The Valiant Trilogy

Chapter 8: Competition

"Coffee." Now is not the time to draw attention to myself. Hell there is never a time to draw attention to myself while working with Vincent, but this is an extra bad time.

He nods his head in agreement and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I throw away his trash after steadying the plastic fork on top of the large desk calendar and then see my way back out of his office.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. I find my email program and check it continuously, but besides the three intro emails from human resources asking me to fill out paperwork and a short curt email from Valiant stating his lunch order—he wanted a sub from Jimmy John's, a shop downtown—nothing else comes my way. At 5 o'clock on the dot he exits his office, re-buttoning his suit jacket. The muscles in his arms flex underneath it as he wiggles his shoulders to get it over top.

"You can go, Ms. Marshal. I'll see you tomorrow. Be here at eight and check your email this time."

I nod. "Yes, Mr. Valiant." Jerk face.

How can someone so freaking hot have the worst attitude of any man I've ever met? And that includes my ex.

I wait until he's left the office and the elevator must be on its way the two floors up to his penthouse before I pack up my belongings and leave the building. I survived. Mostly.

At this point in life I have to count my small victories. Surviving another day with Vincent definitely counts as a victory.

Out front the black town car and the same driver from this morning wait at the curb. I'd forgotten about how I planned to get home this afternoon with the lack of busyness today.

"Ms. Marshal," the driver says opening the back door.

"Thank you," I reply, getting into position and buckling my seatbelt. Is it weird that I don't question him being here this time? It's not like I have another way if he wasn't, but I accepted the weird practice rather quickly. Let's call it another piece of my survival tactic.

"Will we be doing this tomorrow?" I ask, once he's in his seat and driving.

He shrugs. "I guess we'll both find out tomorrow."

Pft. I guess so. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name this morning," I say a little embarrassed that in my flustered movements of this morning I didn't stop and ask. That's not like me. I'm not one of those stuck up women who expects a nameless man to drive me everywhere.

"Davis, ma'am."

"Well, Davis, it's nice to meet you. Does Mr. Valiant need a driver often?" I ask because the man lives above his building. How much driving does he do? I don't expect having a driver is a common occurrence in Michigan, the land of automobiles.

Davis doesn't answer. He just smiles in the mirror and keeps driving. When we reach my apartment building, an array of cars is waiting to turn, and we get locked up in traffic. It's one downfall of living on the busiest street in the county. The complex shares the space with two other apartment buildings and a school along with being the major way for people on this side of town to get to the university.

"Just let me out here. I can walk back to my building." We're only one building off the road. It won't be a horrible walk even if my feet hurt from my power shoes. I'll get to my place quicker if I walk and I want to have my feet up and relaxing within the next thirty minutes.

Davis thinks for a second. "Mr. Valiant wouldn't be happy about that," he says but then he checks his watch as if he doesn't trust the time displayed on the radio. Knowing Vincent they're probably exact to the second.

"Mr. Valiant will never know." I open the back door and jump out before Davis can stop me. Time to escape. For a second I almost expect him to leave the car and come after me, but he shakes his head and watches me make my way to my apartment building. The fresh air will clear my head.

What boss has a driver bring his assistant to and from work but then barks at her all day? Is it possible he knows what a tyrant he is, and he's trying to make up for the behavior I will endure as his assistant? That sounds like a nice believable answer, but in reality it never works out that way. Vincent is just an asshole. Plain and simple.

I turn the corner getting closer to our building and hear a woman scream. As much as I appreciate Ashley's boyfriend for getting us this town house, I'm ready to move. More catfights happen in this place than a prison. The police are here more often too.

A second voice adds to the fray—one that sounds suspiciously like Ashley. I increase my steps as I reach our private entrance and stop in my tracks.

A brunette, her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head, stands in front of our doorway, naked except for a bed sheet wrapped around her and dragging behind as she screams at my best friend standing in the doorway.

What in the f**k is going on here? Who is the brunette? Why are she and Ashley standing off in the yard?

"It's not my fault he doesn't love the taste of your cunt," the almost naked woman yells.

And that's all it takes.

Ashley lunges and takes off at a run for the sheet-covered woman, tackling her to the ground. There's no thud, but I swear the ground shakes with the impact.