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It’s not likely this Maggie woman will ever see these photos anyway. It’s low risk and you get a cool mil out of a night’s work.
Lola straddled him, unbuckling his pants and threw her head back in mock satisfaction.
Click.
Chapter Three
“Here’s your blackmail fodder,” I told my father as he sat at his desk.
He clapped his hands together in excitement, rubbing his palms quickly back and forth and grasping at the flash drive like he was the devil and I’d just thrown down sin, which is a little too spot on. I turned to walk out the door.
“Stay right there,” he ordered. I obeyed, standing where I stood but didn’t turn to face him.
I heard him pop the drive into his laptop then a few clicks of his mouse.
He groaned. “These are good,” he giggled like a toddler. “These are fantastic.” He paused. “Wow. I might have to give Lola a call—”
“Stop,” I said, refusing to face him. “I did your dirty work, but I don’t have to listen to another damn word.
“Fine,” he said, like I’d slapped him. “One day you’ll get it.”
“Trust me,” I said, “if ever the day comes that I ‘get you,’ that day will also be synonymous with my death.”
“Come here,” he said.
I faced him at his desk.
“Come around here,” he ordered.
He was logged on to an online banking session. It was a wire transfer. A million dollars made out to me. My heart began to race in anticipation. He slowly hovered the mouse over the send button and pressed. The click resounded through my head. It was different this time. Too reminiscent of the clicks that earned me the pictures. This transfer didn’t quite feel the same as all the others though, and my stomach dropped.
“You’re too afraid to accept it,” my father began, leaning back in his chair, “but I’m gonna say it anyway. That transfer. That, among the many others, is you ‘getting me’”
I backed away slowly. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” he answered with the same serpent’s smile, elbows on the chair’s rests, hands steepled in front of him.
“I’m nothing like you,” I told him. Who are you trying to convince? “Nothing,” I repeated.
“Son,” he said, leaning forward, “you are me.”
I turned and bolted down the hall, away from his cackling laugh, away from his accusations, desperate to leave my own suspicions behind. I ran up the stairs, shedding pieces of my suit as I went, determined to shower, resolute in washing away what I’d just done, who I really was, but I was certain there was nothing that could cleanse me, to launder my poisoned blood. This was who I was. Hopeless personified.
I vomited twice, showered and brushed my teeth, but it did nothing to appease my unsettled stomach. I threw on a pair of Adidas pants and laid on my stomach in bed, curling my blanket over my head after turning on my stereo. I’d left one of The Cure’s albums in there.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in,” my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “Come in,” I said with purchase.
My door opened and I lifted my head to see Bridge. “How was your date?” she asked, hopping on the bed and laying next to me. I shifted onto my back, the blanket falling between us, and tucked my hands behind my head.
“It was okay,” I lied.
“An untruth,” she said, throwing her hands behind her head as well. “But I’ll let it go for now.”
“You’re doing that a lot lately,” I teased. “How are you feeling?”
“It passed,” she said, getting quiet.
