"Thank you. I don't know what happened. The van came out of nowhere." My light was definitely green. I'm sure of it.The older man shakes his head. "It's not your fault. He was trying to beat the light but missed. Never even put on his brakes. I think he sped up, the bastard."Fifteen minutes later I sit in the back of an ambulance as one paramedic finishes checking my blood pressure for the second time."Your blood pressure is good even though you saw a bit of action today. Huh?" he asks with a smile, trying to diffuse the stressful situation, but it doesn't help.I only nod, watching as people pick up the pieces of my precious baby from the middle of the road and casually toss them onto the curb where they land in the grass. It's a murder scene with none of the blood."Your airbag didn't deploy. You're going to be okay, but if you'd want, we can take you to the hospital.""No, that's okay. Do you think I can drive my car home?"He presses his lips together. "I heard the
I stumble on the first step going down the staircase of the apartment building."Fucking eh."All I need to complete my Monday morning is a montage with The Bangles singing "Manic Monday" as I take my first steps down the sidewalk.Manic isn't the way to describe it. I don't have a thesaurus handy, but as I storm off toward the looming skyscraper a few blocks away, the words that come to mind are bad, horrible, the worst, tragic.I'd woken up late and jumped in the shower, but there wasn't enough time to blow dry my hair so it hangs wet behind me. My heels clatter on the sidewalk, my feet already hurting, but I left my sneakers at work on Friday and didn't have another pair other than a big bulking pair of rain boots that would look even more out of place walking the four blocks than three-inch Payless knock-off Manolos.A grate takes up half the sidewalk in front of me, one I walk over every day and never have a problem, but at the exact moment I'm about to pass over it, a b
EVEN NOW ANGER over our conversation makes my footsteps heavy, each one falling to the concrete with my broken heel. But if I'm being honest, I am more pissed at myself than I am at Vincent. I like him too much. I excuse too many of his actions. I let the jerk of a boss into my heart and the only one hurt by it is me.Now that I am no longer in his home or curious about what we need to discuss, I've found other things to contemplate. Half of me worries his idea of discussing it later will include him trying to work out a demented arrangement between him, me, and his wife. Something I'll never agree to, not in a million years.It doesn't matter how often I remind myself Vincent is a cheating asshole. No matter what I say inside my head, a little voice is always waiting to argue with me—one that says to hold on and wait it out. See what he has to say. For whatever ridiculous reason I trust him. After everything I still want to believe.I want to blame it on hitting my head in the a
Vincent's swallows, looking at whatever meat sits between his two pieces of bread. "Another peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, I assume?"I smirk. He has no idea of the adventure that's waiting for him in his next lunch. "No, Jock bought strawberry jam this week, and I told him you loved it with bananas."His pinched face displays disgust at my suggestion and I keep my excitement hidden. I so got him. Then my mistake hits me. I've played my cards too soon. Now Vincent knows my plan and he can get his own lunch again tomorrow rather than eat strawberry jam and bananas.Damn it.Although would he really get his own food two days in a row? Isn't that beneath him? He probably made the law secretary get it for him today.Vincent stalks toward me, the sandwich held in his hand, but he stops a foot away. For whatever reason I find it disappointing."Your games were funny last week, but I need an actual assistant. Someone who will do the work I hired her to do around here."
Just when I think I've finally gained the upper hand in a situation, Vincent throws me for a loop. "A trip? Where? How long?" I leave out the part of demanding to know if we'd be driving. Puking on Vincent Valiant could be the highlight of my week.He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Pack enough for three days.""Three days where?" There's a big fucking difference between attire for Alaska versus Florida.Vincent turns and walks back to the elevator, leaving me alone in the garage without answering my question. Ugh. How did getting a car turn into me mad at him? ...WE WALK across the airstrip together as the pilot lowers a set of short steps from a small plane at the Lansing Capital City Airport. A light drizzle falls on the area mimicking my mood. A full day later and Vincent hasn't told me where we're going, even though he eyed my enormous suitcase skeptically as Davis put in the car on the way to the airport this morning.Screw him and his judgment over my
The problem stems from me liking it too much. It's normal, nice, almost cozy. I could relax here and I fit. I could be a part of his world. It's a dangerous place to fall because as he's reminded me, I don't fit in with Vincent and I'll never be part of his life."It's quaint."He raises an eyebrow at my backhanded compliment and passes by me, throwing his jacket over one of the work chairs. He drops his laptop on a bench seat behind the work table. Of course he came prepared to do maximum work on this trip.Unbeknownst to him, so did I. Kind of. In my own way."And no."Huh? "And no what?" I ask, looking at him from my spot in the middle of the plane."I know how you hate when I don't answer your questions so, no, we're not taking this to our destination.""Then where are we going?" How do we not take a plane to a destination? Does he plan to circle the city for a few hours and then land again?"We'll take this to DC to meet our connection."I follow him to the back
"Oh, Mackenzie," he says in the drool-worthy way that spikes my anticipation and makes me excited for what he'll say next."Yes?""Our plane in DC is a charter too. I hate walking through airports."I grip the armrest hard, thinking of all the mean things I want to say. Call him an arrogant asshole, stomp my foot, but I've tried those reactions before and they never worked on Vincent. It's time to try a new tactic."Think of your carbon footprint." Him jetting around the country the way he does in one chartered flight to the next. His CO2 output must be astronomical.He chuckles, only to himself. "If you ask nicely, I'll tell."Now this is going too far. "No."I won't ask again on principle alone. It doesn't matter where we were going because I have enough clothes for every situation. Weeks could pass before I need to even visit a laundromat. He can take his destination and shove it. No way will I beg.I may be curious, but I refuse to let it weaken me in this tug-of-wa
Paris is like an ongoing perfume sample. Everything smells…good. Even the alleyways. In Lansing you'd find a lurking pee odor, which sticks in your nose for at least three blocks. No, Paris's scent is subtle. I pick up hints of freshness here and there as we walk the streets. It's like visiting the mall and ebbing close to the perfume counter occasionally. Even in the crowded city streets where bodies crush together, and in other places where a hint of body odor usually hangs in the air, it is roses and jasmine.Or it'd let visiting my favorite city in the world go to my head.No, Paris definitely smelled amazing.It's easy to spot the tourists from the locals, the latter dressed in black and oozing sophistication. So many people, their arms and legs knocking into one another as they crowd the streets, look as if they are one ocean, a wave of people sailing down the sidewalk in the breeze.After exiting Vincent's private plane, which I wasted no time reminding him put out more