Michael
He can't bear to look anyone in the eye as he enters the office. Tommy clears his throat. Michael's aware his mum glances up at him from where she's sat, smoking a cigarette and going over paperwork. He can feel her keen gaze on him — anxious. Hopeful. Wanting nothing more than for him to do well in the business, and terrified for what it means if he does.
He finds himself unable to let her down.
"Broker wasn't in," he says.
Everyone's silent as he places the briefcase down on the desk. The leather is firm beneath his fingers, the clasps cool as he opens it and begins shuffling paper and reports.
"The fuck do you mean, the broker wasn't in?" John asks, bewildered, from where he sits on the other desk by the window.
"Influenza," Michael says. "He'll be back next week."
"You've got the accounting and finance conference next week," Polly reminds him. "We've booked your train ticket for Sunday night."
Michael suppresses a groan. He loves his mum, he truly does, but she does go a bit overboard — signing him up for every bloody conference and seminar she can find. All on regulations and things, too. Continual nudges to keep his nose clean.
And, he thoroughly suspects, ploys to keep him away from his cousins' illegal activities as often as she can manage.
"Why don't you ever send John on these bloody things," he mutters.
"Because I'm not a twit who can't even attend a business meeting," John retorts, rolling his eyes. "Infleunza. Want to know what would happen if someone took the day off work when I go in? I'd have 'em wishing they had the fucking flu instead."
"That's enough, John," Tommy says, with a roll of his eyes and a glance towards his aunt, who looks ready to start the next world war at any encouragement Michael should be more violent. "Your mum's right, Michael. Everything's booked for the conference, and it looks good for a legitimate company to be attending these things. John, you can head in to the bank next week."
Nausea rolls through Michael, apprehension at the thought of letting Tommy down. Of being incapable. He's read enough to know that if he gets shunted off to a bloody conference while John secures a decent deal for the company, it'll be John in Tommy's position one day — not himself. And he can't let that happen. What would Tommy do in his shoes? Would he sit back and tap out, admit defeat?
Not a fucking chance.
"I'll head back to the bank tomorrow," he says. "Meet with a different broker." He turns to Tommy. "And how the fuck do I go about this without raising a hundred red flags we're laundering money?"
Tommy raises his eyebrows. Lights a cigarette. The others get back to work.
"Why would they think we're laundering money?" He asks. "Our legitimate businesses make enough on paper to finance the investments."
"Well... Because they're overseas investments," Michael says. "And because we're after overseas accounts to fund the investments."
Tommy pauses to consider him. "And you're not going to be bloody stupid enough to open with that, are you?"
Michael doesn't say anything. Tommy sighs.
"We start with whatever they fucking recommend. Let the paperwork settle. Get through our first audit. Then we mention diversification, something like we're wanting to open up a factory in Sweden."
Michael's stomach sinks. "I see," he says. "That makes sense."
Tommy nods sagely. "Lucky we had this conversation before you opened your mouth and shot us in the foot then, eh?"
"Yeah," Michael agrees, clearing the lump in his throat. "Lucky."
"Oi, Michael," comes the unmistakeable voice of Isaiah. "We're off down the Garrison. Arthur just called, said there's a ton of fit women, all of 'em keen for—"
He halts as he enters the room and sees Tommy. Then hears the unmistakeable sound of Polly muttering something from another room over.
"Isaiah," Tommy acknowledges politely.
"You're wasting your breath on Michael," calls John from the hall as he gets his coat. "He's called the Picky Blinder for a reason."
Michael scowls. He's not that picky. He's bedded women before. Just doesn't go through them at the jackrabbit pace of his cousins.
If only they knew, he thinks. He recalls the last woman he met, how she'd been sat on his face, screaming as he lapped at her swollen clit until she gushed all over him, and then he still hadn't stopped...
The Picky Blinder. Because these women came back. They came to the Garrison, or they called the house, or otherwise tried to get hold of him after the encounter.
And each time, he froze. On the inside, on the outside. He'd never seen love, not the proper kind. His foster parents were kind to one another, but he never saw them exchange affection.
And as for everyone else he'd met before that... Once more, it didn't bear even thinking about. His stomach rolls with nausea each time he veers close to recalling memories of his time with the priest.
Shakes himself back to the present. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Doesn't enjoy the look of disappointment on a woman's face, knowing he made her feel that way. Knowing he could never explain.
So, the Picky Blinder it is. And much easier that way.
His mum seems to agree.
"Don't you be out too late," she calls out. "I'm doing a leg of lamb for dinner."
"Can I come, Ms Gray?" Isaiah asks hopefully, as Michael pushes his friend back into the hall, ready to make a quick exit.
"If it'll keep you out of trouble," she answers, and thankfully Michael's gone before he can hear any more.