Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 8

Michael

He finds himself very distracted during the family meeting.

Tommy's updating everyone on some development in their gin exports. Ordinarily Michael would be paying close attention — as he does at any opportunity to learn more about the world he's entered into — but today, it's almost impossible to focus on his cousin's words.

If he's completely honest with himself, Calloway's been playing on his mind all weekend. Their exchange in the meeting room. The way she dropped her bag and binders, and so he'd done the polite thing and picked them up for her. While he was down on his knees in front of her, he caught her flustered for the first time. Unable to meet his gaze, swallowing before she could speak and thank him. Abruptly leaving the room.

It's just the elation, he tells himself. That's why he can't get her off his mind. The fact he's actually fucking done it. His cousins and Isaiah had bought him more whiskey than he could sink that night, and they'd celebrated until Polly marched him out of the Garrison and back home around two in the morning. Not that she'd been any better — by all accounts she was even drunker than he was, telling him how proud she was, she always knew he could do it.

Thank fuck he'd actually managed to, rather than let anyone down.

Even if Calloway is a bit of a nightmare to work with. His mind flits back to the same dilemma that keeps plaguing him, whether he should hand over the reins to John or Tommy himself to attend the meetings in the future. Save him having to deal with her.

But he bristles at the thought each time. Even if she has become a pain in the ass, with an ego to match, she was once the girl he held hands with on the beach. The first one to give him butterflies.

It's all becoming very confusing.

"...Michael? Michael."

"Hm?" He's suddenly alert. "Sorry, Tom, what was that?"

Tommy stares at him a moment before speaking again. "We're all casting a vote. Whether to increase export production by two hundred percent. I'd like to know what you think."

Tommy's asking for his opinion. To Michael, it feels like waking up on Christmas morning.

He nods, successfully hiding his elation. "I don't see why not, if it's achievable. If it means more travel to Camden town, we'll have to put the fuel expenses on the books."

Tommy seems satisfied with that answer, and Arthur quickly captures his attention with questions about the London gangs. Michael settles once more.

***

He packs his bags that evening. A whole bloody week in London, he reflects with distaste. He'll be bored out of his skull.

But, as he locks his trunk, he acknowledges it's important to the company. Like Tommy said, it looks good for Michael to be attending these things. Reinforces the notion of getting everything legitimate. It's a small price to pay, really.

And he secured the bloody investment package, he reminds himself with a grin. He's finally beginning to show his worth. People are taking him seriously.

Tommy might even be beginning to respect him.

It's remarkable, how quickly he's come to view Tommy as a cross between the father, brother, and business mentor he never had. Once more, he can't help but feel that everything happens for a reason — Tommy embodies everything he wants to be. Everything he wants to achieve in his life. And he's actually helping Michael to get there.

"I made you sandwiches," Polly says, entering the bedroom and tucking the pack into Michael's duffel bag. "There's a thermos of tea in there as well, in case you get thirsty on the train."

Michael knows most people in his shoes would roll their eyes at such a fuss. But he just smiles, feeling warm and looked after. "Cheers, Mum."

"You're all packed and ready, then?" She asks, smoothing her palms over her dress. "Haven't forgotten your toothbrush?"

He can see by the way her hair's ruffled at the back, the way her eyes dart nervously, that she's been drinking. Not that it's unusual for her — but for the first time, he worries about leaving her.

"Yes, I've got my bloody toothbrush. I'll call you when I get to the hotel, so you have the number."

"Alright." She beams up at him, smoothing out his coat, fussing at his hair. It's the one gesture he doesn't usually enjoy, he'll have to slick it back down again as soon as she's out of sight, but finds himself not minding it much in the present moment.

"I'll see you next Sunday," he says, kissing her cheek goodbye. "And keep a bloody eye on Isaiah for me while I'm gone, alright?" His best friend had taken home two women from the Garrison the night before — a sign of excess, even among the Peaky Blinders.

"Honestly, I've got enough of my own kin to worry about," she mutters. But her eyes shine, and Michael knows she would do whatever he asks.

He appreciates how very lucky he is to have her.

The train ride to London is peaceful. He reads the newspaper, and nobody speaks to him or interrupts him, save for the conductor checking his ticket. He eats his mum's sandwiches — his favourite meal in the whole world — and watches the countryside go by out the window.

By the time he reaches the city, it's almost getting dark. He has to check his map for directions to the hotel, and when he finds it, he lets out a low whistle. It's an impressive facade with intricate detailing, Roman columns and large, framed double doors. The very sort of place he spent a lifetime envisioning himself one day staying in. The sort of place that had been nothing less than a dream or fantasy back during his life in the village.

"Nice one, Tommy," he mutters.

Other men come and go through the large doors. By the seriousness in their expressions, and the cut of their suit, Michael supposes they must be here for the conference, too. He sucks in a deep breath, and enters.

"I'm off to visit my grandson — oh!" Squeals an elderly lady, as a man in a suit sprints past her at full speed through the lobby, knocking her bag from her hands.

"Sorry!" He calls back, not daring to stop as he plummets through the doors.

Michael glances after him in bewilderment, before bending down to pick up the bag for the woman. She looks as though she might crack if she tries to bend.

"Here you are, Ma'am," he says, perching it gently back on her arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be fine. Thank you!" She squeals once more, patting his hand before shuffling along to the doors.

Michael watches her with a frown, hoping she'll be alright. The streets are a lot rowdier than a hotel lobby, and he can't imagine Londoners will be so kind if she drops her crocodile-skin handbag again.

He exhales, deciding to push it from his mind, and turns around the join the short queue at the check-in desk.

And finds himself face to face with Calloway once more.