Stand and Defend (Lakes Hockey Series Book 4)

There’s a mandatory weekly meeting, so unfortunately, no working from home today. On the way to H&H, I pull into a cheap hotel and turn my phone on. I need to check my messages. I’ve been off the grid for four days and the texts and missed calls make my notifications pop up back-to-back.

There are sixty-three messages from Bryan, the most recent one seems to be an apology, but I ignore the rest. He and I are beyond done. I refuse to open a line of communication with him. Thankfully, my meeting is the same day Bryan has his own mandatory meeting with his father and clients off-site—far away from the corporate campus.

When I arrive, I swipe my badge at the turnstile. Oddly, it flashes red instead of green. I walk through anyway. Alarms blare, but nobody pays attention. It happens at least a couple times a day. With around five thousand employees, there are always a few who forget and/or lose their IDs. Other times, the badge readers are glitchy, like today. No big deal. I swing by the security desk to see the friendly face of a woman I’ve gotten to know over the years. I’m glad Barb is working today, I like her.

“Morning, Barb, the badge reader is acting up. Are you able to log me in manually?”

“Sure! What’s your ID?”

I rattle off my nine-digit corporate ID. “121908603.” She types it in and furrows her brow.

“Sorry, give it to me again.”

I repeat the number slower this time. She looks up at me with sympathetic eyes.

“Um . . .”

I cock my head to the side. “Is there a problem?”

“Jordan, I’m going to need your laptop and badge.”

“What? Why?” There’s only one reason you have to turn in your laptop and badge. I just don’t want to believe it’s happening to me.

“It says you’ve been terminated.”

“But I still have laptop access. I’m in the middle of a project.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job.” I don’t want to give Barb a hard time, she’s a sweet woman.

“Um, okay. Can I—please, let me send a resignation letter first.”

She looks around and bites her lip. My eyes plead with her.

“You can keep the laptop until John shows up, he’s on his way down to escort you to gather the things from your desk.”

My eyebrows shoot to my forehead, shocked and hurt. “I don’t need an escort, Barb.”

She glances at the computer and cringes. “You’re flagged for it.”

He’s trying to humiliate me. Hardly anyone gets an escort, only the most disgruntled employees who they anticipate making a scene. He knew I’d be coming in today, knew I’d show up, then get walked around the campus by security to collect my things like some pathetic parade of shame. Well, fuck if I’m gonna help him do that. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I mentally inventory the items at my desk. There’s nothing I can’t live without.

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 did nothing 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 am so going 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.

Come on, Gomer Pyle. Two plus two equals four.

“I heard Mayor Campbell cut the department’s annual budget last month.”

He pauses, narrowing his eyes at me. I release a breath when he turns off his body camera. “Nearly ten percent,” he gruffs.

Now we’re getting somewhere. “I’m not great at math, but I’m guessing that’s . . . what, about twelve million?”

He looks around as if someone might be watching, then shifts his weight and nods once. “Something like that.”

“That must be frustrating. Sixteen is my lucky number. Will I see you at the fundraising gala in a few weeks?” I smile.

The wheels in his head are turning, but it’s clear he’s conflicted. I wonder if Bryan bribed him to arrest me, and now I’m bribing him not to. Nah, knowing Bryan, he probably threatened and asked for a superior when he made the report of a stolen vehicle. You catch more flies with honey.

I relax my shoulders. “Look, take the car. Impound it. I don’t care. But don’t arrest me, it’s unnecessary. This has been a huge waste of your time due to an angry ex-fiancé, and I apologize that it’s impacted your day. He can have the car. I’m happy to walk away from it. I think we can agree minimizing this traffic stop will be less paperwork for both of us.”

My heart is racing. I cannot get arrested. I will have a mental breakdown on the spot if this guy puts me in cuffs, and that’s probably what Bryan requested. He probably told them I was violent when he reported it stolen. He could have said anything he wanted about me. Thank God my family padded the budget for those new vehicles last year.

He’s studying me. My luck could go either way.

“I promise, I’m not a menace to society.” I give a small chuckle, trying to appear as least threatening as I can, as if to say, “What a gas! Can you believe this silly little mix-up we’ve found ourselves in?”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He opens my door. “The department appreciates your donation, Ms. Landry.”

I grab my purse, and he hands me back my ID.

“I appreciate your discretion.”

“Can I drive you to the bus station?” He offers.

I’m not getting on a bus; I don’t even know how the public transportation system works. I’ll take a rideshare.

“I’ll walk. Do I leave the keys with you?”

“You can leave them in the car.”

“Fabulous.” I throw them on the floor of the vehicle and shut the door, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Have an outstanding rest of your day, officer.” My response is dripping with sarcasm, but he lets me get away with it, and the side of his mouth tips up in a smirk. I’m sure he recognizes I’m having a bad day, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You too, Ms. Landry.” As I hoof it down the sidewalk, I find a bench and sit down. Pulling out my phone, I open the rideshare app. “Wonder if I can get my driver to stop at the liquor store first,” I say to myself.

A text message flashes across the screen.

Bryan: Ready to come home yet?

I pretend I didn’t see it and open the rideshare app to request a car.

Payment declined. What the fuck?

I switch the payment method.

JP Morgan Reserve. Declined.

AmEx Black. Declined.

Did he deactivate my cards? The problem with ultra-wealthy people is we don’t “have” money, because having money costs money. We have assets, liabilities, and commodities. Any transaction is done with an equity line of credit, a loan secured against a financial portfolio. As long as my portfolio returns more than the interest on my credit, everything’s copacetic. The downside of this is rarely having any liquid money or cash.

This is ridiculous. As fast as I can, I open my banking app to check my finances.

Password declined. No. No way. Tears well in my eyes. That’s my money.

“Don’t cry. Not yet. Get back to Cam’s, then you can lose your shit.”

Camden’s phone rings and rings, eventually going to voicemail. He’ll be on the ice all morning. I can’t wait here. It’s not safe. I have no idea what Bryan has up his sleeve, maybe he’s close, waiting to find me alone on this bench. Okay. How do I get back without money? I grab my wallet and check for cash. None, so much for using paper money to get a ride. I’ve got coins . . . four dollars and thirty-seven cents worth. Forgetting to clean out my wallet is about to pay off—literally.

Buses take cash, don’t they? I google how to ride the bus in Minneapolis. Holy hell. This map looks like someone shat out rainbow spaghetti. The lines blur together. Thankfully, there’s a route planner, so I type in Camden’s address. I memorized it. Okay, 540 to 6. 6 to 46C. That will get me to the library, which is the closest I can get for the money in my wallet. After that, I’ll still have to walk five-point-three miles to his house, but I’ll do it. I’ll take every goddamn step, because fuck Bryan Davenport.

He thinks I’ll give up. That I’ll come crawling home because I’ve got my back against the wall. Never. I’ll do it for the sheer pleasure of pissing him off.

“I just need to get back to Cam’s. I can do this. I can do this,” I whisper to myself.

I can’t believe I’m psyching myself up over a bus ride. I push all the other shit out of my mind and focus on solving my first problem: transportation. My eyes check the time. If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss the next bus.

I turn off my phone and hustle to the nearest stop. I’m not giving Bryan the satisfaction of watching my location bounce from bus station to bus station or giving away where I’m staying.

As I arrive, a bus pulls up, right on time, number 540. I almost jump for joy, that’s my bus—and it’s here! Exactly like the internet said it would be. I’m annoyed at my privilege, millions of people do this every day, but right now I don’t care. It’s the first thing that’s gone right for me today, and I’m taking my wins where I can get them.

The driver opens the door and two people get on before me, all of them have these yellow cards. Uh oh, do I need a special card?

“Do you take coins?”

The driver nods.

I grab a handful of quarters and feed them into the slot, someone behind me sighs loudly, irritated I’m holding up the line. I find a seat near the window and pay attention to the number of stops and my location so I know where I need to get off.

Two more buses later, I’m standing at the library. The bus departs, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I find my bearings and remember the map I made in my head.

Now, I have to walk.

In heels.

Over five miles.

I’m not turning my phone back on to try and call Cam. I’m too paranoid. Instead, I let my mind wander. Unfortunately, it’s stuck on one channel, replaying the morning I’ve had. I’m exhausted.

Even though I don’t deserve it, shame clings to me like a gross film on my skin. As if everyone around me can see what a failure I am.

The dam of emotion behind my eyes weakens with each step. This isn’t a nightmare I’ll wake from. This is happening—I let this happen. The tears build in my eyes until they roll down my cheeks.

“You can cry until you reach the next stop sign. Then you’re done.”