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"Izzie! Don't touch him. He's hideous!"
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."
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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.
He would never praise an aristocrat, especially once he had sworn to destroy the institution. One who was stubborn enough to stay in town drinking her way through the pub while a battle with Italians was commencing. One who was always talking back at him, with that same determined expression as when she tried opening a beer bottle. One who was so thick would never comply and would rebel on every order he gave her but would shrink when asked If she had touched herself during lonely nights.
He never cared for any woman but her.
Thomas cleared his throat, "Step on it, can you, mate? Yer driving like a fucking babushka."
John glanced at his brother as the car sped up, "You 'aright, Tommy?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fucking great."
Blue eyes roving through the passing grey tedious buildings, for the first time in all his life, Thomas fucking Shelby doesn't know what he's going to do with these imprudent thoughts he has.
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"Right, you stay 'ere. Don't let those two tarts get out of the car, yeah?"
John plucked out the toothpick from his mouth, "Yeah, yeah."
"John, I mean it, alright?" Thomas grabbed his brother's cheeks, slapping them lightly. Pounding some sense into him. John rolled his eyes before he glances towards Charlie and Curly, playing poker on the nearby table, "Fucking yes, now piss off."
Thomas nodded slightly, glancing back at the two now fully awake drunken ladies in the back seat of his car. The both of them seemed to be giggling about God knows what, completely unfathomed. When the brown orbs of Irene Grosvenor caught his blue ones, Thomas turned his heel. Puffing a smoke of indifference onto the meeting with Solomons, he goes.
There were a couple of reasons why Thomas wanted to keep the two women out of his meeting with Alfie. One, because Alfie is a fucking savage and will say anything that comes to his mind, especially to tofts like Irene and Isabelle Grosvenor. Filthy, grotesque, uncensored words will come out of his mouth, resulting in a quarrel between those who are involved.
Tommy doesn't want that; today was strictly business and a few boxing talks.
Second, Thomas wasn't stupid. Those two women were some of the most beautiful women Alfie would ever come across. He didn't have that many women to look at, considering he's always in that 'bread'-making den of his. But Alfie Solomons would be enticed, and he would want one of them.
And although sometimes Thomas has proved this theory wrong, what Alfie Solomons want, Alfie Solomons get. It was simple, for men like Thomas and Alfie, people of minority, have absolutely nothing to lose. Therefore, chasing after their ambitions have never been half-hearted.
"In a little bit, Tommy, my monster, my creation, will knock your little wiener friend to a pulp." Alfie swiped the thin sheen of dust on the top of the shelves. Opening a bottle of gin, Tommy brought it to his nose as he chuckled, "Not before my lad pummels your beanstalk out of the arena."
Alfie's hideous cackles can be heard, "Hah! You entertain me, you fucking arse."
Tommy smiled along. This friendship of his and Alfie's was something else, peculiar at the very least. They have an odd but somehow indestructible connection as both friends, people from minority groups, and business partners. Yet they would get into nasty fights, for example, when Alfie would betray him countless times.
Alfie grabbed the gin from Tommy's hand, "That fucking toff sent a telly, asking for a fucking supply of fucking booze. Can you imagine that—".
"Look, Izzie, more booze!" Came a very distinctive shrill voice from the entrance. Alfie's talking seized completely as his head floated back and forth between Thomas and the two neatly dressed women at the door. His brow lifted slightly.
"Alfie, these are the daughters of the toff you mentioned earlier."
"Shit. You mean the Duke-"
"Yeah."
"The Duke who asked me to- "
"Yeah, yeah."
Isabelle Grosvenor stumbled her way toward Alfie, face full of determination though her body says otherwise. Her older sister, by one year, was drunkenly trying to open a bottle of gin with her teeth. He's going to kill John later, that fucking dimwit.
Izzie pointed her index finger at Alfie's chest, "You're an eerie looking man, Mr. A beastly looking one."
Alfie's eyes shifted to the finger, jabbing at his chest with amusement and annoyance, "Thanks, treacle. I am an eerie man indeed. A terrifying one." His eyes lingered on the beautiful face of Izzie Grosvenor, then shifting it to her hair and body. Of fucking course.
Thomas was trying to keep the wild sister from ruining his gin with her clumsy hands. His face contorted into a bewildered state; these two girls are going to be the death of him. Thomas Shelby, OBE, was going to be killed by women.
Izzie snorted a laugh; it was probably the most unladylike thing she has ever done. And Thomas was not sure she would be happy when she found out she snorted in front of two men. Her hands moved to pull on Alfie's coat like it was some taffy she was playing with, "You're funny, sir. Funny, funny, funny."
Izzie's hand started to reach for Alfie's hideously scarred face, "You have a lot of broken bits, too."
Irene, who was now carrying a bottle of an opened gin bottle, waved her hand at her sister drunkenly, "Izzie! Don't touch him. He's hideous!"
How did this girl get her hands on the fucking gin?
Alfie turned his head toward the older sister with a scowl on his face. Possibly ready to kill the girl with just his cane. He charged forward purposeful before Thomas put his body in between, "Alfie, man, these are the Duke of Westminster's daughters."
He was motioning to the girls who now share a bottle of gin while giggling like a schoolgirl. Thomas sighed exasperatedly. He looked to his right, only to be stared back with the most enchanted look someone could ever muster.
It was eerily unsettling since the look came from Alfie Solomons.
It was the expression from someone whose heart had a cupid's arrow stuck to it. He had eyes that symbolised love with his terrifying face and was scarier than the Italians hunting Thomas left and right.
Goodness, Thomas never knew the power of toff women would be this groundbreaking. Even Alfie Solomons was already smitten.
Thomas gave Alfie Solomons an odd look, "You' right, mate?"
Alfie answered with a slight smirk, eyes lingering on the younger duchess-in-training, "I like her."