Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
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"You'll be in a private booth. We've got muscle standing outside. Club policy is no touching, but you want my advice, darlin'? Let the men's hands roam, you'll make twice as much by the end of the night."
I shiver, wrapping myself more tightly in my coat as the owner explains all this. He barely blinked when I arrived and said I'm looking for work — strictly dancing, strictly private. I can't risk men who know my father seeing me on a stage. I try not to think about the possibility they could come in here, instead.
And I have a gun in my pocket. If any man gets too handsy, I can blow his brains out. I have my escape routes all planned, and I doubt anyone would remember the new girl who showed up looking for work. I doubt the owner would want the cops sniffing around here because a client earned himself a bullet.
By the end of the night, I'm hoping the owner and every other worker will be so drunk they'll tell me anything. And the other dancers and prostitutes will confide in me. That's the power of sisterhood. That's the advantage Tommy Shelby will never be able to gain in this place.
"Any questions?" The owner asks, leading me to a booth.
"Can I pick the music?"
"No. The men can."
My heart sinks a little. I push through a heavy velvet curtain to get inside, thinking that this might be the most insane thing I've ever done. And that's saying something.
The walls inside are painted a dark maroon, with a gramophone pushed against one wall and coloured oil lamps glowing softly, barely illuminating. There's a chaise, somewhere between an armchair and a sofa, and a pole in the corner. Mirrors line each wall, and I watch my heard turn over and over and over again in the reflections as I glance around.
It's alright, I decide. Maybe I'll just kill every man who comes in here. Play the music so loud nobody hears the gunshots, and pile up the bodies. By the time anyone finds out, I'll have what I need and be gone...
"Your first client's here," a muffled voice warns me through the curtain.
Oh, fuck. My hands really begin to shake now. Relax. It's just dancing. Just dance, and kill. Dance and kill.
Curtain links graze across the rail as someone enters. I see a silhouette in the mirror moving slowly. My breathing quickens. He steps forward. My eyes squeeze shut, and I fight to calm myself, to draw in measured, even breaths. Dance and kill. I can do this. I turn around to lay eyes on my client.
Fuck dancing. My mind goes straight to kill.
"Evening, Kimber," Thomas Shelby says, taking the seat.
Elation and adrenaline cascades through me. Equal parts relief and annoyance, peace and rage, until my rage wins out.
