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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March 1928
"Do you not like me anymore, Tommy?" May slid herself into the sheets, head thrown back as she inhaled her – well, his – cigarette.
That sentence alone made the gang leader scrunch his forehead, confused. Since when did he have feelings for May Carlton? Never. Attraction? Yes. Are the sexes helping him cope with the photographs taken of the twenty-something woman who has been haunting his mind? Most likely.
Does he harbour that deep feeling that would tighten around his chest like when every time he looks at another picture of Irene Grosvenor with her mischievous smile? Absolutely not.
May rolled her eyes, "You know, you don't have to think about it too hard. Irene Grosvenor is the main character of our world,"
"She's pretty, intelligent, bred from royalty. Not like me, whose aristocratic title doesn't fit my being at all. She lights up the room wherever she goes. People beam every time someone mentions her name, even when she's not there. She's who I want to be when I grow up, and I'm fucking older than her."
Tommy's blue eyes lifted slowly as he rose from his seat. Lying down beside May, he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, "Why don't we stop talking and just fuck?"
The aristocrat smiled slowly, climbing on top of the Blinder. Her smile warms just atop his lips. And there it goes again. Thomas was here, with a beautiful woman by his side, a woman who's glad to have him around. Yet, he can't seem to get his mind straight. The image of the Grosvenor heiress smiling from cheek to cheek as her arm hung loosely around her sister's shoulder swam in his mind. Irene was wearing a cream coloured flowy dress and adorning a look that wrenched Tommy's heart.
She was smiling again.
At least she was healing. Though probably not from the scar you gave her, came a voice from the back of his head. It sounded a lot like Satan if Satan had a voice similar to his father.
Several pictures were taken. But the last one lasted longer in Tommy's head. His gut's telling him that there was something amok here. He knew it. The lovely white roses lined up behind her, the all too familiar pillar on the foyer. The oddly specific stepping stones that overlook the entire moors –
The fence Tommy swore he's leaned against on separate occasions. Including where Irene was seen to be playing with an all-too-familiar child whose face was facing the moors.
He froze, arms limp on either side of May's waist. With a deadly slow voice, he whispered, "When was the picture taken?"
May sighed as she dropped her head, brown locks falling all over his chest. "Tommy, please."
