note: The rating for this story has been bumped up to M because this chapter has some sexual content! If you don't want to read that/want an alternate version of the chapter, please let me know.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
one for the money

"A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot." —Proverbs 14:30

Trixie blamed her tardiness to work on the fact that she could not locate her makeup among all the crates that had been dropped off at the house, choosing very deliberately to ignore the dream she'd had. The dream Polly had told her about. Three knocks, priest with a noose. It all meant she was going to die—but then again, of course she was. Everyone died, even without having a prophetic dream about it.

By the time she arrived at the Garrison, Arthur was wiping the bar down with a rag he didn't quite know how to use, while Grace opened up one of the shipment crates on a table. "Morning, Trixie," she greeted, smiling politely. "I heard the exciting news."

"You weren't working last night, were you?" Trixie dropped her purse on one of the tables and slipped off her gloves. "I would've said hello."

"No, I wasn't," said Grace. "My one night off, and I miss the wedding. I thought you were waiting for spring?"

Trixie nodded, sliding into the chair across from her. "Circumstances pushed things up."

When Arthur heard that, he threw the rag down on the bar and disappeared into the back office, apparently done hearing the women's business.

"I'm pregnant," Trixie whispered with a coy smile. "And so—well—" She gestured vaguely at her stomach. "You know."

"That's so exciting," said Grace, lighting up. She moved around the table and wrapped Trixie in a tight hug, before stepping back to stare at her stomach.

Trixie resisted the urge to crumple under her gaze. Had she been pregnant in reality, maybe the attention would've been warranted, but all Grace was truly looking at was her torso and nothing else. "Thank you," she said, trying to match Grace's joy even knowing it was probably artificial. "I'm hoping for a girl."

"Do you have a name?" Grace asked, moving back to the crate of cigarettes.

"Oh, um—" Trixie noticed Arthur in the back office, looking through the different drawers for something. "Arthurina," she blurted out. "Tommy wants to name the children after his family."

At the mention of his name—or some cheap variation of that—Arthur returned to the main room, now with a box of cash. "You're not naming no fucking baby after me," he called. "There's only one Arthur Shelby."

"Right," said Trixie. "Now there can be an Arthurina, too. You'll still be special."

He glowered over the bar, not appreciating the unnecessary mockery. The family had agreed that this was the most ideal cover for the wedding being pushed up, but Trixie hadn't put much thought into the details, figuring that they would come to her later on.

"These cigarettes have a funny smell to them." Grace frowned down at the crate and delicately plucked one of the boxes in her fingers. "They smell like rotting water."

Trixie crossed to the bar and took the money box from Arthur , sending him a pointed look before he could object. "I'm saving you the trouble," she mumbled.

"Rats have gotten to some of them," Grace added, tossing the box down on the bar. Trixie peered over at it and noticed that she was right—the edges were frayed and punctured. After glancing sideways at Trixie, Grace asked, "They're stolen, are they not?"

"Don't ask," said Arthur.

Trixie kept her face blank. Of course Grace had put it together—she was a spy, after all, and one didn't get very far in that profession without basic skills of observation. So she knew about Tommy's affairs being only partially legal. That was fine, so long as she didn't know anything about the guns.

"They smell because you keep them on a boat," Grace surmised.

"Why do you care?" Arthur asked.

Trixie began sorting the bills by type, keeping busy while the other two stared each other down over the bar's countertop. "You know, you should make a new start of this place," Grace remarked. "Do it properly."

"These cigarettes aren't fit to sell," Arthur remarked, ignoring her input in favor of flicking the tin down the counter. It spun on the raised lettering. "Smell like Gallipoli."

"Maybe you should find a new place to store them," Grace suggested.

She was brazen now in her pursuit of the location of the guns. "It has to be far away from coppers," said Arthur, and Trixie wanted to reach across the bar to smack him. She didn't often work shifts where the two interacted, mostly because Trixie obstructed their conversations whenever possible, but if he was as loose-lipped normally as he was now, she wouldn't doubt that Campbell had begun figuring out the branches of the Shelby kingdom. "Tommy's orders."

Maybe Tommy was right to keep so much of the information about the business secret, even from his family. If Arthur knew where the guns were, he probably would've already passed that information onto Grace in an attempt to impress her.

"What orders?" Grace casually inquired, leaning over the bar. Her shirt dipped from the gravity and Arthur's eyes followed the movement. Trixie dropped a handful of coins onto the counter and hoped that the loud clatter would break his focus.

"Always keep contraband near petrol boat moorings," said Arthur, coming back to life.

Trixie winced—she hadn't expected Arthur's immediate reaction to include revealing Tommy's protocol. Judging from the surprise on Grace's face, she hadn't expected the information either.

"I thought boats got searched," she remarked, her words tinted with a demure curiosity that had to be disingenuous.

"We moor them at junctions so there's more than one way out." He tapped his temple, as if to demonstrate his genius, and Trixie suddenly felt defensive of Tommy—of Arthur taking credit for his plans.

Grace raised an eyebrow and then nodded, offering an impressed smile. "Your brother doesn't obey the law, but he has rules," she conceded.

"Do you need my help throwing out the cigarettes?" Trixie asked then, tossing the coins back in the box and latching it shut. She shoved it in Arthur's direction more forcefully than necessary, and turned to smile at Grace. "We should sort through and see if any of them are still good."

"Oh, no, I've got it," Grace insisted. "You shouldn't be lifting anything."

"I really don't mind," Trixie swore.

"No, no, I've got it."

After she returned to the table, Trixie reached over the bar for one of the pencils Harry used to track orders. She scrawled a note down on the last page of the book. "Can you approve this order, Arthur?"

"Wha—" he started, but she cut him off by holding the book out.

DO YOU WANT YOUR TONGUE CUT OUT?

Arthur scowled. "No," he said. "We have enough rum in the back." He tore the page from the book and threw it in the sink behind him, turning the sink on. The sputter of water drowned out his next words: "I won't have you telling me what to do in my own fuckin' pub."

"Alright," said Trixie, nonplussed. "I'll let Tommy know."

"Do that, won't you?"

She gave a thin smile and returned to the counting, scrawling down numbers from the previous night and adding up the collections from the last few days. Attendance at the Garrison had been light the day of the wedding, with Shelbys getting privacy from the rest of the frequent inhabitants. It made it easier, then, when Tommy arrived at the Garrison early.

"Grace," he greeted, nodding in her direction. "Are you keeping these two in check?"

She laughed, looking back over her shoulder at Trixie and Arthur. "They're not bad at all," she assured him.

"You're early," Trixie greeted dryly.

"Couldn't stay away." His tone was painfully apathetic. "Can't blame a husband for missing his wife. Shall we?"

Trixie hopped off the stool, collecting her things. "Bye, Arthur. Grace."

"Who's supposed to look over my numbers now?" Arthur asked, flipping halfheartedly through the book.

Tommy shrugged. "Have Grace do it. Grace, you can add, right?"

She nodded. "I can."

"Great. You'll make a wonderful team." Tommy wrapped an arm around Trixie's waist and guided her out the Garrison's door. It was oddly warm out for the season, and she scanned the sky for sunshine on instinct, even though she could tell by the gray light that she would find none.

"What's going on?" she asked.

He smiled. "I've just had a meeting with the Lees. Things are looking up after all, Beatrice. Peace is coming soon."

She snorted. "Doubt that. Grace batted her eyelashes at Arthur once and he gave her all your protocol on contraband. I'd put money on a raid at the docks as soon as tonight." Trixie wondered vaguely if the guns were at the docks—if it was actually that easy—but Tommy's cool demeanor betrayed no answers. Her sense of self-preservation came close, but did not quite overcome her curiosity over their location. Trixie would rather endure the danger of knowing than the naivety of ignorance, but it seemed unlikely that he would share with her what even his brothers did not know. "Anyway, where are we going?"

Tommy pulled the passenger door of his car open for Trixie, and she climbed in without questioning it. Once he'd settled behind the wheel, he lit a cigarette and said, "We've made a truce with the Lees. And Kimber has agreed to negotiate."

"Truce," she repeated dubiously. "You don't deal in truces, you deal in exchanges."

"Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to insult me?" he teased. "Smoke?"

"Yeah," she said, and he passed her the tin. She balanced it between her lips and leaned forward as he struck a match and lifted it to the tip of the tab. "Right. So, the Lees."

"I'm kin with them on my mother's side, you know," he offered. "Sometimes, it's family business. And I'm going to need you, as family, to help this truce happen."

"Alright," Trixie agreed. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to break off John's engagement to Lizzie Stark."

Trixie stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of why she was ending John Shelby's engagement, and why it needed to be ended in the first place, and why Tommy couldn't be the one to do it himself. Tommy had arranged a marriage for John—how else could she explain it? "Why not Arthur?" she asked.

"For—"

"Don't play stupid," she admonished. "You're arranging a marriage. Why not send Arthur off and let John continue whatever it is he has with Lizzie?"

Tommy raised an eyebrow, almost impressed with her. "We choose our marriages carefully, Beatrice. They're all useful."

"Is Ada marrying a communist useful?" she retorted.

Silence fell heavy over them both, and Tommy started the car. He navigated towards Cheapside—towards the brothels, Trixie knew. Towards Lizzie Stark. Small Heath was dirt poor; Trixie wouldn't turn her nose up at any of the other slums in the city, but Cheapside was occupied by a particular brand of people—married men fucking women on the sidewalks, groups of people passing opium pipes back and forth, snorting cocaine off the backs of their hands. Most of Small Heath had been conditioned into some sort of shame, be that over circumstances, sickness, or broken families, but Cheapside was brash and open and demanding.

"This hardly seems appropriate," she continued, dragging her eyes away from a man and a knelt woman behind one of the trash bins, and settling back on Tommy. His familiar visage was cold as ever, but somehow comforting in the context of this landscape. "I joined the family yesterday, I've never met this poor girl. Who am I to intervene in her affairs?"

"I'm asking you to do this for the family," Tommy said. "For the Peaky Blinders. I'm asking you to trust me."

His words left Trixie with the horrifying realization that she did. Trust him. The cruelest man she'd ever met, and she felt no reservations about playing pawn for whatever plan he'd cooked up. "Fine," she said. "Fine, alright. Do I give her a reason?"

"Tell her that I'll intervene if not."

"I'm not threatening her for you," Trixie objected, shaking her head. "I'll tell her that you need to get the engagement thrown out, but I won't scare her for no reason."

"Tell her I'm asking," Tommy said. "Tell her that you're asking on my behalf."

She rolled her eyes. "Alright."

A woman in a black dress turned out of one of the markets, a basket of groceries over her arm and a cigarette in one hand. The hat on her bowed head shielded her face, but the messy hair beneath betrayed her in one way or another.

"That's her," Tommy said. "I'll wait here for you to finish."

"Generous," she muttered, "but it's smarter for you to round the block and meet me on Kelter." Trixie opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, her purse hooked over her arm. "Miss Stark?" she called, Lizzie on her tongue but too familiar for a stranger.

The woman whirled around, and when she saw Trixie heading towards her, her eyes bugged out of her head. "Uh—Miss Price. Fuck—Mrs. Shelby. Sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry," Trixie said. "It's new, it's alright. I was just walking and I saw you and wanted to say hello. We haven't met, um—well, but we're going to be family, aren't we? Congratulations are in order."

"Right," said Lizzie, nodding. "Well, thanks, but I've—"

"Is something wrong?" Trixie interrupted. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm catching you off guard or anything, I really just wanted to introduce myself and all. Tommy actually wanted me to talk to you."

"Tommy?" she sputtered. "So he—he didn't tell you?" Lizzie asked, 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."

"Cust—" Trixie began, before it dawned on her. Customers. Business transactions. Fucking's fun, but it's just a distraction. Tommy had gone to Lizzie. Regularly, if she considered him a customer.

Oh my God.

Trixie didn't know if she wanted to laugh or throw up or cry—and she didn't know why she even cared. Of course Tommy had gone to see a prostitute; he wasn't celibate, and it wasn't like she'd expected him to be. King of Birmingham, and all that. What need did he have for honoring their relationship? It wasn't even real.

"I didn't know he was engaged," Lizzie said. "I swear, I didn't know, but—" Suddenly switching tactics, she narrowed her eyes. "You're not the first wife that's come looking for a fight. I'll defend myself."

"It's alright," she assured her, even if Trixie surely didn't feel alright. "I promise, it's alright. I didn't come here to start anything."

Lizzie exhaled with relief, and fiddled with the brim of her hat. "He hasn't come see me in a while, if it helps."

"Really?" Trixie asked. "Um—since when?"

"October," said Lizzie. "I track it all in a diary at home, for budgeting purposes, but I'd remember Thomas Shelby." She flushed suddenly, and Trixie couldn't help but bite her tongue to smother the nausea. Why did she feel so bad? She had no problem with prostitutes, she didn't care for judging others' morality, and the poor girl looked genuinely afraid. She'd only been doing her job—they were all only doing their jobs, pawns under Tommy Shelby's hand. "He came to see me in October, at the beginning of the month, and once after that, but only to tell me he couldn't see me any longer."

October—October had been the start of their engagement. Why had Tommy stopped? Reputation, maybe. Credibility of his story—their story. Eliminating any possible liabilities.

"It's alright," Trixie repeated, not sure if she was talking to herself or to Lizzie. "I'm—we're mostly involved for political reasons. We don't love each other." She pressed her tongue against her bottom teeth, and remembered why she was there. "Was John one of your customers, too?" she asked.

Lizzie shook her head. "I like him. I've never slept with him." She hesitated, as if afraid of what her next question would be answered with, but asked nonetheless: "Has Tommy told him?"

"No," Trixie answered, and then backtracked. "I don't think so, at least. But I don't think John would accept it if—if he knew."

"I don't want to lose him," Lizzie said, almost pleading. "He's a good man."

"I know," Trixie agreed. She bit the inside of her cheek. John was a good man, and he deserved to know that his wife had been having sex with his brother for two years. But Lizzie had done nothing wrong, not really.

"The past is the past," she swore. "I've given that work up. All of it. I've saved up to move out, and I want to begin typing courses at the technical school. Please don't tell him."

Trixie wanted to strangle Tommy for throwing her to the wolves like this. This had been his plan, then—put her in a position where she was responsible for forging peace with the Lees by breaking her best friend's heart and ruining this woman's future.

Lizzie Stark was a stranger. Trixie would never need to see her again if she told John. There would be no real consequences. The Lees, though—she reached up to her face, where the cut on her cheek had scarred over. The Lees would be back for another piece of her, and if the Peaky Blinders were weakened enough, so would Campbell. So would Kimber.

He'd tied his fate to hers. Oldest trick in the book.

But that went both ways, didn't it? Tommy had taken some risk in assuming that she'd act the way he wanted her to, but Trixie had been around him long enough to recognize that every problem was an opportunity, and every secret was a crate of machine guns.

Her choices held weight now. Who was she to waste that?

When Beatrice returned to the car, her lips turned up with displeasure, Tommy attempted to gauge what had happened. But she remained stubbornly silent, playing with a loose thread on her lace gloves and then pulling a metal round of lipstick from her purse, applying it carefully in the mirror, expressionless.

"Did she agree?" he asked, when it became clear that she would not be starting the conversation.

"You're a very special type of hypocrite," Beatrice remarked, her voice uncharacteristically cheerful. Tommy blinked, her words hitting like a smack to the face, even if they'd been expected. "Give John such difficulty for Lizzie Stark's profession when you've been fucking her for two years?"

"Did she agree?" he repeated.

"It's up to me, isn't it?" Beatrice replied. "Whether or not I tell John." She turned to him finally, arching an eyebrow and smiling kindly. "I'll have to think about it."

"We don't have time for you to think about it," he snapped.

"We do, actually," said Beatrice. "Because nothing happens until I say so, unless you're going to risk the stabbing that'll follow if you tell him yourself."

He scanned her face, trying in vain to discern whether or not she was serious. "Delaying the wedding opens the opportunity for Kimber to threaten us," he explained. "And that threatens our business with Campbell."

"Then I guess you'll have to offer me something really convincing, won't you?" Beatrice hummed. "Because you're not going to let that happen, Tommy."

He started the car's engine, navigating back to the house and mulling her words over. She was at least right that he wouldn't let her stubbornness sabotage the work he'd done. Of course she was right. He'd underestimated her.

At the next intersection, he braked more sharply than he'd meant to, and pulled out a cigarette from the tin in his pocket. Beatrice sat still and unbothered in the seat beside him. She looked so oddly non-threatening for a moment, fixing her lipstick in the compact, like she was the plain lady he thought she was when they met. What could he offer her when he barely understood her? Asking upfront was too pathetic to stomach, so he carried on with the drive back home and eventually pulled the car into the garage.

"I'm impressed," he admitted after a moment.

She was good, but not good enough to hide her surprise. "Thank you," she said, pleased with herself. "I want information." Before he could object, she added, "Not about the business. I just want to understand what the fuck's wrong with you."

Tommy leaned back. "What's wrong with me," he repeated.

"Here's how this'll go," Beatrice decided.

"I'm not prone to following rules I don't make."

"And I'm not prone to holding this much power, but we'll both adjust." She pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the car floor. "You're not going to fuck anyone else until I'm gone. You're not going to touch anyone else until I'm gone."

He wondered if Lizzie told her that he'd cut their arrangement short. He wondered if Beatrice had guesses as to why. "Fine," he said.

Beatrice reached out her hand to his face, resting the flat of her index finger under his chin, sliding it up to his throat, wrapping her hand loosely around his neck. She wasn't strong enough to strangle him, she had to know that, but—this had always been the way things were between them. Killing wasn't always killing, and where they couldn't touch gently they would be violent. "You want me to ruin that girl's life."

A thousand responses came to mind, each matching her cruelty, and Tommy lifted his hand to her wrist, gripping it with less hesitation than she offered. Beatrice shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but he didn't let up as he considered his next words. Insults were cheap and easy; Tommy didn't need to defeat her—not if he could convince her to join him. "Think of what you could have if you weren't worried about the stray bullets of a war that's yours to win, Beatrice."

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He thought he'd convinced her, until she laughed and tried to pull away from him. "You won't even tell me what my winnings will be."

"Can't be careless with things like this," he muttered, pulling her wrist from his neck, ignoring the way her thumb dragged across his collarbone. "Never know who's listening."

"Then come closer," she said.

Her words were a challenge, and unmistakably so, but compliance wasn't in his nature. Tommy grabbed her roughly by the waist, the yelp of surprise from her lips only encouraging him further as he pulled her onto his lap. Beatrice settled into straddling him easy, smoothing out the confusion on her face before he could comment. "Close enough?"

"Tell me what I could have," she ordered, leaning towards him, her hips bearing down on him. He could feel himself getting hard—like he was sixteen again and fucking Greta under the bridge. At least Greta had liked him; wanted him. Now, Beatrice stared down at him with such contempt that even their positioning didn't seem to justify his reaction.

"You want to be Birmingham royalty?" He pulled her closer. "You want power, Beatrice? You want to make decisions?"

"Maybe I do," she responded, her bravado crumbling at the edges.

"Why don't you ask, then?" Tommy put his hand on the side of her neck, watching as she leaned into his touch. "Ask for what you want."

Her eyes slid shut for a moment, a long blink, and then she was shaking. No, not shaking—laughing. Sitting on his lap, in the front seat of his car, lit up by the slits of light between the boards making up the garage walls, laughing. "Oh, Tommy," she sighed, like he'd proposed something absurd, and he was filled with blind rage and want and the sudden need to pin her down and prove how serious he was. "And why would I ask for permission, when I could just take it?"

For the first time since the war, Tommy had no clue what he'd gotten himself into. Was she trying to fight him or fuck him?

He found no answers in her touch, in the dip of her head, and the pressing of her lips to his, immediately followed up by seizing his bottom lip between her teeth. With one hand raking through his hair, and her hips pressing down against him with an urgency and an anger that didn't quite make sense, Beatrice seemed to wander between wanting to consume him and wanting to ruin him. Her desire was clear, but not quite enough to mask her inexperience.

Tommy's hands found her waist, heavy enough to bruise, all thoughts of John and Lizzie and the fucking expansion plan out the window. All he cared about were the sounds coming out of her mouth, somehow hostile as much as they were erotic. She tasted like strawberry jam and gin, and he found himself torn between staying still and enjoying it or moving his lips to his neck so he could hear her better.

After biting down on his lip—hard—she broke the kiss in pursuit of her own breath. But Tommy wasn't one for mercy. He dragged his lips down her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, as unforgiving as flint on steel while she gasped for breath. "Tommy—" she cried, softer than she probably meant to sound, before she caught herself and yanked him back by his hair.

"Is this what you want?" he asked. "Is this you taking what you want?"

"Shut up," she growled, voice shaking as she fumbled with the knot on his tie.

"Beatrice," he rasped. When she didn't let up, he covered her hands with his own and stopped her. "Beatrice," he repeated, gentler. "You didn't want to do this," he reminded her, as much as he did. If it was anyone else, it would've been easy to take advantage of the momentary desire and ignore the regret that would follow, but Beatrice was different. "Don't do something you'll regret."

She leaned back, arching her spine in a way that made him ache. "I said I didn't want to have sex," she said.

Tommy glanced back down at his tie, hanging loosely around his neck, and her dress, bunched up around her hips. "Right…" He didn't remind her of the rest of it. I want it to mean something.

"It doesn't have to count," she said. "We don't have to fuck. If it doesn't count, it doesn't have to matter. I just—" She dropped her weight forward, pressing her forehead to his. "Can you just touch me, please?"

She sounded so desperate, her plea equal parts filthy and sweet, and Tommy—fuck—Tommy knew he should say no, knew he absolutely didn't deserve to be her first anything, and yet had to pin down his own wrist to keep from reaching up her thigh. "Beatrice."

"You don't have to," she amended with a shrug. "I can find James, and he can do it instead."

He grit his teeth, searching her eyes but finding no answer. When had she become so hard to read? There was a chance that she would get out of the car and leave him half-hard, stumble back to her neighbor—her copper neighbor, at that—and let him be the one to touch her—except there was no way in bloody hell he would let that happen, so he considered a compromise. "We're not doing it in the fucking car," he said.

"Car's too nice for me?" she deadpanned.

"No," he replied, snatching the keys from the crux of the seat. "Not good enough for me." Tommy guided her off his lap and opened the car door, trying for a moment to fix his tie before giving up and shoving the whole thing in his pocket. He stepped out, and held out his hand for Beatrice.

She eyed it warily, like she hadn't just been asking for it to be inside her, but eventually accepted, landing on the ground with a click of her heels.

Tommy yanked her towards him and pressed one more kiss to the line of her jaw, before setting off across the street. Under ordinary circumstances, he tried not to take advantage of how the regular people of Small Heath feared him; now, he appreciated the way the crowd parted, taking long strides across the street with Beatrice at his side, looking more like they were on their way to kill someone than anything else.

Maybe she was. When it came to her, Tommy could never tell.

"Coat?" he asked, once they were inside the Shelby house, and she shrugged her jacket off, handing it over. He didn't bother arranging it nicely across the rack, especially not when she was already halfway up the stairs and leaving him to chase.

He didn't want to make it that easy for her, though, so he scaled the steps as he would after a day of work, taking his time, observing the wallpaper as if it were new. She stood at the top of the landing, uncertain of herself, and he tried not to take too much pleasure in the fact that she looked to him for a cue. "Does here suit your tastes?" she asked, falling back against the doorframe, feigning boredom.

Without hesitating, Tommy strode down the landing to the doorframe of the bedroom, pressing himself to her. "Not quite," he remarked, pushing the door open and her inside. She caught herself before she could stumble.

If he thought she'd be easier to handle outside of the car, he was wrong. Beatrice stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded across her chest, and said, "Sit down."

"I'm not in the business of taking orders," he reminded her, removing his jacket at a leisurely pace and draping it carefully over the back of the chair. "If you want something, you ask for it."

She raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't have to be you."

"Then leave," Tommy said. "Why don't you ask James to touch you, eh?" He leaned closer to her, slow, knowing how awful he was for enjoying the quiver of her lip, but enjoying it nonetheless. "I don't think you would."

He didn't think she would, but he'd been wrong before, and Beatrice rarely ran from dares. Tommy waited.

"Why's that?" she asked finally—not the answer he wanted, but not the one he feared either.

"I think," he mumbled, hands hovered over her hips. "I think you know he won't be as good as me." Dipping his head so his lips were mere inches from hers, Tommy murmured, "I'm the one who'll have you begging to come, Beatrice. Nobody's going to touch you like me."

She blinked, mouth falling open, before steeling herself again. "You talk a lot."

Tommy gripped her hips and pivoted, pushing her onto her back. Her knees fell open to make room for him, perhaps on instinct, and he took advantage, lowering himself between them, caught between a fear of breaking her and the desire to do just that.

Taking his time seemed to be the course of action that would anger her the most, and so it was the one he found himself taking. Tommy dotted small kisses down her jaw and neck, ignoring the way she squirmed until her hips were bucking up against the bulge of his cock, at which point he decided that he had to get her under control, because he had too much self-respect to resort to dry-humping his virgin wife. "Keep still," he ordered, lowering himself and bracketing her hips with his forearm.

"Touch me," she snapped.

He drew his fingers up her leg, the thin fabric of her dress rippling out as he drew it up her hips. The stockings she wore beneath were pink, shades lighter than her thighs and suspended by garters. She writhed against the brace he'd splayed across her hips, swearing, pretty and mean and greedy. Tommy was hard, now, and she hadn't even touched him—he blamed the fucking noises she was making.

Still with one arm pinning her down, Tommy pressed a finger against her underwear—wet, already. Trixie curled her hands into the sheets above him, and he moved to the band of the garment, sliding his hand beneath and slipping a finger down toward her clit, brushing over it and then reeling back, eliciting a hiss and the buck of her hips.

"God," she moaned. "Please—"

"Say it," he commanded. "If you want it, take it."

"Fucking touch me."

The spite in her voice egged him on, and Tommy rolled his thumb again over the spot that made her cry out, settling into a rhythm that had her shivering and reaching out for something to grab onto. He moved his arm to offer his hand. Beatrice grabbed onto him with surprising strength, throwing her head back onto the pillow—his pillow, fuck—and arching her back.

"Oh—" she stuttered. "Don't stop, please, God don't stop, I'm…"

Beatrice faltered and Tommy decided to be cruel, pulling his hand away and watching as her hips dropped back down to the bed, deflated. "You're what, Beatrice?"

She threw her own hand down between her legs, frustrated enough to take matters into her own hands, and maybe if things were different he would've taken a moment to watch. But this was a matter of principle now, and Tommy wasn't willing to compromise that for a good show. He grabbed her wrist roughly, pinning both down at her sides.

"You'll come when I say you can come," he decided.

"Or what?" she spat back, the edge of her words dulled by her quivering legs.

Tommy didn't answer, instead leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cunt, searching with his tongue for her clit and running his mouth over it and over it until she was whimpering, shaking almost violently. Wrenching out of his restraint, Beatrice grabbed a fistful of his hair in one hand and used the other to rake her nails down his neck, fingers slipping below his collar. Tommy hadn't expected this, in all the times he imagined fucking her—those dreams tended to involve the ring on her finger and white underthings, sweet moans and vulnerability. This was hateful and punishing, and he still wanted it more than he'd wanted any of the fantasies he conjured up.

"Please," Trixie cried, her voice very small. "Tommy—I can't take it—fuck, please...please let me—come!"

Her voice became a squeak as he quickened his strokes, and she seized, holding perfectly still for a long moment he carried her through, before the tension poured out of her in convulsions.

"Oh God oh God oh God," she gasped, hips still lifting and riding his tongue. He didn't move until she collapsed, slumping back onto the pillow and letting out a satisfied sigh. From his spot between her legs, he watched her chest rise and fall as she chased her breath. A small giggle escaped from her lips—an odd enough reaction that he had to do a double take, but then it happened again. She was laughing.

He considered persisting, just to hear her beg again, just to be mean, but she was already putting her underthings back in place, and he was wiping her off his chin, and she was swinging her legs back over the side of the bed to leave. Tommy put a hand on her thigh. "Wait."

"Can't," she replied. "Have somewhere to be."

"Wait," he repeated, pushing her back down by the chest.

"Like I said," she challenged. "I have somewhere to be."

He stared at her. Who the hell was this woman? Preacher's daughter, accountant, his wife. "Beatrice—"

"Thomas," she mocked. "If you're going to ask about John, I'm still deciding."

Oh, hell. John. Tommy hadn't forgotten, but it hadn't been at the forefront of his mind, even with the wedding set for the end of the week. "I wasn't." But now he wanted to. "You're taking the day off, to prepare for an errand you'll be running for me tomorrow."

"I don't think I'll be running any errands for you," she returned, avoiding his eyes.

It was fair, but she'd want to hear it. "I need you to go see Ada." She glared at him, but didn't struggle against him, which he took as a sign to continue. Tommy stood, feeling some comfort at the fact that he was now taller than her again. "She goes to a Bathhouse on Montague Street. She'll be in disguise, and I need you inside."

"You're putting a lot of trust in me, considering Lizzie and John."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's women's only on Tuesdays. That's when she goes, because she doesn't want to see the rest of us."

"Polly's a woman."

"Polly included."

Beatrice might be hard to read, but he could tell she would agree to it—for Ada's sake, at the very least. "What am I to see her for?"

"Well," he said, sinking down into the chair opposite the bed and digging into his jacket pocket for a cigarette, "you were supposed to invite her to John and Esme's wedding. But if you want to endanger the truce with the Lees, and risk that pretty face of yours getting cut up again you can invite her to John and Lizzie's. Fair enough?" Rather than answer, she played with the hem of her dress, smoothing out her skirt. "I just want to make sure she's okay. Ada may hate me, but she's family. She's my sister."

Rolling her eyes, Beatrice made a noise of discontent. "Fine," she agreed. "I'll go visit Ada."

"Thank you." He paused. "Bring her some food. God knows those communists aren't feeding her well, and she's eating for two."

"Yeah, some gratitude's nice," she snorted, standing up from the bed. "I'll go to the market."

"Oh—" he called. "Pick up some bacon, too, yeah?"

"Fuck off!" she replied, over her shoulder. "If you want it, get it yourself."

The sound of her heels echoed down the stairs as she descended, and Tommy struck a match. Her taste lingered on his tongue, but he still didn't know what she wanted from him. He was beginning to doubt that he ever would.

A/N: Umm...what if we kissed...after you told me to break off your brother's engagement...to the prostitute you've been seeing for two years….but stopped seeing once we got fake engaged...what would you think about that….um anyways! Hi everyone thank you so much for reading this has been such a long time coming and I'm happy we are finally here? This was probably the angriest first kiss I've ever written but that's just how these two clowns are so.

Shoutout to Eiman and Stephanie for the lovely beta work on this chapter! And thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, specifically NotSureHowToMingle, MoonlightShine, Idcam, EleanorJames, Ohmicrofilm, and wantertogondor! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

Also wanted to announce that I think I'm going to do a 12 Days of Christmas series of short drabbles (maybe like 500-1000 words each?) that will be posted as a separate fic (and also on tumblr) if y'all are interested! I have five prompts set so far ("Open it", "I can't believe you did that to Santa", Christmas tree shopping, decorating the Garrison, and First Christmas/"I can't remember the last time I truly enjoyed Christmas") but if anyone has any other suggestions feel free to leave them in a comment or send me an ask on tumblr (suethor). I'll credit you in the oneshot when I post it too!

Anyhow, thank you again for reading, sorry my author's notes are getting increasingly longer, and I'll see you all next time!

Chapter 20 / Waiting Game

"Oh Jesus Christ, Ada," Trixie said, observing the other woman's round stomach. She was so pregnant that it seemed a poorly calculated step might induce labor.

"Good to see you too," the Shelby girl retorted. "Since we're sisters-in-law now, and all that."