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“Aurelia…” he calls after her.
It’s not my business, but I know if we don’t help him, despite the fact he really doesn’t deserve help, she won’t forgive herself in the morning.
“Wait here,” I say, pushing her gently into a corner. I look up at a camera and nod, knowing Jax will be at the other end of it. It’s my code for, don’t let her out of your sight.
I stride back to where the drunk idiot is still in a pool on the floor.
“Get up,” I say, sharply.
“Fuck you,” he slurs.
“Get the fuck up or you’ll feel the surface of the Atlantic Highway on your ass first thing. Trust me.”
He groans and moves, slowly. Too slowly. I hoist him up with one hand and he sways as though the sensation of being upright is completely new to him.
“Walk.” I push him in front of me, keeping one hand to his back in case he forgets what his fucking objective is. He has one, and one alone. Get back to the fucking villa, fall asleep, then apologize like hell to Aurelia in the morning.
Aurelia’s eyes are wide as we pass, but I’m taking no prisoners. When we reach a buggy I push Nate into the back seat and shoot a look at Aurelia. She knows better than to ask questions. She slips in beside me and, teeth clenched, muscles engaged, I pull that thing out of the lot and towards the villas. This whole situation is painful enough, without a nineteen-year-old sexpot and her juvenile popstar boyfriend making it even harder. Like some world-weary parent, I’ve lost all my patience. If either of them try to argue right now, I’m going to snap, spectacularly. Fortunately, they sense this, and the children behave, all the way home.
