Page 37 of F*ckboys

"Yeah," I agree, feeling the weight of our actions settle on my shoulders. "We did."

The next day, we find ourselves in a grimy bar, waiting for the man who holds Maddie's future in his hands.

Twenty-five minutes after our set meeting time, he slides into the booth across from us, his eyes darting around as three burly bodyguards in suits and sunglasses flank his side of the booth. Guns poke out visibly from waist holsters.

Despite his extensive personal security detail, he peeks out at us from underneath a cap and hoodie. I can't help but notice he's wearing the most atrocious combination of designer clothing I've ever seen—like a luxury department store threw up on him after eating its clearance rack.

He wears a giant Rolex that dwarfs his bony wrist and small hand. What a little weasel. I narrow my eyes at him but keep from saying what I want to because we need his help.

He tents his fingers, his elbows resting on the table across from us, and quirks an eyebrow in my direction.

"You're that bitch who saves bitches. I had my guys look you up."

I do everything in my power to hold back from rolling my eyes. "Let's cut to the chase," I say, my voice cold as ice. "We want the video of Matilda Smith removed from your site. Permanently."

"Why would I do that?" he smirks. "It's proving quite popular."

"You didn't have her consent to post the images." Grave's tone is serious, to the point.

Diggins smirks, glances at one of his bodyguards and then cackles. His laugh is unfortunate, like a hyena crossed with a chicken. I bet he got picked on in school for it, which probably explains a lot of this. "That's my entire business model. Do you think I care about some dumb rules?"

"Listen," I press, my voice stern. "We insist you take them down."

He shrugs. "You can insist all you like, but you can't make me do anything. If I took down everything someone asked me to, well, I wouldn't have a website, let alone a multi-million dollar business."

I glance over at Grave, who calmly cracks his knuckles in front of him.

"I don't think you understand," Grave says, his tone stern. We aren't here about anyone else, although we think your little business is a disgusting cesspool of inhumanity. But we insist that you take all material featuring Matilda Smith down immediately."

Diggins glances back at his three bodyguards and smirks. "Or what?"

Before his bodyguards can make a move, Grave leaps up and swiftly deploys a picture-perfect roundhouse kick to the first man. Surprised, he grunts and staggers back into the table behind him. Grave reaches under the dining table and pulls out a baseball bat. He raises the bat high above his head and smashes it down on the disoriented man who groans as the wooden shaft connects with his skull with a satisfying crack. His skull is sothick that the bat shatters in half, splinters flying. He staggers and falls to the ground, blood running from his temple.

The other bodyguards leap into action, attempting to flank Grave. Before they can draw their weapons, though, Grave has grabbed the first guard's gun and has it cocked at the first man. "Don't move," he says, his voice like gravel, "or you're both dead, along with this try-hard."

The guards freeze for a moment. Before they can figure out their next move, Grave leaps onto one set of booth seating and off the other side, leaping at the second man. He smashes the barrel of the gun into his head. The man cries out in pain and crashes to the floor.

The third man backs away, fear in his eyes. Grave smirks at him and shoots the man in both of his feet. The man crumples to the floor, howling. Grave calmly approaches him and gathers his gun from his holster. "Your turn?" He turns and quirks his brow at Diggins, who has grown so pale he's almost translucent.

"No, please," he begs, his breath ragged. "Of course I'll take the posts down, straight away," the man throws his hand up in resignation. He narrows his eyes, stubborn despite his fear. "But you know that comes with a price."

"Name it," Grave snarls. His protective instincts are kicking in, and I love him all the more for it.

"Thirty grand. Cash," the man says, bolstered by the confidence of knowing how many people have paid this price before, sometimes more.

"Twenty," I say without hesitation, pulling out a fat envelope and sliding it across the table. Grave did his research before we came, and knew exactly what Diggins would accept. "Now delete the video, or we'll take you down, too."

"Alright, alright!" He scrambles for his phone and feverishly types away, sighing every now and then as if we're superannoying for our request. Within minutes, he shows us the confirmation that the video has been removed.

"Good," Grave says gruffly. "Now get lost. And if it comes up again on your site I will kill you." He cracks his knuckles and Diggins visibly pales.

As the man scuttles away, his guards still incapacitated on the floor in various states of consciousness, I can't help but smile. One more victory for Maddie.

"Good job, thanks Grave," I say. "They didn't stand a chance. But we're not done yet. Next up: getting the law changed." Determination fuels my every word.

"Let's do this, Fallon," Grave agrees, matching my intensity the way that only he can.

As our handiwork spreads like wildfire across the internet, I can't help but feel a sense of pride. Jacob's humiliation is only just beginning, and it's all because of us. We've taken matters into our own hands, refusing to let him continue hurting people like Maddie without consequences.

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