❝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.❞
Of course the man is curious, perhaps even a little doubtful. Danny had been vague enough about his business with Connolly that anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have been curious about it.
Removing his sunglasses, he folds them and sets them on the table next to his cigarette packet and lighter. They would have provided a nice barrier for an inquisitive gaze, but he doesn’t need them right now. People are more likely to believe you when they can actually see into your eyes.
❝I’m sure you’re curious, but I’m actually kinda busy here.❞
He’s not, but he doesn’t want to make it too obvious that he needs to get this guy on his side.
❝There is somethin’ I’m curious about though. You wanna know what I’m doin’, why I’m interested in your boss, tha’s fine. I get that. But you don’t even introduce y’self properly? Well, that jus’ comes across as rude t’me, mate. You know my name—❞
He almost winces. God. He hates his name almost as much as he hates cats. And those pieces of lint that always stick to his shirts when he pulls them out of the dryer.
’ It’s Michael. ’
Finley— ’ Michael Freeman. ’ ’ Now that we’re on a first name basis—-’
He glances at the manilla envelope just inches from his hands folded on the glass table.
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.
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.
This is a make or break moment, because his actions could get him thrown out straight on his arse, with security called for good measure. But the past few years have been good to him, and Lady Luck has been on his side.
❝Thanks for this. And…Listen, that receptionist of yours… Throw my number her way, yeah?❞
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket to remove a single business card, which he then extends towards Michael, the card held between his index and middle finger. It’s a fake number, that leads through to an ‘office’ answer machine that will never be answered, and on which messages are stored until they’re inevitably deleted; they’re never listened to. He doesn’t want this woman’s number, but it’s all about keeping up appearances.
Speaking of, the card reads:
MR. T. J. DOUGLAS Information Technology Consultant
which is all just bullshit, but at least the business card looks nice and professional.
Michael doesn’t even bother trying to hide the eyeroll.
’ Yeah, right. I’ll be sure to do that. ’
Not that he’s one to protect people, but Michael senses something fishy about this character. Who knows if he’s really interested in Patricia? She was a nice woman, yeah, but hardly in his league—
Not that he was noticing the guy’s league or anything. God, no.
Anyway, Michael makes a mental note to check this guys name out online, and maybe even give a call to his own receptionist.
Get more information on him, because he really doesn’t trust him.
He lifts the calling card to eye level. Seems real enough. Made of heavy card stock paper, surely as expensive as it seems. Printed name. Plain.
❝Cheeky. Boss ‘ears you talkin’ like that though, an’… Well, I’m not gonna wanna be you, let’s jus’ say that.❞
He’s got no idea what the consequences would be for badmouthing the CEO’s sex life. But he has to pretend that, for all intents in purposes, he’s had multiple discussions with this guy before he came over from London. Which he hasn’t. And in fact, the only discussions that he is going to have with the bloke, will be ones that have the intention of getting his money off of him.
❝’nuff of that though. I’ma bit late, so if y’don’t mind—❞
He gestures back towards the way he came from initially.
He nods once in his secretary’s direction, who only glares. Which, quite honestly, he did deserve. He did just steal off the only attention from the opposite sex she’s properly had in months. Well, any other attention besides from himself, but that wasn’t the sort of attention she was looking for.
Clearing his throat, he steps around Tommy, before gesturing over his shoulder.
’ Right this way, Tutti Frutti. ’
It isn’t much of a distance from his lobby to Connolly’s; just an elevator ride, a few corners and a brief shortcut through the small break room for PAs and other personnel. It stinks of cleaning chemicals and burning coffee grounds, but he’d grown used to it during his brief internship. Back when Connolly hadn’t been the CEO, back when Connolly Computing had been under a different name, a different look.
They’d been friends once.
Now look at them.
’ Connolly’s office is right through that door. Make sure you buzz in first. He gets pissy when people just waltz in. ’
❝Well, that an’ maybe ‘ave a go on his missus too.❞
Okay, so that’s not really going to happen, but mister arsehole over here doesn’t have to know that, does he? It probably doesn’t help that he says it with such a smug expression, that it can only have come from a man who’s so used to having bragging rights about shagging other men’s wives.
It’s really a toss-up over whether or not he’s lying.
❝Or, I could actually be here t’do my job, which you’re gettin’ in the way of, mate. The quicker I get to his office, the sooner I get outta your hair, so think of it as a little bonus.❞
He can’t help himself. He snorts a bit, turning to face away from the Londoner, hiding his face against the shoulder of his blazer.
’ Might do her a bit of good. God knows she doesn’t get anything anywhere else. ’
He decides, eh, the fucker can make him laugh. Might as well give him what he wants.
…Wait. So this isn’t Connolly? Fuck. Which means he’s outside the wrong office, chatting up the wrong secretary, and pissing off the wrong corporate arsehole. Not that it isn’t fun to piss off a corporate arsehole every once in a while, but he has business to be doing here, and he doesn’t need his ‘name’ besmirched so early on in the game.
Time to placate.
He straightens, ignoring the secretary for the time being, before raising his hands and facing them palm towards Michael, aiming for a calming gesture.
❝My mistake, I’m at the wrong office. No harm done, yeah? Jus’ show me where Connolly’s is, an’ I’ll leave you alone.❞
As much as he wants to push this angry little man’s buttons, he has other things to be doing that are more important.
Who even was this guy?
Running courtesy checks? Yeah, right.
And he wants to see Connolly? And chat up his secretary?
Really?
He shifts, hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks, eyebrows knitting over dark eyes.
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. ’
