CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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"What God has joined together, let no one separate." —11 Mark 10:9
Trixie didn't understand what Tommy meant until he was halfway downstairs. The ceremony. Their wedding ceremony.
Unhelpfully, her mind supplied, If you marry him you won't have to feel so guilty. But this wasn't marriage, this wasn't love, this was business and—sex. Something like it, without crossing that threshold. Trixie's neck burned where his lips had been, and she brushed over the spot with her fingers to see if it was as feverish as she felt—nothing. Like nothing had ever happened. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined that Arthur had not returned to the house so soon, and that Tommy would seize her roughly by the waist, taken her to his bed, and—
"Oh, for the love of God," she muttered. Here she was again, in Tommy's bedroom, fantasizing about Tommy. She balled her hands into fists and pivoted for the door. One crisis at a time. Downstairs, she found the rest of the Shelbys smoking with Jeremiah Jesus.
"Eh, there she is!" John howled, clapping and smacking Tommy on the shoulder. The brothers had apparently made up at some point, judging by the generous smile on Tommy's face.
"Alright, John," Tommy said, but he didn't step forward. He looked oddly relaxed, hands in his pockets.
"You're not dressed like much of a bride," Arthur remarked, gesturing at Trixie with the flask in his hand. She wasn't dressed like much of a bride, that was true, but since she'd only gotten the notice of her wedding an hour previous, she was willing to forgive the fault. Her collar was white, if that counted for anything.
Polly bypassed him from behind and snatched the drink from his hands. "No drinking until the reception. It's a holy day." With a glint in her eye, she looked at Trixie and said, "Tommy Shelby's settling down."
"We're all aware of what's actually going on, right?" Trixie clarified. "You know I'm not actually marrying him."
"You need something blue," Polly said. "Come on upstairs, then, we'll make something fun out of this."
"I thought the ceremony was starting soon?" Trixie asked, partially out of confusion and partially to avoid the interrogation that was sure to follow once Polly had her alone.
"Ceremony starts when the bride's ready," Polly replied, and before Trixie could protest, she was being marched back up the stairs to Polly's bedroom. The biggest in the house, with green floral wallpaper and a large mirror over the bureau.
All she could think, as Polly sat her down before the vanity, was that she wished Ada was here. She wished she'd been at Ada's wedding. She wished her parents could come to her wedding, and that Luca was alive, so that they wouldn't both drop dead, again, of heart attacks when they discovered who the groom was.
"Beatrice," Polly said, stern.
"You never call me Beatrice," Trixie said, wrenching around in the chair. "Has something happened?"
Polly took her hands gently and sunk down onto the corner of the bed, so they were level. "I had a dream last night, Trixie."
She waited. Polly had always been superstitious—most of the Peakys were, even if the Shelbys tended not to be. While Trixie had usually dismissed the bad omens as meaningless, it must have been important for Polly to drag her all the way upstairs and break the news. "What did you dream, Poll?"
Squeezing Trixie's hands, Polly looked out the window at the buildings down the road. "Three knocks at the door, my dear. Your door. Years into the future, Trixie, in this very house. I watched as you reached for the knob, and on your finger you wore a ring."
"Is this about Tommy's mother's ring?" Trixie interrupted. "You can have it back—I mean, it's not a real marriage, there's no need to use it if it's valuable."
"Not Martha's," Polly said. "Not Martha's ring. Brass band, Trixie, and a red stone. You opened the door and a priest was waiting with a noose."
"It's just a dream, Poll," Trixie was quick to object. "And anyway, death is an occupational hazard in this family."
"Dreams don't lie," Polly insisted. "Not mine, at least." Reaching past Trixie, she opened up one of the drawers beneath the vanity and pulled out a necklace with a small blue jewel at the center. "You need good luck, I've had this blessed."
"It's beautiful," Trixie said.
Though she was dubious about its effects as far as harm reduction was concerned, Trixie didn't want Polly to fret for no reason. If the necklace would ease her mind there was no reason not to wear it. She waited quietly as Polly clasped the hook behind her neck, gemstone resting delicately over the fabric of her dress. "You look beautiful, you know," she said.
"I look the same as I do on any ordinary day," Trixie deflected, avoiding Polly's eyes in the mirror. "Just with a new necklace."
She sighed, wondering whether or not she should stand up. Trixie wanted to talk to Polly just a bit longer, wanted to get somewhat closer to understanding what was happening, why she'd been chosen, why they'd gone with this plan at all. Getting married was supposed to be more than this; she'd wanted it to be more than this, but there wasn't anything else to say.
"Oh, I do wish you'd met Tommy before the war," Polly said, standing behind Trixie and resting her hands on her shoulders.
She arched an eyebrow. "John said the same thing."
"He was younger, then. Still believed in love, and all that. I think you would've liked him."
I like him now. "He probably would've tricked me and left me heartbroken."
"No, no," said Polly, sadness edging into her voice. "He didn't have it in him to be so manipulative. Not before. He was honest."
Trixie swallowed, and tried not to imagine a world where Tommy Shelby swept her off her feet when they were kids. "No use dwelling on the hypotheticals," she managed. "I have to marry who he is now, and I suppose he has to take me as I am as well."
"That's all love is," Polly said. "Now come on, love. Let's get you back downstairs."
There had been no grand transformation since Polly had hauled her up to the bedroom, but Tommy trained his eyes on Trixie nonetheless. She wobbled under the force of it. "Alright," she said, meeting his gaze and pretending she was undaunted. "Let's get married."
St. Catherine's church was surrounded on all sides by Blinders when the Shelbys arrived, Beatrice in tow. She expected the inside of the building to be busy, too, given all the hubbub outside, but it was deserted. Just Jeremiah, the four Shelby brothers, Polly, and the bride.
"Be seated, please," Jeremiah asked. "The ceremony will begin soon."
Polly looped her arm through Trixie's crooked elbow and led her to the last row of pews, where they stood for what felt like an eternity. Trixie wasn't sure if she was anxious for the ceremony to start or to finish, but she knew she felt restless. House in the country? The memory of Tommy not an hour earlier was tormenting her still.
That man—who'd stood pressed against her, knowing what he was doing—did not belong in a place like this, dwarfed by a crucified Jesus and haloed on all sides by the colored light pouring in through the stained glass. Then again—Trixie had done her fair share of lying in the confessional. Tommy didn't belong here, surely enough, but it was possible that she didn't either.
"When will we know when to walk?" Trixie whispered. "There's no music."
"Bridal instinct," Polly replied.
"That's not real," Trixie said.
She stepped forward anyway, jolting Jeremiah and forcing him to hurry quickly through the pages of his Bible until he found the passage he meant to read from. Bridal instinct was a myth, she'd been right, but she'd also started walking far too early.
In any case, it felt pathetic to stop halfway down the aisle and wait, so she continued her strides until she was stepping onto the altar opposite Tommy. He looked sharp in his immaculate suit, but he always looked like that. It wasn't for her.
He held out his hands, and Trixie extended her own, not quite meeting his grip so much as brushing her fingertips against his palms. She didn't think much of it until he reached up and interlaced their fingers, palms towards heaven, hands in the shapes of steeples.
"Nice to see you," said Trixie, smiling awkwardly as Jeremiah continued rustling through the Bible.
"Generous," he remarked, and it was all Trixie could do not to smack him on the arm.
"Ready?" asked Jeremiah.
Tommy looked to Trixie for confirmation, so she gave a sharp nod. "Ready."
"We are gathered here today to honor the union between Thomas Shelby and Beatrice Price," Jeremiah began. "Before we begin the ceremony, I must ask a few questions. First. Thomas Shelby and Beatrice Price, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?"
Trixie blinked. "Um," she said, looking up at Tommy.
He must've recognized her panic. "Skip ahead, Jeremiah," he instructed.
"Right, Thomas." He shrugged. "Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for a long as you both shall live?"
This felt more like a Peaky Blinder initiation oath than a declaration of love. "Til the bleak midwinter," said Tommy. Trixie snorted, rather unceremoniously. "Next one?"
"This is the last part of the declaration of consent," Jeremiah announced, sounding exasperated. Trixie suddenly felt guilty, and steeled herself for the final question. "Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and His Church?" Jeremiah asked.
From the front pew, John snorted. When Trixie's eyes flew over, Polly was lifting an arm to smack him across the shoulder, eliciting a giggle from Arthur. "Fine," Trixie said. "Law of Christ and His Church, all that."
Jeremiah shrugged. "Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church."
He took a step back, and suddenly Tommy possessed Trixie's entire line of sight, striking as ever, so bright it ached. If that wasn't enough, he'd been framed over his head by a stained glass piece depicting Jesus at the seventh station of the cross, all that was god and evil molded together before her in a way that did not balance out into human, but projected the image of something along the lines of Lucifer as the Lightbringer and then as the Devil. "Christ," she muttered.
Tommy held her gaze. "I, Thomas Shelby," he recited, "take you, Beatrice Price, to be mine. I promise to be true to you in prosperity and suffering, in sickness and in health." He dropped his eyes to her lips for a brief moment, before returning them to her own. "I will love you and honor you all the days of my life," he murmured.
Trixie tried not to shiver, taking in the man before her for a long moment before realizing that it was her turn now to say the vows. "I don't remember what I'm supposed to say," she whispered to Tommy, even though everyone else in the church could certainly hear her.
Years ago, she'd memorized her vows for Luca, but the knowledge was lost on her now. If she reached out for it, it skittered away. Jeremiah cleared his throat. "Do you, Beatrice Price, take Thomas Shelby to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in prosperity and in suffering, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?"
She swallowed. "I do," she managed, her voice coming out throaty and unfamiliar. "I do," she repeated.
"The rings?" Jeremiah asked.
John stood, reaching into his pocket and digging out two bands, the one Trixie had discarded in the picnic basket that morning—God this was a long day—and another complimentary gold band. "Right, here they are," he mumbled.
Pulling his hands away, Tommy accepted the rings, handing the gold band to Trixie. "I think this one's yours," she said.
"You exchange them," Jeremiah reminded her gently.
She squeezed her eyes shut, heat already creeping into her cheeks, and tilted her head back towards the ceiling. Fucking of course you do. After a moment of indulging her shame, Trixie returned to the ceremony, holding the wedding band away from her face as if it was somehow infected.
Holding his hand up between the two of them, Jeremiah professed, "O Lord, these rings we bless in your name, so that those who wear them may remain entirely faithful to each other, abide in peace and in your will, and live always in mutual charity. Through Christ, our Lord…"
"Amen," said Trixie.
"Amen," said Tommy.
Tommy gently tugged her hand towards him, sliding the ring back on her finger. "Beatrice," he mumbled. "Receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
That was easy enough. Trixie mirrored his motions and repeated, "Tommy, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Ghost."
"Assume you don't want to do the full mass?" Jeremiah asked.
"You've assumed correctly," said Tommy. "We've got boxes to unpack."
"Alright, Mr. Shelby," he said. "At this point, I usually tell the man to kiss the bride."
Trixie arched an eyebrow. Kissing Tommy shouldn't have been so daunting—not when they'd gotten so close earlier—but they were no longer alone in his bedroom, and she hardly wanted to make that covenant while his brothers, her boss, a priest, and God watched. Instead, she turned her head towards the crucifix looming over the altar and presented the side of her face. Tommy dipped his head graciously and kissed her chastely on the side of her face. "Til death," he murmured.
"Til death," she found herself gasping in return.
Til death. It was funny. Trixie lifted her hand to the jewel on her neck.
"I now pronounce you man and fucking wife!" Arthur shouted, hoisting up his drink and taking a generous gulp of its contents.
In the Garrison's pocket room, the Shelbys sat sandwiched in their booth as Grace and Harry brought round after round of drinks. "Give a speech," John demanded, pointing at Tommy with his cigarette. "About your true love."
"Not one for speeches, really," he deferred. Trixie caught Grace looking back at the group over her shoulder, and smiled politely. Probably not the smartest for them all to get drunk in the presence of a spy. She nudged her drink towards the center of the table.
"I'll give a speech," she announced. Really, she was just growing overheated from her spot between Tommy and John. They were all too drunk to remember if she said anything embarrassing—except Tommy, maybe, whose sobriety was always hard to read. In any case, this was hardly the worst she'd done.
Tommy slid out of the booth to give her room to escape, and Trixie followed after him, accepting the hand of support he offered.
Trixie raised her glass of champagne, mostly as a symbol, and said, "I just want to thank you all, for everything. Especially Polly." She smiled. "I had nothing, really, before I met you. I had just lost my father. I had no siblings, no money. You've all become like family to me. And I'm grateful now to have made it official."
"To Trixie," John matched, holding up his own glass.
"To Trixie," the other Shelbys echoed.
She sat back down where Tommy had left room for her, and he put his palm flat on her knee. "Nice speech," he remarked, while the rest of the family had gone back to laughing and shouting.
"Thank you," she replied politely. "I meant it. Except—I mean, except the wedding part."
"I know," he said. His hand disappeared, leaving her leg cold. Trixie put a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn, and leaned against the back cushion of the chair. This was her family, for now; she didn't want to forget any part of it. I must be the only person in the world to be orphaned twice.
That night, her first in the Shelby house, Trixie could not sleep. Ada's mattress was too soft and her room too cold and the sheets smelled faintly of perfume, so Trixie tossed the covers off her body after a few hours of trying and hiked up the stairs to the third floor. She raised her fist and knocked at Tommy's door, feeling slightly ridiculous for her manners.
"Mrs. Shelby," Tommy greeted, uncharacteristically cheeky. He was between states of dress now, tie and collar gone, top buttons undone, shoes kicked off. She didn't know if she wanted to fix it or pull the remaining signs of his suit off of him.
"Mr. Price," Trixie retorted.
Tommy raised an eyebrow, pulling the door open a bit wider to allow her room to pass through. "Does that not remind you of your father?"
"Does Mrs. Shelby not recall memories of your mother?"
He paused for a moment at the door, and Trixie made herself at home on his bed in the unfocused moment. Her back to the wall, and her legs stretched out before her, she patted the spot behind her.
"And anyway—it doesn't," she said. "My father was always Pastor Martin."
"You think he'd be proud of you?" Tommy asked, grunting a bit as he settled beside her. "Your Priest father."
"Not a chance in hell," she replied. "I think I've disappointed him in every possible way."
"My father too," he remarked, scratching at the stubble creeping in on his jaw.
"Bully for us," Trixie deadpanned, raising an invisible glass to toast.
"I'll do you one better." Tommy leaned over to his nightstand, the hem of his shirt rising with his reach and revealing a line of hard muscle on his hip. He pulled open the drawer and retrieved a bottle of gin, passing it to Trixie.
"I bet this isn't how you expected your wedding night to go," she remarked, taking a sip of the gin from the bottle and passing it back to Tommy. "Fake married to some woman you're trying to get rid of, who you've never so much as kissed."
Tommy gave a slow blink and screwed the cap back on the bottle, setting it gently down on the blanket. "Do you want me to kiss you, Beatrice?"
She could suddenly feel the eyes of god looking down on her, and she shivered before she could help it. Yes. "No." Only if you mean it. "I want it to mean something." She shot him a wry smile. "Even if it's not like that for you." Which it wasn't, which it never would be. Trixie knew where she was wanted, and she was much too old to go out of her way to get her heart broken.
He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "That why you've no interest in fucking?"
Trixie started before realizing how bizarre her reaction was. No interest? She recalled the memories of the night they'd shared this bed. Tommy touching her, fucking her. "I don't want my first time to be empty," she said. At this point, fake-married and only a few months away from leaving his life forever, she was past feeling embarrassed.
"The other one," said Tommy. "Did he mean something?"
Trixie knew he'd fucked up the name on purpose, because Tommy Shelby was far too smart to be careless with details. "He meant everything," Trixie replied. "But I wasn't ready. We were so young. It feels so long ago." She sighed. "Now I'm an old maid, though, and nobody'll want me."
"Nobody's touched you," Tommy said. "Means every fuckin' man wants you." He uncapped the bottle and took a gulp. "'S how men function, you know? They wanna be the only one."
"Men," Trixie enunciated. "They. Not you?"
Tommy shrugged. "Fucking's fun, but it's just a distraction."
Trixie sighed. To think she'd wanted him. To think all of Small Heath expected them to be consummating their marriage at this very moment. Meanwhile, he saw sex as nothing beyond distraction.
She took a chance and leaned against his shoulder, trying not to flush at the way he bristled. "I know we're not married," said Trixie, "but it's cold in this house, so please just do this for me, alright?" He inhaled, as if to speak, but instead lifted his arm and wrapped it over her shoulder. Trixie watched the clock on the bureau tick-tick-tick the minutes away before she grew bored, and decided to ask, "If I was going to marry any of you—actually marry any of you—who do you think I'd pair best with?"
Tommy pulled his arm away and Trixie pouted, only for him to roll his eyes at her. "Polly," he said.
"God," Trixie hissed, making a face. "She's like a mother to me."
"You asked," Tommy retorted. "Are you still cold?"
"Yeah," said Trixie. "Gin's helping, though." To demonstrate, she took a large, burning gulp and suppressed the coughs that threatened to follow.
"Just get under the blankets," Tommy insisted. "You can go back to your room in the morning."
Trixie considered declining on principle, but it was cold, and she had work tomorrow, and she would do better if she was well rested. "Alright," she said, gathering the fabric of her skirt and holding it down as she moved to the pillow. She stuck her legs under the blankets and decided that she'd made the right decision: Tommy's bed was warm. "Do you sleep like that?" she asked, pointing at him with the bottle. "Whenever I see you sleeping you're wearing—something like that. Maybe a nightshirt."
"You've only see me sleep on special occasions," he said.
"Feel like you only sleep at all on special occasions," she mumbled, sipping from the bottle.
He glared at her, and she just smiled back at him. "I don't sleep like this. I was going to change."
"Sorry," said Trixie. She checked to make sure the bottle was shut tight, and flipped over onto her side so she was facing the wall. "Don't mind me."
Tommy sighed and stood from the bed. She could hear the rustling of clothes as he changed, and tried not to imagine the shape of his body under the lamplight.
In a moment of what could only be explained as insanity, Trixie considered revisiting the prospect of fucking. It was their wedding night, wasn't it? This was hardly the most inappropriate time to ask him, but—any time to bring it up would be fucking mad, and Trixie hadn't quite lost it that badly. After a moment, Tommy slid into bed next to her, his body creating a dip in the mattress that she had to lean forward to resist.
"Hm," he said.
"What," Trixie replied, rolling onto her back so they were shoulder-to-shoulder.
"Thinking about earlier, in this spot," he elaborated. Trixie thought he might bring up the almost kiss, but instead, he said, "and how you said you'd never sleep with me."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, looks like we both lost, then," Trixie said. "I have the misfortune of being wrong, and you have the misfortune of my presence." She passed him the bottle and he set it down on the nightstand. "Where would you go on a honeymoon?" she asked. "If you married someone you loved."
"America," he replied. "The place in the west, where it's always sunny."
"California?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "California."
"I'd go to Korea," she said. "Or—well, if they hadn't been invaded by Japan, I'd go. But I don't think it would be much fun for me now."
"You keep up with international politics then?" Tommy asked, already reaching to the end table for the inevitable cigarette. He passed one to Trixie before she could ask, and struck a match to light the both of them, the flame at the center where their two joints bumped.
"Only where I'm interested," Trixie replied. "I never knew my mother or her family. I'm not even sure if they're still alive. And I guess I follow any news that comes out of Trinidad, though my father only lived there for a little." She shrugged. "Why? You don't?"
"Nah," he dismissed. "It's all a distraction from what I have in front of me right now."
"Pretend weddings?"
"Birmingham."
"Right." She sighed, waving the cigarette with a flourish. "Who are world politics to get between a king and his empire?" Trixie paused. "Am I Birmingham royalty now, too?"
Tommy turned to her. "If you want to be."
Trixie shrugged. "As a kid I was never allowed to play princess. Funny how it all happened, in a fucked sort of way." She sat up. "I have a question."
He said nothing, just sat there with his cigarette balanced between his lips.
"Earlier. Why did you do that?"
"Be specific."
"Why did you…" Her mind flashed back to his mouth under her ear. "You kissed my neck. And I know it wasn't because of the fucking engagement—marriage—whatever it is. Nobody was there."
He reached up, arms languid, as he propped his head up on his interlaced fingers. "Not everything's politics, Beatrice. You said that."
She blinked. What the hell did that mean? "I said that. But you don't mean that. That's—that's not you."
"Tell me who I am, then."
Trixie flinched. "You think love is futile and sex is a distraction. You want to get rid of me, so you bought me out. This whole—I mean, you just put up with me, but I know you think I'm ridiculous and naive. For you, there's only politics."
Tommy arched an eyebrow.
"You wish I felt the same," she added, when he said nothing, tilting her chin up and trying not to let her racing pulse shake her words. "That I was just someone to fuck and never see again." For a long moment, he just stared at her, blinking very deliberately, and when he opened his mouth to speak, she hurried to continue, "I don't blame you. I wish I was that way, too. That I could just—get it over with. I'm not stupid, Tommy, even if you like to think that I am, but sometimes I wish I were. It would save me so much trouble."
He kept staring, and Trixie wondered if he was going to say something so crushing it sent her crawling back out the window again. But Tommy simply took her hand and said, "You're fine as you are. There's no room for fools in this business."
"Explain Arthur, then," she said, before she could help it.
Tommy shot her a wry smile, and Trixie bit back a laugh. "Special case," he replied. "But the rest of them—they're not like us. And we'll never be like them."
"We," mused Trixie. "Funny word, that." She sighed. "I used to be more naive, I think. I think that's why Polly and John both tell me that I should've met you before."
He darkened a bit at that. "What do you mean?"
She chose her words carefully. "They think we would've gotten along better. I think you would've broken my heart."
Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. "Are you having regrets about the plan yet?"
"No," she said, honestly. "I want this. For your family and for you. There was never any question." Trixie nudged his knee with her own. "Campbell offered me a deal, you know. At the very beginning. A better deal than you ever could, but I said no." She imagined herself carrying Luca's ghost around Manhattan. "Said he'd send me to New York, where I'd be protected. I'd have an income, I could start over. New name, new life, new everything."
"So why didn't you take it? If he could give you everything."
"Not everything's politics," she echoed. "I love Polly. I love John. I love Finn. I wouldn't—love seems a bit strong for Arthur, but—your family is my family. If I have to leave, I'll leave protecting them."
"You care about them?"
She nodded.
"You want to protect them?"
She nodded again.
Tommy exhaled smoke and ashed his cigarette. "I need a favor from you, then. Tomorrow. 2 o'clock, meet me in the garage. You can take the rest of the day off."
"Alright," Trixie agreed. "Would you like to elaborate more on this favor?"
"All in due time," he assured her.
His deliberate vagueness bothered her like it always did, but it no longer felt uncomfortable to walk into a situation blind. Trixie could complain about Tommy's hubris, and his outlook on life, but he was fucking good at what he did, and she was able to trust him at least enough to keep her alive. After all—a dead wife the day after the wedding would do nothing but incite chaos.
"I've got to be at the Garrison tomorrow at eight," Trixie said. "Have you got the time?"
Tommy fumbled for his pocketwatch, the chain dragging noisily across the top of the endtable as he pulled it towards him. "Quarter past four."
"Shit," said Trixie, elbowing him until he took her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray. "I've got to go to sleep." It felt impolite to simply sink back down under the covers, so she took a moment to ask, "Are you sure it's alright if I stay? I'm warmer now. I don't mind going back downstairs."
He shook his head. "It's fine. You'll wake Poll if you take the stairs now."
"Alright," she said, like it wasn't alright, and slid back down the mattress, her legs curling up tight to her chest. "Goodnight, Tommy."
He flicked off the lamp, but the lights of the city outside were still bright enough to make shadows of the furniture. "Night, Beatrice."
Trixie dreamt of three knocks at her door, a priest with a noose, and a wedding band with a ruby at its head.
A/N: Wow married life...hi everyone I hope you are doing well! This fic has officially crossed the 300 page line in my document and we're only like….halfway done lmfao. I'm enjoying episode 4 a lot, there's so much Shelby drama to go into between the weddings, the baby, the jealousy next chapter (oops), and the betrayal.
I'm thinking of doing some sort of oneshot for the holidays just so I can have the chance to write happy Tommy/Trixie but I'm not sure so please let me know if it's something you'd be interested in and if you want to feel free to leave prompts for me!
Thank you so so much to everyone who volunteered to be a beta reader! I decided to make a quick form to keep track of interest so if you are interested please check out tinyu rl (forward slash) bbfbeta (I don't know why ffnet is so weird about links lmfao if you can't read it shoot me a message here or on tumblr (suethor) and I can give it to you through there
As always, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, namely HarleeVerwey, alreadyafan, MoonlightShine, strippedraw, Idcam, Wandertogondor, and EleanorJames!
I appreciate all the feedback and comments so much, please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well :)
Chapter 19 / One For the Money
"Tommy didn't tell you?" Lizzie said, searching wildly over Trixie's shoulders for an escape path.
Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Tommy didn't tell me what?"
Lizzie sputtered, her white-knuckled grip on the grocery basket beginning to tremble. "That he's—that he's one of my customers."