❝Michael Freeman, C.O.O. of Connolly Computing. Nice to meet you. Might be able to convince my secretary to pencil you in for that presentation, but I can't guarantee it. Anyway, I'm late to meet Dick Costolo for coffee. Out of my office.❞
A familiar voice reaches his ears, and where does he recognise it? …Oh yes. Of course. It’s Connolly Computing’s resident ‘cockblock’ and shitty nickname giver.
Taking one last pointed drag of his cigarette, he then proceeds to stub out the remainder of it in the ashtray provided for him, before exhaling slowly, watching the steady white stream of smoke leave his mouth.
Upturning his head, he takes a moment to think. Name, name…Did he get a name? Now that he ponders on it, he realises that he didn’t, which is rather rude, considering he introduced himself. True, he didn’t give his actual name, but that’s not exactly common knowledge, now is it?
❝Pointin’ out people’s bad habits… Nasty habit. Help you with somethin’, mate? Or are you just here to preach ‘bout my bad morals?❞
He casually slides the paperwork he’d been perusing before he’d been interrupted back into the envelope. He’s not overtly bringing attention to it, but the movement should make it known to Michael. It’s a basic trick; stamp an folder with ‘confidential’, tuck it away in a drawer as a person comes into view - making sure they at least see the stark lettering marking the documents as private - and you’ve got yourself someone who can’t help but want to know what’s inside.
An easy way to get a mark more interested.
The way he sees it, getting anyone in Connolly Computing to believe that he’s actually who he says he is would be a bonus. Especially if that someone seems to be a jumped up arsehole with a short temper, and a height to match that.
’ I could, ’ he shrugs once. ’ Or you can tell me more about what you do, because, let’s be honest here— ’
’ I’m curious. ’
Curious. And he doesn’t really trust him.
Can’t trust people anyway these days. One minute, they’re you’re friend; the next, they’re trying to screw you over ass-backwards.
Michael knows this better than most.
He pulls a chair out from the lip of the table and takes a seat across from ‘Tommy.’
If that was even his name.
Was he being ridiculous about this entire thing? Maybe. Did he give a fuck? Not even in the slightest.
”What would you consider to be the happiest moment in your life? Are you frequently cheerful or are you oftentimes morose?”
’ Eh, getting my paycheck’s a nice time. Getting laid, too, that’s always fun. ’
Was that crude? A bit.
’ I wouldn’t consider myself either. More passive, than anything. Unless Connolly pisses me off—then again, his entire existence pisses me off, so that’s 100% of the time. But yeah, mostly passive. ’
He’s never going to be able to chew Bubbaloo again.
With the nickname stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind as he enters Connolly’s office, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t introduce himself as such. But he doesn’t, and ‘Tommy Douglas’ enters that office with a grin on his face, and a story falling easily from his lips. You can’t con an honest man, every basic grifter knows that, and the man sat before him is probably one of the most dishonest bastards that he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.
It’s going to be a piece of cake to screw him over.
— — — — — — — —
The next day has him sat outside the Starbucks just down the street from Connolly Computing, a cigarette resting between his fingers as he reads through the business proposal that he’d chalked up when he’d first gotten word that Connolly needed taking down a peg or two.
It looks professional, in a manilla envelope, so that anyone walking past would just think of him as corporate wanker.
It’s such a nice day out, that he doesn’t have to worry too much about hurrying with his cigarette along, making him quite content to sip idly at his coffee as he makes sure everything is ready to be set in stone.
Michael’s in a rare mood. For once, he hasn’t sent his PA off to grab his lunch and coffee with a wave of his hand. For once, he hasn’t snapped at the nearest intern for no apparent reason.
And for once, Connolly hasn’t pissed him off.
Why’s that, you may ask?
Because Connolly didn’t show up for work and is off being the whiny douche he is.
At home. Away from Michael. Life was grand.
He takes a long sip from his coffee, peering over the frames of his reading glasses at the latest issue of Forbes. Some article about some guy named David Karp. Tum…blr? —-The fuck? He looks like he hasn’t even reached puberty, if you wanted Michael’s opinion.
A clear of the throat and quick shift in his chair leads to those brown eyes to look just past the top of his magazine, to graze the top of a very familiar blond head. Michael pauses.
Ah. Tutti Frutti.
He’s standing, he’s setting his magazine aside and tossing his half emptied coffee cup into the nearest bin. He’s slipping his blazer on, trading his reading glasses for his sunglasses, and he’s sauntering out the door.
M’not here t’make her job any harder. No need t’throw your toys outta the pram.❞
Oh, this has to be him.
This has to be Connolly.
This is without a doubt, one hundred percent, the corporate wanker he’d come to screw over. He’d be very, very surprised if it wasn’t.
❝Look, I’m Tommy. M’just here to do a few courtesy checks from my company, tha’s all. New business from across the pond, and the like.❞
Deep breaths, Michael. Deep breaths.
He removes his sunglasses, folds them carefully, and slips them into his breast pocket, before turning back to the annoying Londoner that sauntered into his lobby.
’ Listen here, Tutti Frutti. ’
Why he dropped that, who the fuck knows? It came to mind, it slipped, and it’s sticking.
’ My secretary has a very specific job, a very specific job that affects my own job. If she doesn’t get things done, I don’t get things done. If I don’t get things done, I get the ass-end of the deal from Connolly, something I’ve already experienced once today. You’re distracting her. If you need something from her for serious business, then great, that’s fine and dandy. However: from the looks of it, you don’t, so get on with it or get lost. ’
❝It’s really all just a case of perspective, y’know? She sees it as bein’ a bad boyfriend, but I see it as lyin’ to plan a nice surprise for her. Y’know what I’m sayin’?❞
It would be all well and good that he was chatting up this secretary, if he was actually chatting up the secretary outside of the right office.
Coincidentally, he’s outside the wrong one, chatting up the wrong secretary.
So, he was already in a bad mood this afternoon. Connolly had pissed him off one too many times since he arrived at the office, his PA got him decaf—what was the point of decaf in the first place? Coffee was supposed to be caffeinated. That was the fucking point of coffee—
Wait.
Who the fuck was this asshole?
’ Hey, guy. ’
Cue the annoyed narrowing of his brown eyes over the frames of his sunglasses.
