Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 27

Calloway

Are you fucking joking?

I lie still in his arms. Here I am, trying desperately to cling to these last moments together, to preserve some piece of what has been shared between us. Here I am, losing my mind over this. Over him. I've spent hours trying to commit him to memory — the slope of his nose, line of his jaw, the way he felt moving inside me.

I've spent hours thinking this is real.

He was lying the whole time.

It's amazing how quickly those five words can change everything. What about the bank account?

Like he's been gearing up for this for days. The whole time. Like he's got me right where he wants me, stupid and ready and willing to give him what he wants.

He's been using me this whole time.

It should have been fucking obvious.

"What about it?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice even.

I feel him pull away from me. Inch by inch, mile by mile. I feel the last threads of what we shared snap and break. It must be freeing for him, I think, not having to pretend any longer. For me, it burns.

"Nothings changed, then?" He asks.

I shatter like glass. And like glass, when I break, I'm all too willing to cut.

I suddenly can't get away from him fast enough. "Apparently not."

I wait for him to push further. He's spent a week committed to his act, why stop now? This should be no more than a final hurdle for him. One last bit of resistance before getting what he wants.

And stupidly, embarrassingly, I wait for him to soften. To pull me back into his arms and laugh softly, and tell me it doesn't matter. It's just an account. He'll find another bank. And I'll roll my eyes and I'll concede and say fine, you've got your bloody account and he'll teasingly whisper how can I ever repay you? And we'll be alright. Better than alright — we'll be happy.

The tap at the window comes. He leaves the room.

I allow myself one small moment to cry. One, because he was my first. Because he said he would pull down the stars for me, and he didn't mean it.

I wipe my face and drop the tissue into the rubbish bin, vowing to drop all feelings for Michael with it.

But I cannot shake him, whether by mistake or design. We leave the hotel together. Wait for the train together. I finally think I am free, I can breathe normally again, when we are separated at the platform — thank goodness. No need for awkward goodbyes, or wondering what words to say.

Part of me wants to scream at him.

But then I find him again on the train. Our eyes meet, and he looks at me the way he did last night. The way he has every night — like I'm the only thing in the whole world that exists.

I hate him for it.

I pull away. I stare resolutely at a page of my book. Still the first page. I've never had much taste for reading, and my mind finds it even harder than usual to concentrate.

He's all I can think about.

I steal glances, fighting them for as long as I can. He's looking out the window each time. Jaw clenched. Eyes indecipherable.

He must be angry with me. His plan didn't work.

I can't get off the train quick enough once we reach Birmingham.

I put as much distance between us as quickly as I can.

He told me I'm his veins. It seems, without realising it, I have allowed him to flood my own.