bookmaker_boss | (no subject)

Weather had put a damper on things, weather and other things in Tommy's private life, but as the sun returned and warmth came back to Darrow, he found himself calling on Mary Crawley. He knows, precisely, what it is about her that he finds vexing and fixating, though he feels a little bit a scoundrel to admit it to himself: she is every ounce of familiar femininity that he courted and seduced in Birmingham and London, as much Grace Brugess as May Carleton as Lizzie Stark. And she's none of them, as well, a handsome Earl's daughter out of York.

He may have done a bit of snooping on her, though snooping in Darrow is far from what it was back in England.

So there is a part of him that yearns for her merely because she is familiar, because she, as an object of his time, means something to him simply for that. But she also loves horses, he knows from their first meeting the laundry. But she also becomes slightly rigid when teased. Tommy misses, he thinks, the chase of their time. These careful dances of propriety that he could elude because he is a gangster and a bookmaker and a Gypsy.

So, with good weather and the knowledge that this is a terrible mistake waiting to happen, as most of his romantic endeavors tend to be, he catches Mary one day as she's coming out of their complex. He's leaned on a car he's rented, something flashy and far too low to the ground for his tastes, and he smiles slightly to see her.

"I believe I promised you horses, Miss Crawley."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mary hums in her throat, looking down at her sandwich. "Certainly. Though I must say... I may be a modern woman, but I still enjoy when a man makes the first move." Her gaze turns back up to his, meeting his beautiful but icy eyes. "What if I give you some sort of sign?"

A sign that she's ready to advance what they have to the next level.

Tommy's more than happy to make the first move, but there must be a move to make. Every woman is different, what she likes, what she's willing to do or deal with. Mary is a lady, some of the gentry, and Tommy thinks there might be slightly different rules afoot than there even were with May.

He hums and nods, a barely brief consideration.

"I tend to be quite good with subtlety."

"Good. Women are, in general, quite subtle."

Or men are quite obtuse. She thinks it's probably more the latter, but she's being kind today and not mentioning it. Maybe Tommy's bold pronunciation that he'd like to have sex with her had thrown her off a bit. Mary wouldn't be surprised.

Tommy lets her have that one, because she isn't wrong. His brothers, for example, are fantastical idiots. He likes to think he isn't one, but he has been known to be swayed too far by some feminine wiles. The fact that women even have wiles probably proves that men are idiots.