Page 3 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
And then it hits me.
He’s not here as an instructor—no red SSDC shirt on. So that means he’s here as a boyfriend or a husband and therefore completely off limits.
Damn it.
If he were an instructor, I’d make sure to be in his group so he could grind on me for a bit…and I’m talking the pelvis kind of grind…if I’m being truthful.
He ends his call, and when he goes to put his cell in his pocket, he catches me staring at him, because I’m still stuck on the fact that he’s waiting for his girl.
“Hello.”
God, that voice.
“Hi.” I smile brightly, and I’m sure when I straighten up my tits arch out in reflex.
He notices. I know he does, but what do I care? It’s not like I have a chance with him.
“Are you taking a class?” he asks.
“I’m supposed to.” I shrug and shift on my feet, suddenly nervous when I have no reason to be. “But I’m not sure how much I’ll learn.”
“No?” He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, lips pursed.
“It’s Sunnyville.” His eyes are unrelenting as they bore into mine. “It’s not like we attract the best talent.” He angles his head to the side, mouth ghosting a smile I can’t read, as if he’s questioning if he made the right investment by putting his loved one here. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” He turns to face me, clasped hands hanging in front of his pelvis, and my eyes flicker there for the briefest of moments.
To his hands. To avert my gaze from the intensity in his. Not to blatantly stare at his cock…but of course when I look back up to his eyes and see the lift of his brow and a smile toying at the corners of his mouth, he assumes I was checking out his package.
Lovely.
“I mean”—I look at the crowded gym while my nerves rattle harder. When my nerves rattle my mouth runs, and when my mouth runs, I can’t be held accountable for what I say. “These instructors are all wanna-be cops. They probably never passed the exam to get into the Academy.” His smile grows wider and my lady bits might be tingling as I peg this guy to be one who likes to live a little dangerously. Maybe he’s had a run-in or two with the law and places cops not high on his list of people to invite to dinner.
“Rent-a-cops?” he asks through a part-cough, part chuckle.
“Yeah, those. Either that or they’re the guys who couldn’t pass the psych test and are a little wacky.”
He purses his lips as if he’s measuring my words and when he shakes his head with a laugh, that grin of his widens to epic proportions. “Definitely the psych test.”
“Right? I mean, I get they’re here trying to help women protect themselves, but you’d think they might have a tiny part of them who gets off on the power play aspect of it.” Stop talking, Desi. Your best friend-in-law is a police officer. You know differently. And yet my mouth still runs because he’s cute. “You know…pushing women around. Taking their abuse. It’s probably a turn-on for some of them.”
He nods slowly and surveys the room with a lift of his eyebrows. “That’s what you seriously think?”
A round of applause erupts and echoes throughout the entire room before I get a chance to answer him. I’m forced to step backward when the slew of women who just finished with their session heads to where we are standing near the door.
When the influx of chatty women seemingly excited and high on adrenaline—despite their sweat-dampened hair and flushed cheeks—finally clears the doorway he’s nowhere to be found.
It’s a blanket reminder that he definitely was here to pick up his significant other. Add to that, I just acted like a complete idiot trying to impress a man who I’ll undoubtedly see around town again and cringe when I do.
Since when do I try to impress people?
“The seven o’clock group can head on in,” a man says as he motions to all of us standing against the wall.
All it takes are those words to make my mind shift gears—because if I’m one thing, it’s hard on myself before I move on to the next thing—and coming here is a major step in admitting that what happened scared the shit out of me.
With a roll of my shoulders and a huff of a breath, I step forward with the women beside me. We find seats on the mat as directed and wait for everyone to settle.
The gentleman who summoned us stands with his hands on his hips. His bald head is shinier than Mr. Clean’s, and he has tree trunks for arms. With a clap of his hands in front of him, he begins. “Congratulations, ladies, on taking the first step in taking back your fear. People call me Bear. Yes, it’s odd, but just go with it.” He smiles wide and takes a step forward as three men in SSDC shirts file in behind him. “Some of you are here because you’ve had a scare and need a way to erase that helplessness you were made to feel. Others are here because you saw a movie, a news story—something that made you not want to ever be in the position to be made a victim. So let’s get one thing straight: no one here is a victim. Every single one of you here is strong. And we’re here to show you just how strong you are.”
