CHAPTER FOURTEEN
off to the races

"For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs." -1 Timothy 6:10

Trixie had made a very profound effort to avoid Tommy since crash-landing in his apartment the Wednesday previous, but the weekend came soon enough and the races with it. She'd had no idea what she was supposed to wear to something like this, so she'd settled for the silver dress she'd purchased a few years back for her and Luca's engagement dinner. It was the nicest thing Trixie owned, and it seemed fair to assume that overdressing would be preferable to the alternative in this case.

She spent some time fussing in the mirror over her makeup, before resigning herself to the usual charcoal-lined eyes and maroon lip. Tommy's knocking found her halfway done with a slice of toast and hurrying to brush the crumbs from her skirt. Outside, he waited in an unfortunately flattering gray suit. Trixie's heart stuttered in her chest, and she wondered if, somehow, Tommy had known how she'd imagined him those nights earlier. Strong, and real, and—

"Are you going to invite me in?"

Trixie blinked at him. "What?"

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to invite me in? Or should I wait out here?"

"Right," she said, shaking her head. "Yes, sorry. Come in."

He stepped through the doorway, surveying her apartment as if seeing it for the first time. "Nice dress," he said, voice as flat as ever. "I brought you something."

Tommy pulled the newspaper out from under his arm and offered it to Trixie. In her hands, it was inexplicably heavy—she unfolded the pages and found a pistol inside, cold to the touch. "How romantic," she remarked, running her thumb carefully along the barrel of the gun.

"You asked," he reminded her.

"Right," said Trixie. "I know."

"So…"

"I got it," she muttered, picking up the gun and taking it to the table beside her bed. "How far is Cheltenham?"

Tommy already had a cigarette out, rubbing it against his bottom lip. "An hour, maybe." Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, "An hour if you're keen on following the traffic laws."

"I take it you aren't?" Trixie surmised.

"Are you?" he returned.

"Never driven before," she replied. "Wouldn't even know what the laws are."

He smirked, and life sprung back into his body. "C'mon, then," he said, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. "I'll show you."

"How to drive?" she asked, but he was already pulling the door open and heading outside. Trixie grabbed her purse and hurried after him, careful to keep her balance as she chased him down the steps. Tommy's car, a Bugatti, was waiting for them—far fancier than the car she'd been shoved into by Campbell's men. He pulled the door open for her.

"My love," he said, keeping his eyes fixated on some point above her head.

"Dearest," she returned, stepping into it carefully and smoothing her skirt down. Tommy shut the door firmly behind her and crossed the car, sitting down in the passenger seat. "When did you learn to drive?" she asked.

"The war," he replied. "Running supplies out, before I got moved into the trenches."

"You were a digger?" Trixie asked.

He nodded. "Won a medal for it, and everything." Tommy started the car, the engine rumbling loud beneath them, and pulled it out onto the street. Trixie grabbed onto the handle of the door to steady herself, trying not to be too surprised by the motion. It was certainly more unsteady than the train had been with Grace, Tommy starting and stopping as pedestrians ran out into the street ahead of him, but he wasn't a bad driver—well. She didn't have any real point of comparison, but he seemed to be operating it safely enough. "And what about your…" He trailed off, one hand crossing the other as he made a turn. "Your fiance."

"Luca?" Trixie asked. "He was a pilot."

"Impressive," said Tommy.

Trixie shrugged. "He was good with mechanics. That sort of thing. I think it just came naturally to him."

"He ever drive a car?" Tommy asked.

She turned to look at him, grateful for the sudden inequity. Tommy had his eyes on the road, and she could look at him freely without him turning back to face her. "No," she replied. "No, we were poor, the both of us. Couldn't afford anything like that." He didn't offer a reply, so Trixie asked, "What's the plan?"

Clearing his throat, Tommy said, "I've started a war with the Lees that will eventually turn in my favor."

"You started a war that's going to turn in your favor?" Trixie replied dubiously.

"The Lees are taking money from the tracks, Kimber's bookies are on the look-away. He needs to think we have a common enemy that I'll help deal with. And I will, eventually—by offering a truce with the Lees."

"And how sure are you that this is going to work?" Trixie asked, squinting at him.

Tommy turned back to her, a wicked glint in his eyes that sent heat pooling in her stomach and her mind straight back to the night they'd spent together, and the thoughts she'd wrestled with on the edge of sleep. Both of them—open. His chest to hers, his hands startling and cold as he pulled her stockings from her legs, undid the buckle of his belt, moved his mouth from her neck to her collarbone to her breast, one hand sliding up her hip. As hard as she'd tried to keep the memories from cropping back up, Trixie had gone back to them every night since when her head hit the pillow. They made her feel strangely pleasant, flushed in a way she'd not yet managed to cope with.

"Am I to take that as an answer?" she asked, praying that her voice would not betray her thoughts. It wasn't entirely successful—her words came out rather strangled.

"You're to take that as whatever you want," Tommy replied cryptically, turning the car onto the highway out of town and sending them flying down the road. Trixie wanted to look back—she wanted to see what she was leaving behind, but she forced her eyes to stay ahead, towards all that lay waiting before them.

Cheltenham was hardly what Trixie had expected. For the whole time she'd been working for the Shelbys, she'd imagined a dirt road and risers of spectators. This, thought—this was much more of an ordeal than that. Tracks, yes, located in what could best be described as an arena. And that wasn't even where Tommy was headed. As soon as he had offered his hand for her to step out of the car, he'd slung a firm hand around her waist and pulled her towards a side-entrance.

"What—Tommy."

"We're not the kind of guests they invite through," he mumbled. "This way." Pulling the door open, Tommy led Trixie into a crowded corridor, where bookies and jockeys bustled around and caterers pressed through gaps in the buzz. "Tracks are lawless places, you know," Tommy informed her. "And I can't stand petty criminals."

Trixie snorted. "Right."

He paused to look at her, like he didn't get the joke, but then focused back on getting them through the maze of hallways. "This way," he said, and Trixie made a sharp right—just barely missing the corner of a desk. "And now this way," he continued, tugging her waist to the left. Tommy directed them forward towards a red door, and she considered asking how, exactly, he knew all this, but she refrained. "Alright," Tommy said. "Follow my lead, eh?"

"Is that not what I've been doing?" Trixie deadpanned in reply. "Following your lead?"

"Clever," he remarked flatly. When he pushed the door open, they seemed to pass into an entirely different world. Gone were the wrinkled vests and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Here, every woman was dressed to the nines in the latest trendy dresses, and the men were all at Tommy's caliber—sharp, neat, three-pieces. Given this, he should've blended in more, but he was still so striking. Trixie grabbed onto his arm, pulling him out of the way of an older woman in a ridiculous feathered hat.

"You know, this is hardly what I expected," Trixie commented.

Tommy laughed—genuinely laughed—and flattened his hand against the small of her back. "We're just getting started, Beatrice. Come on." He led them towards security, two men in suits, and offered a disarming smile. "Hello, gentlemen. My wife here got lost on the way to go check on our horse. Mind if we get through?"

"You have your tickets?" one of the men asked, cocking an eyebrow at Trixie.

Tommy turned to look at her expectantly, and she tried to match his smile. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said. "I left them at the table. I really was only planning to be gone for a minute. We've got a new jockey, last one's grandmother passed away tragically—oh, what is it? A month ago?" She looked at Tommy, who was now regarding her dubiously. She pressed on. If she spun the story long enough, perhaps they'd give up and let her through. "Well, this new boy's great, but he's not as experienced, y'know, with the, um...the public races. And, er—well, I thought I might talk to him, try to calm his nerves, but—"

"Alright," the second security guard interrupted, holding out a hand. "Just don't forget your ticket next time."

"Yes, sir, thank you," Trixie said with a smile, stepping between them and towards the...dance floor? She'd expected a lobby akin to a movie theater, but this was perhaps more like a ballroom, three women singing along to a Charleston onstage while swathes of wealthy gamblers danced below, ladies' skirts fanning out in bright circles, looking like pinwheels from where they stood on the balcony. The room was stunning—decorated lavishly with flowers and streamers. Perhaps Trixie could've brought herself to appreciate it, had she not been so irritated with him. "What happened to you leading?" she accused, swinging around to face Tommy. "Left me to explain myself when I don't even fully understand what your plan is."

"You did good," Tommy commended.

She'd already prepared a retort, but it died on her tongue. "What?"

"Nice job," he rephrased, nodding in acknowledgement. "You dance?"

"Wha—no, I do not dance."

He sighed. "My plan relies on you dancing."

"So it's not foolproof after all," Trixie said, just to be annoying.

He raised an eyebrow and held out his hand. "Beatrice Price, will you please dance with me?"

She stared down at his hand for a minute, before reluctantly accepting it with her own. "Fine," she conceded. Tommy nodded, pleased, and led her down the stairs to the dancefloor. Trixie wasn't sure what she was doing with herself, but suddenly, Tommy's hand was on the back of her waist, and his other had interlaced his fingers with her own, an act that suddenly felt profoundly intimate. Deliberately so. He was close to her now—closer than they'd been in bed, chest to chest for real, and if Trixie wasn't so focused on avoiding stumbling, maybe she would've noticed the way her heart raced as he planted his palm firmly against her skin. "I don't know how to dance," she warned.

"I noticed," Tommy responded, not bothering to disguise his low expectations. She rolled her eyes. "Look—just follow what I'm doing."

He took a step forward, and she took one back, her eyes decidedly focused on his movement as he piloted them towards the center of the floor. It was easier like this, staring down at their shoes, at the sway of her silver skirt. Certainly, it was better than thinking about his hand through the thin fabric of her dress, and how badly she'd ached for his touch nights ago, and—

"Bloody Christ," Tommy hissed. She'd stepped on his foot. "You mind, eh?"

"Sorry," she said, before she could consider responding with anything else. "Are you alright?"

His eyebrows lifted, surprised, maybe. "I'm alright, just—can you keep it together until I get us to Kimber's table?"

"No promises," she warned, but paid extra attention to moving her feet in pattern with his, three long steps back before he stopped and began leading them into an actual back-and-forth step pattern.

"Ready?" he asked.

"For what?" she answered.

The pitch of the trumpets dipped, and Tommy stepped back, twirling her in a circle, before pulling her firmly back to his chest. Her breath stuttered, her body shaking from the force of her ever-quickening pulse, as Tommy leaned back and resumed the steps of their dance. Trixie struggled to regain her footing, her hand grabbing for his shoulder, ignoring the amused smile gracing his lips.

"Do you mind?" she asked. "Where'd you even learn how to dance?" she asked him, exasperated. "And if you say the war, I swear—"

"Taught us in school," Tommy replied. "I wasn't there for long, but in primary school, fifth year, they made us learn. Becomes a hard thing to forget."

"Does it come up often?" she asked dryly.

"Oh, believe me," he mocked. "Not nearly as often as I'd like." He cleared his throat. "Surprised you didn't learn in school as well."

"I never went to school," she replied. "Learned to read with my father, and learned maths thanks to Luca's family. Just wasn't a priority to get someone like me into a classroom, I suppose."

"You read for fun," he said. Almost a question, but not quite. "You, must, eh? If you're going through all this trouble for shelves."

"Hey," she objected. "It's not just the shelves, it's the house too. Don't you dare forget that part."

"Wouldn't dare," he assured her. "Ready again?"

The music dropped again, and he spun her, but she was prepared this time, and fell back into the pattern with relative ease. "It's strange," she remarked. "Growing up, I had my father, and I had—well, Luca. And then I had Polly and Ada and—" You, she wanted to say, but stopped just short of making a fool of herself. "And John," she settled instead. "I had you all, and soon—well, soon I won't have much of anything."

"I told you I don't care if you come back to see Poll and Ada," he reminded her.

"No—no, I know," she rushed to explain. How could she make sense of this? It was an impending sense of grief, and as stupid as Tommy might think she was for it, she couldn't help but add, "I just—well, it won't be the same."

Tommy shrugged. "You can find yourself a hobby. Take up painting. Become a dancer. I don't care."

It was cold, but what had she expected? Trixie swallowed and nodded. "Right—I, um—right." The song changed, and Trixie recognized it instantly. "Fitting," she remarked.

"What's that?" Tommy asked.

"'Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue'," she explained. "It's always on the radio."

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Trixie said. "I find it deeply relatable."

At that, he cracked a smile, but slid his hand from her waist to check his pocketwatch. "It's time," he remarked.

"Time for what?" she asked.

"Time for my plan," he replied, spinning them around so she was facing the cluster of tables and he was facing the stage. Then, with surprising force, Tommy began dancing her backwards. She stumbled, trying to keep up with his steps.

"Should I be ready to duck?"

"Always."

He released his grip on her waist and pulled her by the hand towards the door, which he then kicked open. Trixie caught a glance at the couple pressed up against the wall beside it, kissing intimately while the rest of the world moved and turned around them. She averted her eyes immediately. Even if they were in public, it was too intimate to watch. She felt like she was knocking down a door just by knowing they were there.

Meanwhile, Tommy was unbothered, sticking his head out the door. His lips broke into a grin when Arthur appeared, quite literally out of nowhere, five heavy bags on his arms, jangling from the coins within. "We chased the Lees across the track and down Devon Road," he announced proudly. "Got every penny back." Then, noticing Trixie, he caught his breath enough to say, "Nice dress, Trixie."

"Thank you, Arthur," she replied, nodding at him politely. "Got it for my last wedding, figured I'd repurpose it for this one." It wasn't even true—it had been for the engagement party, not the ceremony itself, but the way Tommy stiffened at the reminder was enough to convince Trixie not to correct herself. Payback for his jab about the buyout.

"Thrifty, eh?" he remarked. "Well, if Tommy doesn't work out, you can—"

"Alright, thank you, Arthur," Tommy interrupted. "I'll take it from here. Buy the men a round of drinks. Anybody hurt?"

"Few cuts and bruises," Arthur replied, gesturing at his own swollen cheek.

"Good man," said Tommy, patting him firmly on the shoulder, before bending over and lifting up the bags. While Arthur had struggled with them, Tommy slung them over his shoulder with ease. "Alright, Beatrice. Off we go."

He led her through the crowd, but made no attempt to dance this time around. Probably for the best—she didn't know how they'd manage if he was still swinging around bags of money with the trajectory of a ball-and-chain. Couples split, or skittered out of the way, to make room for Tommy Shelby, and while Trixie wasn't quite as aggressive as she moved across the dance floor, she wasn't exactly moving out of the way to make room for others.

She recognized Kimber as soon as she saw him, the odd way his hair parted down the middle distinct, especially when paired with his mustache. Tommy didn't hesitate like she did, he just dumped the bags of coins down onto the table unceremoniously, letting the excess money spill out onto the tablecloth and startling Kimber's companions. "Your money, Mr. Kimber," he greeted. "Rescued from the Lee Brothers, and returned to you with the request for a fair hearing." He smoothed his coat down, and pulled a chair out for himself. Trixie followed, sinking down delicately into the seat behind him.

Tommy didn't wait for Kimber's permission, he just leaned back in the chair as if he owned this place—and perhaps he soon would. Trixie folded her hands together and rested them on the table.

"Your protection is failing you, Mr. Kimber," said Tommy. "Your boys are taking cuts. I want to suggest that, from now on, you contract out your racetrack security to the Peaky Blinders." He dug his cigarettes out, holding the box out to Trixie. "Want one?"

She glanced back at Kimber, and the woman behind him—holding her cigarette delicately with a holder. "I'm alright."

Tommy shrugged. "Suit yourself." He pulled one out for himself and held it between his lips to free his hands for striking a match. "We'd be saving you a lot of money, Mr. Kimber. A lot of money." He fiddled with the matchbox, lighting one under his chin and leaning forward to dip the cigarette into the flame. "In return, you give us five percent of the take, and three legal betting pitches at every race meeting north of the River Severn, rising to six after one year, if we're all satisfied with service."

Trixie had tried to advise him on this deal in the car, since that was as soon as he'd offered up his plan to her, but without much of a concrete understanding on Kimber's earnings and spending, it was hard to come up with anything concrete. Five had been safe, but looking at it now, she wished they'd started with ten and negotiated it down. Clearly, they were making much, much more than Trixie had anticipated.

"What do you say, Mr. Kimber?" he asked.

Kimber stared back, and Trixie couldn't discern if he was considering the offer, or so furious that they'd intruded on his tracks that he was going to fucking kill them. Either way, she remained still, glancing cautiously between Tommy and Kimber and waiting for one of them to move.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he said finally.

"Tho—" Tommy started, only for Kimber to cut him off again.

"No," he said. "No, I know you. Who the fuck is she?"

Tommy glanced over at Trixie and said, "This is Beatrice Price. My accountant. She's here to talk business."

"That's your accountant?" Kimber asked, incredulous. "This...girl? Where's she bloody from?"

"Norway," Trixie retorted sarcastically. "And she would appreciate if you spoke directly to her when asking questions of her concern. Thank you."

Kimber blinked, almost impressed. "My apologies." He cleared his throat. "Well—I see you've got an idea of what you want. Why don't you talk business with my accountant?" he offered, nodding towards the bespectacled man at his side. "I want to dance. I'm sure you won't mind if I ask your partner, here?" he asked. Trixie realized, suddenly, that Kimber was talking to her, and her jaw dropped open. Kimber leaned over to Tommy and whispered loudly enough for Trixie to hear, "If you give me a shot with her, I'll give you a shot with mine."

Tommy's gaze slid over to Trixie, where he was met with a scowl. Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. Nevertheless, he replied, "Of course, Mr. Kimber. You're welcome to ask her."

Kimber extended his hand towards Trixie. "Miss Price, may I have this dance?"

She blinked at him once, disbelieving, before leaning back in her chair. "No. I'm here to discuss business, actually. I'd prefer if we could keep things professional, hm?"

Clearly not expecting to be rejected, Kimber stared at her, frozen, for a long moment. He dropped his hand and gritted his teeth. "Scarlett," he demanded, practically wrestling the woman at his side out of her seat. "Let's go."

"Billy!" she hissed, hurrying to throw her cigarette into the ashtray before he dragged her out to the dance floor. Trixie watched, horrified at his treatment of his companion and still relieved that she'd managed to escape it.

By the time they'd cleared out, Kimber's accountant had already opened a leather portfolio and pulled out a pen. Maybe this behavior was an odd thing from Trixie's perspective, but he'd clearly seen his fair share of it. "How many men can you put in the field at one time?" he asked Tommy.

"Two guards for every bookie," Trixie replied, pulling the accountant's attention back to her.

"Two?" he asked, impressed.

"Lot of men are out of work at the moment," she replied. "So, yes. Two."

"Do you have extra provisions in place to protect from retaliation by the Lees?" he asked.

Tommy cleared his throat, balancing his cigarette gently between two fingers. "We've got Rroma blood," Tommy replied. "Means we have contacts who know what their whereabouts are and what they're planning at any given moment. We'll know when they want to attack, and we can stop it before it happens."

"And what makes you better than the police?" he asked.

Trixie laughed, before realizing that it had been a serious question. "Sorry, sir. All due respect—the police have their hands full. Between the IRA, the communists, the strikes. They won't be able to focus on you. Not like we can."

The accountant nodded, scribbling something down on the page. "And are you going to be able to account for those troubles, should they arrive at the track?"

Tommy exhaled smoke, and then nodded. "Men aren't so prone to revolt when they're busy at work. We're the middle ground." He patted Trixie on the shoulder. "I'm going to get a drink. I trust you two can continue this discussion in my absence."

She nodded up at him, watching as he disappeared towards the bar before resuming her attention on Kimber's accountant. "I don't think I caught your name," she admitted.

"Roberts," he said. "Matthew Roberts."

"Right, then," she noted. "Mr. Roberts, are there any other concerns I can help you with?"

"How much do you pay your men?" he asked. "Are they wanting for money? Willing to take bribes?"

Trixie considered. "We pay them enough. Most of the Peaky Blinders are loyal to us based on our being like family to them. We take care of our men, and they take care of our collateral. Beyond that, though, we provide them with sufficient reason not to take bribes."

"Such as?" Roberts asked.

"Such as...one of the Shelby brothers will have them killed and thrown into the river if they do," Trixie supplied. "Any other questions?"

"How does a woman like you find herself as an accountant?" he asked. "Not to make any assumptions, Miss Price, but I would guess you are not, in fact, Norwegian."

"No," she conceded. "That would be right. I was taught arithmetic by my father, and I learned to balance books by keeping track of Church collections."

"No schooling?"

"No schooling."

He nodded, then flipped to another page of his notebook. He yanked a page of paper out, and scratched down something hastily. "You could be doing much better than a petty street gang," he told her. "If you had the degree for it. This is the name of a program director at King's College down in London. He's more...progressive. Might even allow you to sit on some courses, if you don't mind the trouble of getting there."

Trixie narrowed her eyes at him, but accepted the paper. She'd never considered that she might have a path towards legitimate business. "Oh." She stared down at the name and address. "Thank you, Mr. Roberts," she said, folding it neatly and placing it in her purse. With Tommy planning to get rid of her soon, and the house in the countryside seeming more and more boring, she could use a way to spend her time. Perhaps she could occupy herself with a formal education.

"You two seem to be making a deal." Trixie looked up and found Kimber hovering over her.

Roberts steeled himself. "We're making progress."

Kimber sat down at her side. "Let me throw a small condition into the mix," he offered. "Dinner at my house, eh? I believe you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot."

Trixie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Why dinner?" she tried. "Why not resolve all this while we're here?"

"Because," Kimber said simply. "I'm not in the mood for making deals right now, but perhaps I will be later tonight." He rested a hand on her thigh and Trixie bit down on her cheek to keep from veering away.

"Here's hoping," she muttered. "Mr. Kimber, I'm not sure your wife would appreciate you touching me like that."

"Ehhh," he said lazily. "Who gives a fuck what she thinks though, right?"

Her stomach lurched. "Right. Um…"

"Gentlemen, Beatrice." The familiar rumble of Tommy's voice had Kimber yanking his hand away from Trixie's thigh. "Have we made progress?"

Smirking in her direction, Kimber responded, "Oh, I think we're quite on our way."

"That a fact?" Tommy asked, clearly directing his question towards Trixie.

"I think we're making progress," she agreed. "Mr. Kimber has offered a condition, though."

Tommy's eyes slid over to Kimber. "A condition, eh?"

"I'd like to have you over for dinner," he said, placing his hand back on Trixie's thigh, deliberate enough for Tommy to notice. He pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. Kimber leaned over to Trixie, his nose hovering close to her neck, and added, "As I told Miss Price...I might be in a better mood for doing business in the evening."

Tommy raised his eyebrows at her, almost imperceptibly. A question. Is that alright with you? She could say no, she realized, make some kind of excuse for why she needed to get home. But she'd agreed to help him with this, and as long as she didn't actually have to touch Kimber, she could deal with pretending to find him even remotely pleasant to be around. She shrugged the slightest bit. Might as well. They'd come this far already, and she wasn't a coward. She wanted to finish what they'd started.

After a moment of consideration, Tommy nodded. "Right, then," he said. "Dinner it is."

A/N: Originally, dinner was included in this chapter, but it ended up expanding to, like, almost 10,000 words which was just kind of a lot so for pacing's sake I decided to split it into 2, with the next one coming on Wednesday!

Thank you so much for reading! The races were always one of my favorite scenes, so I had a really great time putting my own spin on things. Thank you to EleanorJames, FigurativelyDying, Idcam, and scars from the sunfor commenting on the last chapter! Please let me know what you thought of this one as well, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

Chapter 15 / Both Ends of the Candle

Tommy had never seen her like this, so open with him. Whatever she'd smoked with Kimber's wife had made her pliant and loose, in a way that struck him as almost being unfair; she should be home in bed in this state, not stuck with him. "We're so alike," she admitted, reaching across the car for his hand. "Tommy. You see me, don't you?"

Never in his life had he been smitten, and he wasn't going to start now. But Tommy still found himself nodding, swallowing, his throat like sandpaper. "I see you," he managed. "And you see me."

She smiled, satisfied. "God, at least there's that." She exhaled, relieved. "At least we have each other."