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March 1928
"Do you not like me anymore, Tommy?" May slid herself into the sheets, head thrown back as she inhaled her – well, his – cigarette.
That sentence alone made the gang leader scrunch his forehead, confused. Since when did he have feelings for May Carlton? Never. Attraction? Yes. Are the sexes helping him cope with the photographs taken of the twenty-something woman who has been haunting his mind? Most likely.
Does he harbour that deep feeling that would tighten around his chest like when every time he looks at another picture of Irene Grosvenor with her mischievous smile? Absolutely not.
May rolled her eyes, "You know, you don't have to think about it too hard. Irene Grosvenor is the main character of our world,"
"She's pretty, intelligent, bred from royalty. Not like me, whose aristocratic title doesn't fit my being at all. She lights up the room wherever she goes. People beam every time someone mentions her name, even when she's not there. She's who I want to be when I grow up, and I'm fucking older than her."
Tommy's blue eyes lifted slowly as he rose from his seat. Lying down beside May, he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, "Why don't we stop talking and just fuck?"
The aristocrat smiled slowly, climbing on top of the Blinder. Her smile warms just atop his lips. And there it goes again. Thomas was here, with a beautiful woman by his side, a woman who's glad to have him around. Yet, he can't seem to get his mind straight. The image of the Grosvenor heiress smiling from cheek to cheek as her arm hung loosely around her sister's shoulder swam in his mind. Irene was wearing a cream coloured flowy dress and adorning a look that wrenched Tommy's heart.
She was smiling again.
At least she was healing. Though probably not from the scar you gave her, came a voice from the back of his head. It sounded a lot like Satan if Satan had a voice similar to his father.
Several pictures were taken. But the last one lasted longer in Tommy's head. His gut's telling him that there was something amok here. He knew it. The lovely white roses lined up behind her, the all too familiar pillar on the foyer. The oddly specific stepping stones that overlook the entire moors –
The fence Tommy swore he's leaned against on separate occasions. Including where Irene was seen to be playing with an all-too-familiar child whose face was facing the moors.
He froze, arms limp on either side of May's waist. With a deadly slow voice, he whispered, "When was the picture taken?"
May sighed as she dropped her head, brown locks falling all over his chest. "Tommy, please."
He pushes her off with ease, "When?"
"T-this morning."
"At John's house," He deadpanned. At this, the aristocrat didn't reply and only dipped her head lower. Exasperated, Tommy retrieved the pictures. Tossing them on the bed, he searched May's shameful face, "Am I right?"
He raked his hair back. Defeat has never been his favourite feeling. "Am I right, May?!"
A tear slid down her face as she looked up, "Yes."
"Yes, thousand times yes, for fuck's sake. Are you happy now, Thomas Shelby, huh? For treating me like absolute shit for what, the hundredth time now? Are you glad that your precious goddess is now back and you can be rid of me?"
Thomas shook his head as he slid his clothes back on, "Don't do that, May. Don't you play that game with me? You know full well what you were getting involved in, and you agreed. No, no, you don't get to play this – this victim act,"
He takes a look back once he's at the door. The nerve of the aristocrat to lie to him and expect that he will somehow forgive her and cradle her with her shaking shoulder and sobbing sounds. She made a mistake, and, fuck, these blue bloods really need to accept their defeat.
He plucked the pocket watch inside his coat, it's eleven, and if I drive like a fucking madman, I'd be able to arrive by twelve. "Take the chauffeur."
And then he was off.
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
Tommy's car was not one to mess around with.
The fastest among the other vehicles in the company inventory, it sure looked like he was about to crash into John's front door before it came to a screeching halt in front of the fountain.
John set down his cigarettes before sighing. Turning his head, he nodded his head toward his baby son, "Take Edward upstairs."
Ana lifted the one-year-old, bouncing from one leg to another when he started wailing, "I'm worried, mi alma. What will he do to you for lying to him about this?"
John shared a tight smile before growling, squeezing the tobacco heiress' arse playfully, "You know I love it how your language rolls off your tongue."
She rolled her eyes, grinning. Though the uneasy feeling of a wife did not dissipate, "I'm serious, John. You know how he is about her. "
"And I'm serious, too. Now go upstairs before I do some serious damage to that sweet and delicious – "
Ana thwacked him across the back, "Not. In. Front. Of. Edward, "
"Right, well, te amo, my darling. Make sure the guns and peaky hats are hidden away. You boys are too violent sometimes." She pecked his lips before gliding away with Edward still on her hip.
In a dire situation like this, John Shelby can't seem to tear his gaze away from his remarkable and too-good-for-his-own-good wife. Just the way she sways her hips as she walks away makes him crazy in the head. Making him slightly distracted by the fact that his fuming brother was standing in front of his door and probably ready to tear it into pieces.
The loud bang from the doorway announced Tommy's presence. He beelined towards John with a question the young brother knew all too well, "Where is she?"
John stepped back, pouring a glass of whiskey for the King of Birmingham. The latter did not extend a hand to retrieve it. Only breathlessly repeated his question, "Where the fuck, is she, John?"
"Who, Tom?"
Thomas kicked the chair near him, "You fucking know who I'm talking about!"
John sighed. Of course, he knew what his brother was talking about. Irene and Isabelle had come early in the morning to have breakfast with the family, wanting to congratulate sweet Edward for turning one today. He and Arthur shared numerous anxious glances over the table as the Brat Pack caught up with each other like time hadn't passed at all.
And when he's about to open his mouth, Irene beat him to it. She prefers for them not to inform Tommy about her visit, but if they really want to, she can't do anything about it. She expressed how she was not ready to face him yet, and when her eyes dropped to her wrist, theirs did too. The scars were still there.
She was not ready; it was crystal clear.
So the two brothers opted against informing Thomas. Both vow to vouch for everything that happened this morning and will face the blue-eyed devil themselves.
"She left."
"No, she didn't. You're lying you fucker. Where is she?"
Thomas ran around the room, his voice bouncing from one wall to another, "Irene! Irene, please!"
"Irene, get the fuck out right fucking now!"
John sighed, saddened by the heartbreaking scene in front of him as Thomas opened yet another door only to find out Irene Grosvenor was not there. He rubbed his eyes, "Tom, please."
His brother turned, his feet quick enough to face John in three seconds before grabbing him by the collar. "Listen, you fucking arsehole, you're going to tell me where the fuck she is, or I will knock that decanter on your fucking head."
"Thomas Shelby!" Shouted a voice from the top of the stairs. "That's enough!"
Ana strode across the room, taking one of her shoes off and chucking it at Tommy's head. John suppressed a laugh.
"How dare you barge into someone's home and act like an animal, shouting this and that. You call yourself a politician, yet you don't conduct yourself like one. You don't deserve to sit in the House of Commons." Ana stood between the two brothers, managing to tear the older brother's deathly grip from her husband. John smiled as he stared at his petite wife. Though his smile dropped once, John saw Thomas looking at him, eyes still wide. John Shelby doesn't want to say he cowered behind his wife – and he never will – but he indeed did hide behind the small-statured woman.
With a softer tone and two hands on his shoulders, Ana explained, "When she's ready, she will come back. Trust me, Thomas. I know my best friend well enough to say that she's not. And I have no idea what happened between the both of you, but this one seemed to cut her deep. And with everything that happened to her, that I know you know about, she is far from okay,"
"So please, just give her time. She does this. This is her way of coping with things. Hiding and tucks her feelings away until she finds peace with them. And you, rest up, darling. Go see Lizzie once in a while, spend time with your son now that he lost another person dear to him. He can't lose you too. "
A small tear rolled down Tommy's cheek. So tiny and clear, it was easily mistaken for sweat.
John's eyes widened. Never in a lifetime has he ever seen his brother cry. Or whatever this was. And he was fighting a monster urge to take a photo of it and hang it on his office wall.
Ana seemed to notice as she could feel the vibration of her husband's chest, who appeared to be holding in his laughter yet not doing a good job of it. So she pinched him on the stomach, face scowling.
The two jumped when Tommy rasped out, "I just – miss her, Ana. I fucking miss her, and I'm fucking sorry. Fuck."
Without another thought, the heiress pulled him in for a hug. Rubbing his back as he slouched onto her. Not hugging her back, just seeming to enjoy the feeling of comfort from someone as gentle as Ana. Who was the first time to really console him during his witch hunt for Irene Grosvenor. "I know, darling, I know."
Thomas wasn't crying, yet it was apparent that the weight on his shoulders was catching upon him. Ana felt terrible for the gangster leader. What really happened between him and her dear friend? Her mind wandered. Though she knew that question was for another day.
When Thomas and Irene resolve the clear heart-shattering event. For now, the head of the Peaky Blinder needs to be pacified before he wakes her son up. And if it means hugging the scary man, then so be it.
What she didn't notice was her husband retrieving the camera on top of the fireplace.