The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Chapter Twenty-One: Part II

A/N: Wow! Guys, I cannot believe how much attention my stories have gotten over the last week...this is now up to 8.3k views and 280 votes. I am so appreciative. 
Here is part II of 21. Sorry, I really meant to upload it earlier along with chapter 23, but I wasn't happy with how it was coming out. I refuse to put something out for you guys if I am not happy with it. My readers deserve my best effort. Sorry it is so short, but chapter 22 will be out soon. It is written, just being edited. I am hoping by Saturday the latest. Please let me know what you think, and remember I am on Tumblr. Novashelby. Feel free to read my one shots(18+ only) and contact me there (18+).  

Colm Clarke would think a dusty alley with no sense of culture was thrilling if someone had written it 'exotic'. Perhaps it was his dull senses and lack of adventure, but Tommy Shelby hardly thought Amsterdam was special. He had buildings, prostitutes, alleys, and a canal back home in Birmingham. But nonetheless, there he was, sipping on some coffee with a cigarette making smoke circles in an ashtray listening to Colm drone on about something, something. He didn't know, he had gotten bored relatively quickly. He'd been leaning back in the cafe chair, hands folded on his crossed legs before he sat up and straightened. "Right," Tommy sighed, unamused. His expression said it all, but Colm Clarke was a self-absorbed man who couldn't read a room if it was handed to him in plain English. Colm was still talking, words flooding out of his mouth like a drain...a sewage drain. Tommy pulled out an official crested and stamped envelope with an inch thick stapled packet. He pulled out the papers and licked his thumb to separate the pages. The last one just needed his signatures. "Colm," he started, placing it on the table and passing it over. "I'd like you to sign this."

"And ah! Tommy, if you have never had a fish filet from-oh," Colm finally paused, and Tommy thanked the universe for that. "Let me get my specks here, one moment please," he said, digging into his pocket for a cloth wrapped pair of thin framed specks before putting them on his face, hanging low on the arch of nose. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat before grabbing the packet. Tommy passed him a pen, but rolled his eyes when the man went to the first page.

"It's nothing personal, Colm," he said when he noticed the man getting quite tense. "And it's only temporary, renewed on a yearly basis as well as reversible." Colm looked up, staring at Tommy with a face Tommy never saw from such a man; solemn and devastated, perhaps offended. Tommy leaned back, pulling a smoke out and licking the tip. "Smoke, Colm?" he asked, lighting it. "Or do you only smoke special cigars from the Amazon or the fuck you get them-"

"My god, Thomas!" Colm said, exasperated. He closed the packet and tossed it back to Tommy. "Absolutely not. What a fucking thing to ask of a father? I don't know if you know this, but I love my girl very fucking much. She's my daughter. And what you are asking of me is absolutely preposterous. It's downright insulting." Tommy listened, head tilted, unamused. "In fact, after today, perhaps I should head back and take Amelia home."

Tommy sighed and sat up again, leaning forward with his hands folded, nodding. "I understand, Colm. Your reaction is valid. But I would like some help understanding something, Colm. You say bring her home, but what home, hm? The one where you travel eight months out of the year, tree hopping in the jungle-"

"Are you insulting my parenting skills, Thomas? Have you got any yourself? Amelia is a fine girl who is on her way to success. Could an awful parent do that?"

Tommy paused, allowing him to finish his thought before continuing on. "A home where a young girl's mother spends a good portion of her time behind a-"

"How dare you!"

"Closed door, snuggled with a new bottle of whiskey every day-"

"Thomas-"

"Crying about her dead Irish rebel of a fucking son." Tommy took the packet and flipped to the last page. "Michael is dead, Colm. He's been fucking dead! But your wife, she refuses to believe it. And how is that fair to Amelia? A father who enjoys too many holidays in the Islands with a Caribbean whore hanging off his lap." They connected stares, Mr. Colm Clarke's color drained from his face. "And your wife...tell me, Colm. Where is she?" He raised his brow and gave the older man a second to answer. Tommy nodded, mockingly looking around and swirling his finger in the air. "She's not here with you. I don't see her in the shops or walking the beautiful bridge over the canal! So, tell me, where is she, Colm?" The older man looked over to the side, unable to face the truth. "Where has she been this whole holiday?"

"I will think about it," he said, finally.

"About what?" Tommy asked, brow arched. "Hm? Siobhan? We don't have to think too hard on that...we know where she is. Where she always is. Behind a door, drinking and crying, drinking and crying, drinking and crying...."

Colm let out a long sighed, and closed his eyes, "I will think about signing the documents-"

"I leave tonight, Colm," he said. "Not much time to think. You will sign the paper because you love your daughter, and you know and I know what is right for her. In Birmingham, she has stability and structure. She trains, goes to school, and has a routine. Polly takes very good care of her." Colm nervously went for the pen, his fingers lingering over it. Tommy nodded and reached for it. "Go on, here."

"I'm doing this for Amelia-"

"Of course," Tommy agreed. "Only temporary. You can visit her any time you want. She is still your daughter." Tommy watched as the gentleman signed the dotted line with a shaky hand, a smirk pulling at his lips. "You did the right thing, Colm." Before there were any take backs, Tommy reached over and took the packet, folding it neatly and placing it in the envelope, sealing it.