Like a Horse Made of Air
Chapter Thirteen:Wren is starting to believe the Inspector has lost his fucking mind with the spy dead.
"There's another raid?" She asks with a frown. "There anything left to raid in Sparkbrook?"
"Don't think the arsehole cares," Arthur grumbles from his place at the breakfast table.
"He's also…asked us to give up any Fenians or IRA hold outs we know of," Tommy shares. "And I think it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, that we keep our people out of Sparkbrook."
"We wouldn't want any of ours strung up as IRA sympathizers," Polly huffs, "simply for being in the wrong place."
Wren flicks a glance at John and Keeva, but while Keeva is clearly paying attention, John's more interested in his wife and his food. She'll leave that in the redhead's capable hands.
"Did ya hear about what he'd done to that barman?" Arthur gossips.
"Which one?" Ada asks dry as a desert.
"The one they found day a'fore last," Arthur continues undeterred.
Wren wrinkles her nose in distaste, "who didn't hear about that one?"
"Aye, man had chunks missin' out o' him," John abruptly joins in, proving he'd been paying more attention than Wren had thought.
"Anybody hear if they found what they did with the rest of him?" Arthur asks morbidly.
"Rats likely got it," Wren shrugs.
"This is just lovely conversation to be had at the table," Polly sighs aggressively.
She isn't bothered by the gruesome topic but there are kids about, so Wren helps shift the conversation.
"Kimber's due to stop in soon, isn't he?"
"Next week," Tommy agrees.
"How are the boys doin' at the races?" Arthur asks, curious.
"With the Lees on our side," Tommy gives a nod to Arthur, "they've been doing well. A few potshots from other gangs, but nothing we can't handle."
"Good to hear, good to hear," Arthur nods agreeably. "Pub is doing well, even without the barmaid, though Wren if you could stop by and take a look at the books?"
"Of course, Arthur," she sends the man a smile. "I'll walk over with you after this."
Talk turns to regular business for the rest of the meal.
She stands against the wall and watches Tommy lead Kimber and his man Roberts through the shop. She can't hear what's being said, but she can see the bored look on Kimber's face while Roberts looks keenly attentive. The quiet man really is the shadow leader of Kimber's business. It's painfully obvious despite the other man's swagger. She sees the moment the papers are handed over and hands are shaken. Watches with a smile as the two men leave.
Tommy gestures her to his side as he walks to the front of the room, the board at his back, and she goes to stand just behind his shoulder.
"Everybody's attention here for a moment," Tommy calls and the room steadily falls quiet. "I am pleased to announce, that as of today, the Peaky Blinders have their first legitimate betting pitch!"
There's a roar of sound as everyone cheers. Tommy calls John to him and hands over the license, hugging his brother to him and taking a moment to speak in his ear. The energy moves through the crowd with laughter and smiles on every face.
She steps up to her man's side and Tommy automatically wraps an arm about her waist. He looks down at her, his own face a rare study of easy joy, and she pushes up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.
Then she says in his ear, "I'm proud of you."
Tommy's eyes flutter closed a moment, and his smile turns soft. Then he cups the back of her head and pulls her into a lingering kiss.
Arthur struts like a peacock up the walk to the Lees camp. You'd have never guessed he'd taken so poorly to the idea at first. The gypsy clan greets the Shelby's with open hands and easy good humor. Wren walks with Tommy on one side of her and Ada on the other.
Then the bench is set up and the crowd gathers. Arthur kneels in his place with a grin for Johnny Dogs who's officiating. Esme comes from a vardo, dressed and veiled in white, and kneels beside the eldest Shelby brother. The ceremony is brief—just a few words and the cutting of palms before they clasp hands.
Then the party is on.
Food and drink flow freely as music fills the air. Wren is careful to make sure she takes a moment to sit beside Zilpha, the woman looking on with clear pleasure, and touch bases.
"Things are going mostly according to your man's plan," Zilpha informs her. "You must be pleased."
"I am indeed," Wren answers. "He's burdened with intelligence, Tommy, his mind ever ticking away. But when he puts it to use, it pays forward."
"He given you a date yet?" Zilpha asks.
"I've an idea of when he's looking to finish the game," Wren acknowledges, "but not an official date yet, no."
Zilpha's silent and watchful for such a moment that Wren is left wondering if she missed something. Then the Queen inclines her head and lets the subject go.
"Do you dance?" Tommy asks her later.
The sky has gone dark, and more fires have been lit. While the kids have been put to bed. The party continues on though, music, dance, and drink aplenty."
"Suppose I could be convinced," she smiles at him.
Tommy gathers her hands into his and says, "Wren Ashby, Queen of me heart, would you be kind enough to dance with your man?"
"Well," she laughs as she stands, "that's fair convincing, I'll give you that."
He draws her into the edges of the "dance floor" then they dance.
He's a startlingly deft hand, even for the faster paced numbers, and she has a sudden glimpse into the laughing, playful young man Tommy had once been. He twirls her about for the numbers she knows and teaches her the ones she doesn't. He's always mindful of her breathing, and makes her take breaks regularly, but they spend a good few hours enjoying themselves.
Feeling bold, she decides it's late enough few people will be wandering and takes Tommy's hand and gives a tug before dropping it and quick-stepping out of reach. He watches her with interest, slowly rising from his seat and following when she keeps backing away. She offers him a playful smirk and darts for the trees. She ducks behind the first trunk to glance back and see how far behind her he is, to find him walking steadily with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette between his lips.
"What are you up to, little bird?" He calls.
"A game," she calls back.
"And what are the rules of your game, eh?"
"Keep away," She grins, "and chase."
When he's close enough to see his eyes clearly, she flits away again, always keeping well out of arms reach. When he snuffs his spent smoke, it suddenly becomes a bit a more of a challenge. The intensity of the game builds slowly, with little darts and quick-stepping. Tommy trails a hand around the trunks of trees as he rounds them, but his pace is an unchanging ceaseless march.
"Come on, sweetheart," his voice drifts into the dark. "You know you want to be caught."
"Maybe," she allows, "that doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for you."
The first time he makes a lunge, he nearly gets her for sheer surprise, and she laughs as she spins away. Then it becomes an intricate game of footwork and timing. They dance around each other and the trees, the glow of the camp fading the further they go. Then his fingertips graze her, and she bolts into a full run.
He's behind her, his longer legs eating up the distance between them. She's careful of roots and branches, as she spins and changes directions. Then the trees give way to a meadow and it's all open ground. There's no obstacles to impede him. She makes a try to surprise him and get round him back to the trees, but he pivots quicker than she expects and catches her around the waist.
She laughs wildly as their momentum carries them to the ground.
"There we are, eh?" He pants into her ear. "Right where you belong."
"Only if you can keep me!"
She struggles playfully as he tries to pin her down. She can hear and feel his breath coming hard and she just can't stop giggling.
"Settle down, woman," he grunts.
"Make me," she sasses.
She manages to twist and get her knees under her, but his weight bears down on her back. She shimmies her hips with half a mind to dislodge him, but a moan punches out of him and she is suddenly aware of the very prominent arousal pressing against her backside.
She's reminded a bit of the night she'd come after killing the spy. Of how hard he'd cum when she finally got him there. The intensity of her own pleasure as she'd struggled.
This was much more playful, but, she figured it might have similar results.
With that thought in mind, her intent shifts from getting free to convincing him of this new twist in their game. She makes like she's still struggling for freedom, but she's mindful to make sure he gets plenty of friction in the right places.
She can feel his breath shift and deepen as exertion couples with pleasure. His hands grip her a bit harder, and he begins to bear down with his hips.
"You keep this up," he growls at her, "I'm goin' to flip your skirts up and fuck you right here."
Triumph rushes through her at his statement, but she can't make it that easy.
"You can't even keep me pinned with both hands," she laughs. "How you think you're going to get me skirt up without me getting away from you?"
"Oh, is that the game we're playing now, eh?" He grits. "You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Want me cock in you?"
She strains and almost gets a foot under her. But he uses the movement to get a hand under the hem of her skirt.
"Tommy!" she yelps as he pushes his hand between her thighs.
He chuckles, low and wicked, as he pets her through her knickers, "look at how wet you are, eh? Barely got me hands on you and you're dripping for me. Oh, but you want me cock alright. Me good, sweet girl. You want me to make you scream?"
He hooks the arm holding her across her front, while he slips his hand under the last barrier of fabric. His fingers find her pearl quickly and massage the little cluster of nerves with practiced ease.
She moans, body softening with momentary distraction, before she remembers what she's about. She lets her thighs shake, and her shoulders sink down. The arm anchored across her front loosens, he shifts his hand down from her shoulder to fondle her breast. She lunges forward, sacrificing her knickers to his grip and gets away.
She can feel her slick trickling down her thighs as she turns back to observe his response. He's knelt in the grass a few meters from her, her knickers bunched in a fist, as he watches her through lidded eyes. When he stands, the light of the moon emphasizes the state he's in and casts harsh shadows along his face. There's a look about him that makes her pant, a hunger clear in the lines of him.
He tucks the knickers into his pocket and suddenly she isn't sure she's put enough space between them.
She dances backwards a few paces, and he watches her with his chest rising and falling with the depth of his breaths.
He licks his lips and says, "run."
She pivots and bolts. There's no warmup, no build. Just headlong flight. He's not going easy either, practically on her heels in seconds. She jinks and twists, but he's always right there with her. He's herding her, keeping himself at just the right angle to keep her from getting back into the trees. He pushes her, not letting her slow.
She goes down on a knee to salvage a bad turn and he smacks her arse, goading her, as she scrambles to her feet.
He runs her down.
She isn't even sure how she goes from running to flat on her back. Her skirts are about her hips, and she makes him struggle as he tries to part her knees. The sound he makes is purely masculine when she gives, and he presses her thighs open. He doesn't tease or hesitate, just locks a forearm across her hips as he shoves his face into her.
She throws her head back and cries out, one hand fisting in the grass while the other finds his hair.
There's startilingly little of his usual finesse, he's brutal as he makes a mess of her.
Her whole body seizes as she falls apart.
She's dazed and unresisting when he tugs the bodice of her dress to get his mouth on her tits. He laps and suckles greedily as she hears the sound of his zip as he frees himself. He all but folds her in half as he hauls her thighs over his arms and shoves into her, refusing to give up his place face first in her chest.
And he just—he goes for it. Ruts hard and deep, grunting and shouting. Another orgasm rips through her and she clutches at him. His skin is hot beneath her hands, and he moves with the whole of his body—every muscle flexing and taught. He's wicked and fierce, a man possessed. Then he's peaking, utterly undone.
They lay panting in the grass, bodies cooling in the night air.
These are the last gasps of summer, fall well on its way. The air smells crisp, heavy with rich earth and crushed grass. Fireflies flicker as they dance.
He eases her legs down and rolls beside her, gathering her into his arms and holding her close.
"I love you," he tells her, his voice low and intent.
"I love you, too," she replies, her own voice husky from her cries.
Arthur is nearly a different man in the weeks following his wedding. He dotes on Esme, and stands proudly behind the bar of his pub. He laughs easier and lighter. He drinks, but not nearly to the excess of before.
He's happy, Wren thinks.
They're hosting a big dinner, the space crowded with nearly a hundred people in attendance. She's sitting in Tommy's lap with Arthur and John—and Esme and Keeva—across the table. It's late and the food's been totaled, but there's plenty of drink to go around. Laughter and conversation fills the room, the air easy.
Then Arthur puts Esme on her feet and stands up behind her shouting, "I'd like to make a toast!"
The room falls quiet and turns to the man.
"None of us would be here, like this, if it weren't for Tommy," Arthur declares as he raises his glass. "So, to Tommy fucking Shelby! The best brother a man can ask for, and the best leader a man can follow. Leader of the Peaky! Fucking! Blinders!"
She and Tommy lift their glasses as the room roars around them.
A chant builds as men stomp their feet, "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!"
Her man lounges in his chair, a king on his throne, and listens to his people's revelry with a smile on his face.
"All hail the King of Birmingham," she whispers in his ear. "Long live the King."
He's eyes gleam and his smile slants to a smirk, smoke drifting from his cigarette to crown his head.
She's sitting with Finn on her lap in the new office of the Respite teaching the boy how to go over the books. He's better with numbers than Arthur—that poor man—and Wren figures it'd be best to encourage the skill.
"Tommy!" Finn cries happily when the man walks into the room. "I'm helping Wren with the books!"
"Going to be an accountant like our Wren eh, Finn?" Tommy asks with a smiles as he comes around the desk and ruffles the kid's hair.
"Lord knows we could use another one," Wren shakes her head with good humor.
"She says I'm good with numbers," Finn announces proudly.
"We'll have to make plans for getting you licensed then," Tommy says indulgently. "The family can always use a man good with his numbers."
Wren glances at the clock and says to Finn, "It's about lunch. If you're quick you can make it in time to eat with Keeva and the others."
"She said she was making potato and leek!" Finn yelps as he bolts through the door.
Wren laughs as Tommy shakes his head and she tells him, "can't fault his priorities."
"Speaking of priorities," Tommy reaches over and opens her planner marking down a black star on December third.
"And what are we prioritizing that day?" Wren asks, though she has a feeling she knows.
"That's the day we take out Kimber," he says simply.
She nods, her suspicions confirmed, "have you told anyone else?"
"No," Tommy says as he rolls a cigarette across his lip and lights up. "Best keep this one between us until it's time. No one can spill what they don't know."
"Fair enough," Wren allows. "And what are we doing today other than planning conquests?"
"We're going riding," he tells her.
Rather like Finn she's up and moving, bolting through the door shouting, "I'll be changed in a minute!"
Tommy's laugh sounds behind her.
She and Tommy walk into the kitchen together. He's helping her carry in the groceries they'd picked up from market when he looks up and suddenly all the warmth bleeds out of his face. She looks around to find all the Shelby's ranged in various positions around the room with an unfamiliar man sat at the table.
"Hello, son," the man says lightly, and Wren feels Tommy tense beside her.
"Get out," Tommy snaps.
Arthur Jr. opens his mouth like he means to say something but closes it as the conversation continues.
"I'm back, I'm a changed man," who she now knows to be Arthur Sr. says in a more serious tone.
"We needed you ten years ago, but you walked out on us," Tommy tells him in an icy tone. "We don't need you now. Get. Out."
"Arthur Shelby doesn't stay where he's not wanted," the elder man says as he rises from the tables. "You know, it's amazing what you've become, boy."
Then he sweeps out after that snide little comment.
"He's our dad," Arthur says quietly.
"He's a liar and a thief," Tommy tells his brother, completely unironically. "You want to give him the money that feeds your wife so he can piss it away, that's on you brother. But he's not allowed in this house."
Then Tommy drops the groceries on the counter, presses a hard kiss to the side of Wren's head, and storms out.
Wren hums a thoughtful note as she goes to tidy up, "how is Esme, Arthur?"
"She's helpin' Keeva wit da kids," Arthur mumbles.
"That's good of her," she tells the man, "I'm sure Keeva appreciates it. Finn-love, would you mind bringing me in a pot of water?"
Finn nods readily and accepts the pot before heading out back.
"How is Keeva, John?" Wren asks mildly.
"She's good," John answers agreeably. "Thinking about having a kid of her own, now the twins are three."
"I'd wait another year," she tells him wryly. "Ella and I were three years apart. It's a difficult gap."
"I'll tell her you said so," John allows as he pushes off from the wall and ambles away.
"How was your run, Ada?" She asks the girl before Finn comes back in with the water, "Thank you, Finn."
"Welcome," the boy smiles and leans into her legs for a quick hug. "Can I go out?"
"You may but be back in time to wash up for dinner," she tells him, and he's already bolted before she's properly finished.
Ada offers her a grin and says, "was a good run. The batch you hired last week seems to be settling in. Rosie said to remind you tea tomorrow."
"I'll not forget it," Wren sighs in exasperation. "I'm going to promote her to Head of Sales if she keeps it up."
"She'd hate it and make your life miserable," Ada laughs.
Polly snorts and says, "Only fucking person I know who'd turn down a promotion."
"She loves what she does now," Ada tells her aunt with a roll of her eyes.
Polly doesn't answer as she pretends to become engrossed in the paper.
"Best be off to me pub," Arthur says as he hauls himself out of his chair. "Shouldn't leave Harry to the rush by himself."
Wren stops him with a hand on his arm, "you'll be at dinner?"
He pats her hand and offers her a crooked smile, "rarely miss it, do I?"
She nods and gives him a squeeze before letting him through.
Somehow she's not surprised when a few days later Arthur slips into her greenhouse with a bloodied face.
"Alright, sit there," she tells him and grabs a bowl of water from the pump and a rag.
She begins cleaning up his face and says, "dare I ask?"
"Dad likes the ring," Arthur admits reluctantly. "Watches matches when he's not in one himself."
She quiet a moment before she asks softly, "did he do this?"
"We were in the ring," Arthur says as he looks away.
"You're fortunate in your family, Arthur," she says as she cups his face and makes him look at her. "To be cared for by brothers like Tommy, and John. To have the love of your sister and brother, Ada and Finn. The support of your aunt and uncle, Polly and Charlie."
"An' me sisters," Arthur says suddenly. "You and Keeva are family too."
"Aye," Wren agrees warmly. "You have me and Keeva too. You are loved, Arthur. You are appreciated and respected by the people around you. He may have had a hand in bringing you into the world, but that doesn't mean you owe him anything. Bringing a baby into the world doesn't make a man a father, Arthur. The love he gives his kids—be they his own get or not—and the care he takes of them, that's what makes a man a father."
She gently smooths his hair back, "are you hearing me?"
"I want to be a good dad," Arthur whispers.
"You will be," she reassures him as she sits down next to him. "I've seen you with the Peaky Ankle Biters."
He snorts a laugh and winces, "never goin' ta shake that name."
"Finn's never going to forgive me," she grins.
Suddenly Arthur says, "he asked for five hundred pounds. Something or other about a casino in the new world."
She lets her smile fade and asks, "did you give it to him?"
Arthurs quiet a long time then he says, "almost did. He was talkin', and it all sounded so grand. Tommy wouldn't thank me for sayin' it, but he gets the way he talks from our dad and grandad. They have this way about them, never could figure it out. But when he was talkin' I could see it. Then he pulled me into the ring. Said I didn't want to fight."
"He didn't listen," Arthur sighs and hangs his head. "Good as he is at talkin' he never does listen. That's how Tommy's better than him, more like Grandad. Got Finn out o' there before he could take him next. Got him home. Came here."
She stands up and wraps the man in a hug, feels his arms come around her and hold tightly.
"You deserve better," she tells the man in her arms.
"I ain't goin' ta give it to him," Arthur says into her shoulder. "The money. It'll do better for me family to have it."
She gives him a squeeze, "You said Tommy is better than him. But what you need to know is you're better than that man too."
Arthur's breath hitches and Wren will never mention the tears that soak her shoulder.
She's lying a bed, Tommy's head on her chest as she runs her fingers through his hair. The lamp is dimmed low, the house on Watery Lane is as quiet as it ever gets. She'd think her man asleep, but she knows better. She's obviously awake and so Tommy's just biding his time to find out why.
Though if she's honest, she's not entirely sure herself.
Her mind drifts as she thinks about her family.
Polly. Probably the least changed of any of them despite the changes happening around her. Wren isn't sure the woman likes her, to be fair she isn't sure she much likes Polly. They've built respect between them, though, that allows them to work together. Polly has taken to making frequent comments about how much better Tommy is for having Wren in his life. All but nagging the man, despite Wren's protests to let it be. Tommy will propose when he's ready—has said as much even—and in the meantime Wren is perfectly happy being with him.
Arthur. Happily married now and a proud owner of his very own pub. He'd been so excited when he'd opened his wedding gifts. Three canvases and good paint, a set of new brushes. Tommy had bought him a proper sketchbook. Ada had bought him drawing pencils. John and Keeva had gotten him a crystal decanter. Polly had bought him a set of fancy ties. He's hung a few of his newest pieces in the Garrison, his signature printed boldly in the bottom right-hand corner.
John. So much steadier now that he has Keeva. She wouldn't have guessed him to be the kind of man who needed a partner to feel whole, but his steady transformation after meeting his redhead spoke for itself. Still laid back and fond of jokes, but also more present. Smarter than he'd like anyone to believe, yet more willing to let that side of himself show. A better father.
Ada. Flourishing under her promotion as Lead Runner. She's built a surprisingly solid friendship with her partner Trisha, the two young women working effortlessly together. Which may be why the young woman turned down the apprenticeship Wren had offered her. Wren doesn't begrudge the woman her growing into herself, finally building up a real sense of self-confidence and independence. No longer full of bluster and bravado, she's settled into her skin. Ada knows better who she is and what she wants.
Finn. Sweet young boy that he is. It's taken time and tender care, but with Keeva's help they've managed to bolster the kid up. He reads and writes and does math now. Can understand and actually care about his schoolwork. See the importance in it.
Tommy's off-hand comment about being a licensed accountant had lit a fire under the child she doesn't think anyone could have predicted. But, predicted or not, she is hardly the only one encouraging the boy's new drive. Tommy has taken to sitting and patiently going over the books with the boy, spending at least an hour every other night with his littlest brother on his lap. It's done them both good, she thinks, gives them a better sense of connection.
Tommy.
Her man, her heart, her love.
There'd been years of her life where she'd been forbidden from going anywhere near him. Yet here she is now, with his head over her heart. She's seen the ice the war had built in him thaw, bit by bit, jagged edges finally retreating and allowing him to begin healing.
She's witnessed his drive and abetted him. Killed for him. Accepted him as he is: his hands smeared with blood, and his head crowned in smoke. She can't imagine a life without him in it anymore. This man who has brought her such happiness.
Her King.
He stirs against her, presses kisses along her chest as he follows the edge of her nightshift. He trails the tip of his nose up her neck, kisses beneath her ear. Lingers as he presses his lips to her temple. Then kisses her properly on the mouth with her hands cradling the back of his head. When he draws back she meets his eyes: blue washed to steel in the half-light.
"It feels quiet," she answers the silent question.
"Not quiet, calm" he tells her. "The calm before the storm."