeting at the gin distillery he set up no too long ago, a session with Alfie. Playboy John grinned as he carried almost-unconscious Isabelle in his arms, something that – yet again – made Thomas realise his brother is finally well; gunshot wounds seemed not to affect his ever-so dirty brain. Shaking his head, "Oi! Don't be too happy, ey! You've got a woman already, you bastard!"
John shrugged as he set Isabelle in the back seat, helping Thomas with the slapping princess. "Right, let's go. Better not keep Alfie Solomons waiting."
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
Thomas never aided any woman he finds useless to him. Heck, he never aided any woman at all. He doesn't care if a woman was drunk in his pub; he sure as hell won't carry her on his shoulder. But with this stone of a woman. His Mountain of Adamant; somehow, he was willing to take her through the crowded streets of Small Heath as his back had to endure several assaults.
He hated this woman as he looked through the rearview mirror finding two drunk women sleeping soundly. One's head was resting on the cold window, continuously getting bumped due to the ugly roads. One was resting her head on her sister's shoulder. He chuckled inwardly. Even when sleeping, Irene Grosvenor has found ways to sacrifice herself for others.
Thomas's face changed immediately, right after he realised what he was thinking. Goodness, was that a compliment, Shelby? He could hear the thick Irish accent of his late wife in the back of his head. She was chuckling in the dark. No, that was not a compliment. That was only an objective opinion, from what he saw.
