Overwhelmed, Matthew hooted with joy and rolled back, spreading across the cool tile. From beneath mostly closed lashes, he observed the bathroom’s frosted lights, blurred by his limited vision in a way that made them look like stars.
He’d made it.
Both schools wanted him.
Him.
The boy who’d gotten pregnant at sixteen and had to bust his ass to finish high school. The one who’d taken a couple years off to care for his daughter.
It was a dream—it had to be.
Too excited to keep the news to himself, Matthew tabbed out of his inbox and opened his text messages. He sent a message to Damien.I GOT IN!
The reply came almost immediately.You’re serious? Where?
Both NYU and U of A!!
Baby boy, I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it
Matthew beamed.
A second text from Damien arrived not long after.Now that we have confirmation, are you still willing to go through with our plan?
Yes.
No regrets?
No.Matthew rolled onto his side and ran a hand over his stomach. The small but noticeable bump there gave Matthew all the reason he needed to embrace the plan. What they were about to do was scary, but it was the right move for their future. Matthew had all the faith in the world that Damien could pull it off.Never.
Then Operation: FUCK YOU is officially underway. Phase I has begun. Hold onto your hats, bitches, because it’s ON.
42
Damien
Mimi: Phase I initiation imminent
404: Holy shit, it’s happening
404: Troubleshooting on standby. I’m set to wipe everything from his cloud and get those stolen pictures off his phone for good. Fucker never should have come for you.
404: Go get ‘em, Mimi. Show ‘em your teeth.
* * *
Bankes’ office was on the other side of the building from Damien’s, where the stench of his evil ways wouldn’t disrupt everyone else. It was, Damien thought as he got to work, a sad excuse for a workspace. Not even Bankes’ swanky rosewood executive desk with its fancy trimming and irritatingly snooty brass handles could make up for the fact that the space was tiny. It was like Whitcroft had shoehorned him into the position. Or maybe it was that he knew Bankes was a snake and didn’t need all that much space to slither around in. Whatever the case, it made Damien’s job easier, and he set to work immediately.
Close to an hour later, while Damien leaned against the inside doorframe of Bankes’ office and admired the results of his hard work, someone in the hallway cleared their throat. Damien turned his head. It was none other than the man of the hour, Bankes.
Frederick Fuckface Bankes—as Damien hereby christened him—was a man in his mid-to-late thirties who, like Damien, had been plucked from his alma mater and brought into the Goldcorp Group as a lowly analyst. Constant exposure to work-related stress had toughened him up, but where Damien had turned into a diamond under pressure, Bankes had exploded into never-ending shrapnel. It was a shame, because if Bankes had been a better person, he would have been the total package.
Not that Damien cared.
Brawny, highly competitive men with angelically blue eyes and cheekbones that could slice a bitch weren’t his bag.
“Bigg.” Bankes crossed his arms and lifted his chin, eyes gleaming victoriously like Damien’s presence in his territory was a sign of defeat.
“Bankes,” Damien replied in the same tone of voice. He turned to face Bankes, mimicking his posture. It was all Damien could do to keep from grinning from ear to ear and immediately blowing his cover.
