“If the classes help one woman better defend herself and feel safer, then the classes are worth it,” Wren says as he pushes himself away from the counter. “And the release paperwork they signed clears us of any and all legal repercussions for how they use their new skills from class.”
“So you’re saying you aren’t going to pull Gayle from the class?” I mutter.
“Who’s the issue now?” Deacon says as he joins us in the breakroom. He yawns, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
“There’s a woman in the class that’s probably going to end up hurting someone,” I explain. “Wren says not to remove her.”
“Leave her alone. We aren’t responsible for what others do. She has her own choices to make.”
“Really?” I thought at least the boss would have a different opinion than Wren and Jude. “She could hurt people.”
“Hurt people or hurt someone who hurt her?”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Okay. I’ll let her stay.”
“If you think she’s going to go on a rampage in public, then that’s a different story. We can pull her and report her to the police. Do you think that?”
“No,” I answer honestly.
Gayle doesn’t seem like the type of person to hurt innocent people, but I also don’t know who she considers worthy of a bullet either.
“There are four types of people I hate most in the world. People who hurt women, people who hurt kids, people who hurt animals, and people who don’t give a courtesy flush when shitting in a public restroom.” Deacon counts them off on his fingers. “As far as I’m concerned, the world is a better place without them.”
“I can agree with most of that,” I tell him.
“Just keep an eye on her. Wren, what’s her medical situation?”
“She’s been hospitalized more than once for injuries. She’s in therapy and has been attending religiously for the last six months. The bots I set up were very specific to only women who were currently out of bad situations and were seeking help, because—”
“Statistically, women still in abusive situations are more likely to be abused even more if their abusers knew they were planning to leave or defend themselves,” I finish.
“We’re doing this to help, not hurt,” Deacon adds.
“I’ve added hotline information on the website for those that are looking to get out. I only chose the ones that are most reputable, and I even contacted them directly to let them know what we’re doing so they can refer those they think would benefit from the classes,” Wren continues. “I just wish there was more that we could do.”
All of us turn contemplative. When Flynn Coleman, our forensics expert who is also a former FBI agent, walks into the room, he takes a look around in confusion but doesn’t say a word. We deal with a lot of heavy stuff, so it’s not unusual to find a group of us in a weird mood.
“I’ll talk with Anna. She has a ton of contacts in the fundraising world. Maybe we can set up a gala or something.”
We all stare open-mouthed at Deacon.
“Who are you and what happened to our boss?” Jude asks.
“A gala? Do you even hear yourself?” I say.
“I bet you’d look great in a tux,” Wren says.
“And we all know you do,” Jude says referring to the time Deacon made Wren step in for him and go to a black-tie event.
“Not me,” Wren says holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t get me wrong, I had fun that night. Dancing with a gorgeous woman and—”
Deacon growls at Wren’s reference to his wife.
“Really?” Wren asks. “That’s what you’re getting upset about? I danced with her in public. Didn’t Flynn snuggle with her on the sofa in a private hotel suite?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Flynn says as he takes a seat on the same sofa as Jude. “We were watching TV. She had her head in my lap.”
“Yeah,” Wren snaps. “Close to your—”
“We don’t talk about that!” Deacon snaps, but there’s no real animosity toward Flynn. The man is his best friend and in a committed relationship. That thought reminds me that I owe him a smack against the head, but now doesn’t seem like the best time.
“Fine,” Wren mutters, but there’s still a sly smile playing on his lips. “Any other women you’re worried about, Quinten.”
I narrow my eyes at him. This motherfucker is always stirring the damn pot.
“Not really.”
“Not even Hayden?”
“What’s going on?” Deacon asks.
“Absolutely nothing,” I respond a little too quickly, sounding guilty when I’ve only had thoughts about the woman. Our interactions have been nothing short of professional. My thoughts on the other hand—
“I would advise against getting personal with anyone in the class,” Deacon says, his eyes focused on me.
“I’m not,” I promise, and I think by just saying so it will help keep my mind off her.
Wren’s phone chirps a text notification, and he immediately pulls it from his pocket.