“There’re a few parties on frat row. We could—I don’t know, take him? He looks like he likes to have a good time,” Jagger suggests. It takes everything in me not to slap him. “Sure, I’m just going to take my son to a house filled with every drug you can think of. Lola’s going to love to hear that our son was around pill poppers and coke heads,” I sarcastically remark. Saint shakes his head disapprovingly. For once, he’s not smiling. He’s looking at Jagger like he wants to slap some sense into him. “W. T. F. is wrong with you?”
