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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Polly slams a glass of gin onto the table. "Drink."
As it's Polly asking, I quickly lift the glass and sip. My lips curl around the harsh liquor. I don't think I'll ever get used to drinking it straight.
"I'm going to ask you this only once," Polly says as she slides into the seat across from me. She appraises me silently for a moment, her dark eyes even more piercing than Tommy's. "And don't even think about lying to me, girl, or you'll find I can be more terrifying than any man in our line of work."
She's going to ask me if I knew about the guns. About Roberts. She'll ask if helped steal them myself. Will she believe me, I wonder? Or will she continue to suspect, to doubt...
"Are you going to betray us?"
I blink, hands fidgeting in my lap at her words. That I had not been expecting.
But I suppose it's a fair question. Even as I meet her gaze over the rims of our drinking glasses, I realise it's not something I've thought about until now.
"Not unless Tommy gives me a reason to," I eventually say.
Polly nods. "Good enough for me."
There's a rustle, a click of a lighter, and she's drawing on a cigarette. She doesn't smoke like Tommy does — like it's a habit as sure as breathing. She smokes with intention. Every inhale, every pause, deliberate. Like she's not taking a single breath for granted.
"Now," she says, tapping ash into a crystal bowl. "What are you going to do?"
"Do you mean before or after Tommy kills me?" I grimace around a sip of gin once more.
Polly's eyes flash. "How well do you know my nephew?"
"Not very well," I admit. "We began looking into the guns together. And..." And then I began fantasising about him in bed, and he told me I'm his property. Oh, and we fucked in the Garrison last night, and my stomach still clenches each time I think of it.
"Arthur tells me you're living together now," Polly says, conveying my unspoken words with far more tact than I could muster.
"Yes. No." I sigh. "I... I've been thinking it over, Polly, and I need to go back to my father."
Her gaze flickers ever so slightly to my burnt arm. "I see."
"I don't want to go back. I feel sick every time I think about it." I voice them, the words that rolled through my head all night, all into the morning. Preparing for this very possibility. "But it's the only way I'll find out what happened to the guns. If I dare make contact with Roberts, he'll take me to my father anyway. And if I go back there... I can infiltrate them. Find out more. I can't hide from my father forever. Alfie will either betray me for a quick buck, or someone will see me meeting with him."
Polly glances at me fondly. "You remind me of someone."
"You?" I ask hopefully.
She smiles, but gives a twitch of her head. "Tommy."
"Hardly," I mutter. "I don't smoke, drink, or brood nearly enough." I'm not possessive. I don't have all the answers. I'm impulsive, quick with a gun, and scatter-brained. Tommy's like me if I were sedated with a metric ton of horse tranquilliser and then given cocaine for focus.
"No," Polly agrees. "But not many people would go back to the clutches of their abuser, after finally finding the strength to leave, just to protect those they care about."
"I'm not doing it to protect anyone," I say quickly. My cheeks flush. "I'm doing it for my own curiosity. To clear my name."
Polly raises an eyebrow. "You're not doing this to keep Tommy safe? To prevent your father's men from killing him?"
No. Because if I enter that train of thought, I'd have to admit how much I've grown to care about Thomas Shelby. And that would be very, very dangerous, given that he still thinks the worst of me.
"Living in denial," Polly mutters. "More like him than you know." She finishes her cigarette. "I'm going to give you three pieces of advice concerning my nephew, and you'll take them if you know what's good for you. One — be truthful with him. Even if you worry he'll think less of you for it. You'd be amazed what he can handle, and what he can accomplish once he has all the facts. Two — don't feel you must do what he says all the time. If anyone needs a bit of push-back, it's Tommy. It's good for him to remember he neither owns nor rules the entire world from time to time. Three..." her jaw softens. "Remember there's a boy in there. Bright-eyed, quick to laugh, and eager to be loved. The war hardened him until he grew a thick outer shell. But he's not lost who he is inside."
It's a strange concept. I try to picture Tommy like a tortoise — soft and fleshy beneath his shell. Easily wounded. Vulnerable. I'd be more inclined to believe he can sprout an extra head at will.
"And four," Polly says, her lips threatening a smirk. "If he won't pull out, you'll have to head down to the chemist and get some form of contraception. I recommend a diaphragm — Trojans can split, and men tend to lose their heads in the heat of the moment."
"Right. Cheers, Pol." Cheeks burning, I take that as my cue to leave.
Standing to my feet and fussing longer than necessary at the sleeves of my cardigan, I begin to dread my upcoming conversation with Tommy. I wonder whether this time apart will have given him space to think rationally and calm down, or worked him up even more.
But it's okay. I have a solution. And after Polly rubbing my shoulder before saying goodbye, I'm feeling more confident than afraid. I'm going back to my father to find out the truth.
