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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I'm surprised by how gentle Tommy's touch is. The careful way he holds my wrist, finger pads applying soft pressure. His long, proportionate fingers set to work, and I'm mesmerised as I watch.
The spell breaks when he dresses the wound with disinfectant, and it feels like my whole arm's been set on fire. I bite down on my lip, muffling my cries of pain. Tommy stops, allowing me to take a breath.
"Do it," I gasp, desperate to get this over with. Desperate to just pass out in pain.
He pauses for a moment. "I'll get the morphine."
"No." I swallow. I must already look weak and helpless in his eyes — I have to draw a line somewhere. "Just... just pass me the whiskey."
Tommy raises his eyebrows, but hands me the glass. I bring the drink to my lips and the scent burns my nostrils already.
But there's something comforting in the smell. It makes me think of crisp suits, of a leather armchair. Of safety.
Only when I knock it back, do I realise what else it reminds me of. Tommy.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, unintentionally thinking aloud. But the trail of fire burns across my lips, my tongue, coating my throat and all the way down to my stomach. A welcome distraction from the pain. Already, it's dulling the throbbing in my head, the agony aching through me. I understand now why the Peaky Blinders must drink so much. It feels good.
"Another."
I expect Tommy to fight back, but apparently whiskey is one thing he won't withhold. He passes me the bottle, and I decide to make it quick and cut the middleman. Placing the glass aside, I drink straight from the whiskey bottle, pulling a face as I finally lower it from my lips.
My face has turned numb. Everything seems slightly out of focus, every touch happening in multiple places at once. I can't tell if it's a happy feeling, like my sister when she drinks, or a sad feeling, like my mother when she drinks. At least I'm not angry like my father.
"Ready?"
I nod, bringing the bottle to my lips again and forcing gulps of whiskey down my throat as Tommy continues. It still stings like I've plunged my arm into a hornet's nest, but it's bearable. Better than before.
"How did you learn to do all this?" I ask Tommy, vaguely aware my words are rolling into each other.
"France."
Now the worst part's over, I watch as he works, covering the wound with a bandage and gauze. "You're incredibly brave," I say quietly. "For what you did."
He waits a moment, like he's debating how best to answer. "Thank you, Kimber," he finally murmurs.
I squeeze my eyes shut then open them again, trying to work out if I can still feel anything on my face. "Are you very drunk?" I ask him.
