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I log into the laptop, thankful IT hasn’t pulled my credentials yet. Sitting on a padded bench along the wall, out of sight, I quickly copy the files I want to a flash drive. I’m not ready to give up the project I was working on, there’s something off about it. I want to make sure I have copies of the work I did in case he tries to throw me under the bus later on. Once the files are synced, I pocket the flash drive and close the lid. Standing, I slide it—and my badge—across the desk to Barb.
“Have security throw out my things.”
She winces. “Jordan, I’m so sorry, it’s?—”
I turn and hold up my hand. “It’s your job. I understand. Take care of yourself, Barb. Don’t let anyone around here give you shit.” I force a smile on my face.
I’m an impeccable employee. I’ve got a plaque with my fucking name on it for Christ’s sake. I didn’t deserve this. I’m sure the memo of my termination will be emailed shortly. That’ll go over well with my team. We’re already understaffed for projects as it is. I can get another job. It was only a matter of time anyway, I couldn’t continue working for the Davenports’ company, I knew that. I trudge back to the parking garage with my head held high.
I climb back in my car and ignore my trembling hands, reminding myself it has nothing to do with my job performance. My clients love me, my team loves me, I didnothing wrong. He’s a vindictive asshole who wants me to suffer. That’s why I was fired.
As I exit the ramp, the gate lifts, and I can’t wait to get the hell away from this place. Cut one more tie with the Davenports. The farther I get away from them, the better. This is simply one more step in the right direction. Still, it’s strange to think I don’t work here anymore. I’ve worked at H&H Holdings for six years. I started as an intern before I graduated college.
Less than ten minutes ago, my brain was going over the clients I needed to call today, the updates I would give in the team meeting. I was brainstorming a new strategy for the legal project I was tasked with—the one I'll investigate more. And now I’m driving back home because I was fired before I could even walk in the door? I’m in a trance as I drive out of the parking garage. I guess I’ll go back to Camden’s. My mind goes on autopilot as I rethink every life choice I’ve ever made.
I’m two blocks from the corporate campus when sirens blare. My rearview mirror flickers with blue and red lights.
“Wunderbar,” I say with a scoff as I pull to the side of the street.
Damn it, I probably forgot to use my blinker or something. My thoughts are all over the place. Time to focus, Jordan.
I roll down my window, and when I look up, there’s an officer with his hand on his gun.Really? Is that necessary?It takes every bit of my strength not to roll my eyes.
“Hands on the wheel.”
I do as he asks but turn to glare at him. “What’s the problem, officer?”
“ID and registration.”
“I’ll have to take my hands off the wheel to get my purse.”
“That’s fine.”He nods to the bag in the seat next to me.
I reach for my wallet, unzip the billfold, and slide out the documentation. Oh, I amsogoing to fuck up an entire pan of brownies when I get home. I’d like to submit my official hatred for this day.
“Turn off the vehicle, please.”
Again, I follow this stupid Simon-Says bullshit and do as he asks. He returns to his cop car, and within five minutes, he’s back at my window. “This vehicle isn’t registered to you.”
“Yes it is. It’s my car.”
“This car is registered to Bryan Davenport and has been reported stolen. If an error has been made, we can discuss it later, but for now the car will be impounded and you’ll be placed under arrest.”
My jaw drops and my eyes nearly bulge out of my head. This isn’t happening.
“Officer”—I glance at his nametag—“Bradshaw. Look, my fiancé bought me this vehicle. We broke up, I did not steal the car, you can have it. But please don’t arrest me.”
“I’m just doing my job,” he says with his hand on his hip.
“So they keep telling me...” I mutter under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
I shake my head and formulate a new plan. I’ve never once used my name to get what I want, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Who donated your new fleet of vehicles last year at the fundraiser? The Landry Foundation, right?”
He cocks his head and drops his gaze to my driver’s license.
