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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Tommy
"You're no fucking fun at the moment," John complains.
I ignore my younger brother as I slap down my playing cards, creating a checkered fan across the table and scraping the coins neatly into my pile. Arthur shut the Garrison to finish a stocktake, and John insisted the rest of us keep drinking at home. Polly mutters something about dodgy cards, her speech slurring from all the wine, while Michael's jaw tightens in frustration at his own hand. I'd agreed to the drinking and the card games in an effort to occupy my mind — if I weren't here, I'd be lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if sleep will ever come for me.
If I'm honest, I have to agree with John's assessment.
And the reason for my melancholy, infuriatingly, seems to stem from Kimber's absence. How Arthur shoved me against a wall when I insisted on taking off to London after her, bringing our best men, just in case. Arthur clapped me on the shoulders and told me to get a grip. Get my head back into work. Only the knowing look in his eyes had been enough to break my focus. To show me I needed to sort myself out. Distractions are a slippery slope, and one I can't afford to slide down. I don't get that privilege. The others can both fuck up and fuck who they please — not me.
I'll deal with Kimber later.
So I did as he said. I got back to work. I tried to forget about her.
And I'm doing well. Each time that flare begins in my gut, I simply crush it down beneath liquor and work and cigarettes. I've basically never been better.
Cigarette between my teeth, I begin dealing the next hand. A tapping sounds through the room, a hollow echo — knocking at the front door.
"Has Arthur forgotten how to open the bloody door?" Polly mutters, smirking as she checks her cards.
I check my own. Hmm. Not ideal. But if I draw a King in the next round, and provided Michael hasn't got an ace up his sleeve...
The knock comes again, snapping me from my concentration. I lift my gaze, looking around my family members, all of whom are ignoring the knocking. As though it doesn't exist. As though their minds actually function like normal human brains, and not the tightly held coiling of wires like my own, insisting on perfect conditions to operate. The knocking doesn't bother them. It has me feeling like I'm about to crawl out of my skin.
"Suppose I'll fucking get it then, shall I?" I say, incredulous as I stand to my feet.
"Ta," Polly says, shifting the order of her hand.
Rain lashes against the windows. It's been an accompaniment to our game so far, distant and forgettable. But when I tug the front door open, it booms ten times louder, tipping down with a distant rumble of thunder. The integrity of our housing's insulation surprises me.
But it doesn't surprise me as much as the sight of Kimber. Wide-eyed and covered in bruises.
I blink, taking it in. It's not Arthur. Kimber's here, in Small Heath, at my door. But how...?
