“Now are you convinced that you’ve had too much to drink?” he asks.
“I’ve only had two … maybe four … I don’t know. But who cares? I’m not drunk,” I tell him, almost tripping over my own two feet.
“Yeah, okay. I think we’re done here. It's time to go home,” I hear him say.
He helps me stand tall, and with his assistance, we move through the crowd and over to the bar where some of the other employees are still drinking.
“Goodnight, Monica. I’ve been instructed by my bodyguard that I need to go home and be babysat,” I slur, tapping her on the shoulder.
“I think that’s a very good idea,” she replies. “Dylan will make sure that you get home okay, won’t you, Dylan?”
“Yeah, you’ll do that, won’t you Mr. Dylan, my bodyguard and babysitter.”
He says nothing but as we walk by the bar, I wave goodbye to my coworkers, and Dylan escorts me to the front entrance where we arrived earlier this evening. It’s dark, and the night air is freezing, so I snuggle closer to Dylan until my body is pressed hard up against his, making it difficult for the two of us to walk. When we get to where my car is parked in the parking lot, I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I fumble around with the buttons, trying to get the damn clicker thing to work, but to no success.
“I think I better drive,” Dylan says, reaching for the keys.
“Nobody drives my car but me,” I tell him.
“Liam, you’re completely trashed. There’s no way I’m letting you drive and risk killing us both as well as have you on a DUI charge.”
I stare at him through hazy vision, and my head hurts from pounding so much. I squint my eyes and almost lose my balance again, but Dylan catches me. He stretches out his hand and I look down at it, then angle my head up at him and gaze into his eyes.
Damn, he’s gorgeous.
“If you so much as put a scratch on my Ferrari, I’ll chop your fucking balls off. You understand me?”
“Loud and clear,” he confirms.
He pulls open the passenger side door, then helps me into the vehicle. Once I’m seated and my seatbelt is fastened, he closes the door and walks around the car to the driver’s side. He steps into the car, secures his seatbelt and then starts the engine. The engine roars to life, and I feel the car vibrate beneath my seat. Slowly, he pulls out of the parking lot and before long, we’re driving along the main highway. With his eyes on the road I glance over to him, and although my vision is blurred, and my head is still pounding from the effects of the alcohol, I can still make out his complexion.
“Hey, you know something?” I ask.
“What?” he replies, keeping his eyes on the road.
“You’re fucking hot.”
He says nothing but keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead of him. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other is on the stick. My eyes wander up and down his body, taking in every single delicious inch of him. Then my eyes shift from his thighs to the muscular and very veiny hand resting on the stick. As I continue to ogle him through hazy eyes, I allow my hand to casually wander on top of his arm, and I slide it down. He doesn’t flinch, so I lower it further until my hand is now finally resting on top of his, while molded to the stick. Dylan continues to drive, and with my vision hazy, and my head pounding, I slowly close my eyes.
I’m woken sometime later to the sound of mumbling, and as I flicker my eyes open, I see Dylan reach across my waist and unclip my seatbelt. Then I feel him take hold of my arm and fling it over his shoulder, while he helps me get out of the car. Once I’m somewhat on my feet, he closes the door, and I hear the sound of the central locking device, and see the lights flash. With his assistance, I stumble up the driveway, onto the patio and we stop by the front door. I open and close my eyes several times, trying to stay awake as Dylan opens the front door. Once inside, he turns on the light and assists me down the corridor and up the stairs to the other end of the house where my master bedroom is. He flicks on the light and we enter my room, then move toward the center of the room where I sit on the foot of the bed.
“Okay, you’re going to have to help me get you out of these clothes,” I hear him say. At least, that’s what I think he said.
“Mhmm,” I murmur.
“Where are your pajamas?” he asks.
“Top drawer of the nightstand,” I tell him.
He goes to my drawer and I watch him out of the corner of my eye. Then, just as he bends over to slide the drawer open, I fall backward and collapse onto the bed, closing my eyes and within a few seconds I’m passed out.
Dylan
December 20.
I open my eyes to the sun’s rays peeping in through the crack in the curtains and I shield my eyes with the back of my palm. I wriggle around the bed, making myself more comfortable then stare up at the pale, white ceiling. When Elvis and Dean got married, Liam insisted that we treat each other like family, except, of course, when we’re at work. That meant that whenever we went out to social gatherings and Liam got completely shitfaced, which was ninety-nine percent of the time, I would always be his designated driver. In fact, I was the one who pretty much took care of him and made sure he always got home safely. He always welcomed me into his home and made sure that I had my own room whenever I needed it. To be honest, this happens a lot. Liam getting drunk, that is. I don’t think I can ever recall a moment when he isn’t drunk after a huge night out. And last night was definitely no exception.
After making sure he was sound asleep, I headed straight to my room. I was exhausted and all I wanted to do was sleep. Having not brought my pajamas, I crawled into bed with nothing but my underwear. I hate whenever he gets like this because healways says things that I know he wouldn’t say if he was sober. I know we flirt, especially when at work, and despite how hard it is for me to hide my feelings and control my urges at times, I’ve convinced myself that I cannot andwill nottell Liam how I feel about him. You know what they say, never mix business with pleasure or get involved with someone you work with because that’s just a recipe for disaster.
