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  Hensley University’s enrollment consisted of over 6,000 undergrads, to whom they were obligated to provide a safe environment, conducive to learning. In response to the attacks, Hensley significantly increased security and pledged cooperation with the police task force. Hensley was harshly criticized for their passive response after each incident. In the last year, 37 percent of the female students had transferred due to parental concern, and new student enrollment was down 68 percent. Understandably, Hensley was desperate, needing the violence to cease and the panic to recede. The self-defense seminar was their latest attempt to appease concerned students and parents, and mitigate the current public relations nightmare. Specifically developed for Hensley, the seminar was supposed to ensure our safety, or at least foster that illusion.

  Suddenly, I was tackled to the floor under Sam’s dead weight.

  “Ha! You totally need this class,” she smirked, “you didn’t even see me coming! Didn’t even protect yourself.”

  “Come on ninja girl,” I rolled the petite body off me and onto the floor, “let’s get this over with.”

  “There’s the enthusiasm I was looking for,” she deadpanned while rising from her prone position.

  Sam headed to the door until I called out, “Wait a minute.” I scampered into the kitchen and grabbed the travel mug from the dishwasher, filling it with the remains of the pot.

  “Okay, now I’m really ready to go.”

  Snatching my purse from the kitchen table, I headed for the door. Sam eyed the coffee in my hands dubiously.

  “If you wet yourself when I take you down because of your excessive coffee consumption, you will regret it,” Sam warned.

  I pretended to ponder for a moment. “I hadn’t considered that method of self-defense…it has potential.”

  We walked to my blue “hand-me-down” Honda with the rising sun at our backs. I opened my door and tugged the purse from my shoulder to my lap, rummaging for the keys.

  “Do you ever lock your car doors?” Sam commented disapprovingly.

  “Not all of us drive a Mercedes, Sam,” I sniped, “who would want to steal Papa Smurf? He’s a twelve year old no-frills Accord,” I asked after locating the keys in the black hole I called a purse. “Got’ em!” I shouted triumphantly.

  Within five minutes of leaving our apartment we arrived at the athletic complex and entered Studio A. Fifteen unfamiliar girls sat on the thick floor mat looking as apprehensive as I felt. Sam and I quickly joined them after depositing our personal items to the side.

  At the front of the room was an attractive woman in tight workout attire, which intentionally displayed her ample assets. Her shiny brunette hair was atop her head in a high ponytail, and she was wearing full supermodel makeup.

  I rolled my eyes while muttering, “Are we recording an exercise video? Did I miss the memo?”

  Sam laughed while she studied our specimen her further.

  “Is she wearing fake lashes? They match her fake—” she trailed off as the buxom brunette eyed the doorway behind us and purred, “Hunter, you’re here.”

  I turned to the door along with everyone else and froze. The man who entered was arresting, breathtaking. He appeared to be mid-twenties, at least six feet two with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, creating the idyllic masculine V-figure. He wore a fitted black tee that hinted at a patchwork of muscles hidden beneath. I forced my reluctant eyes to his face, the sight I encountered compelled me to whisper, “My, oh my…it just keeps getting better. Damn.”

  His defined bone structure was deliberate, but not sharp, with a squared jaw and prominent cheekbones. Shaggy ebony hair, slightly longer in front, framed his face and contrasted his bottomless aquamarine eyes in such a way they seemed to radiate light from within. His jaw was dusted with dark stubble that called attention to his lips, which were wide and appeared alluringly strong yet soft. Those same lips were currently raised on one side in a knowing smirk. I watched as he walked, his gait confident and fluid, the stride of a man who knew his effect on the occupants of the room. I subtly attempted to track his journey; as he passed me I was rewarded with an unhindered view of his brawny back and muscular butt, beautifully showcased and begging to be bitten. He was the human equivalent of a perfect piece of fruit featured on a magazine cover—impossibly succulent, such perfection couldn’t be real. The difference in this case being a picture could be doctored until it no longer resembled the original, but merely an idealized representation. He was no altered ideal—he was authentic sex incarnate.

  I snapped back to reality when he reached the Jane Fonda fitness model wannabe. She raised her arm to stroke his cheek, murmuring, “No chance to shave this morning?” She made her approval obvious as her hand lingered longer than was appropriate.

  “Thanks Crystal,” he replied neutrally while stepping back, increasing the space between them. He was neither discouraging nor encouraging her blatant advances, accepting her actions as par for the course. Directing his attention outward, he addressed the group.

  “Are we ready to begin?” Of course his voice was as sexy as his body, a rich, deep baritone, reverberating through the air seductively. Double damn.

  The command his voice wielded over my body was disconcerting, tingles danced across my skin in response. Was he a cyborg of masculine perfection created to test the restraint of earthly women? It seemed a viable explanation for my responsiveness. I licked my suddenly dry lips.

  Fighting my alarmingly wicked thoughts about this man, I shifted my gaze to observe the condition of my classmates. Evidently, every female in the room was as mesmerized by him as I was. Faces ranged from slightly flushed to carnal red, most still gawking wantonly. Turning to Sam, keen to assess his effect, I found her mouth agape, eyes still locked on the eye candy. I nudged her to break the trance, causing her to shake her head several times as if dispersing the fog.

  Chuckling softly I teased, “You okay, Sam? I think you may have swallowed a fly.”

  Sam’s eyes regained focus and snapped to me.

  “Don’t even pretend you don’t see that prime cut of meat. I’m quitting food and becoming a manivore,” Sam smacked her lips to emphasize her point. “In fact, when I’m forty with three screaming kids it will be him I visualize when I close my eyes to pretend I want to have sex with my husband, instead of getting the sleep I would prefer.” Sam rubbed her hands together wickedly like a villain from the silent movie era, enjoying her evil plan.

  “Wow, way too much information. Please, don’t think you need to filter your thoughts to spare my mental health. Just go ahead and pollute my mind with your carnal daydreams. I’m sure I will scrub that image from my brain in another ten years or so.” I tilted my head to the side, banging my hand on top as if trying to knock loose the image she painted.

  Sam rolled her eyes at my theatrics. “Whatever. Even you can’t deny that man is a god.”

  “True,” I conceded, “but I’m pretty sure I saw Miss Abs-of-Steel peeing on him to mark her territory. I’m afraid if we don’t take the hint she may start humping his leg and that is a horror I would never forget, so try to control yourself.”

  Getting a laugh from Sam cleared the lustful haze that had lingered about her.

  “Alright everyone, let’s get started. My name is Hunter Charles, and I’m honored to be your instructor for the next six weeks. I have been studying martial arts for twenty years, and I hold varying degrees of black belts in Karate, Aikido, Tae Kwon Do, Krav Maga, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Since this is not a formal study of martial arts, please feel free to address me as Hunter instead of Sensei.”

  He sidestepped and gestured to Exercise Barbie. “With me is Crystal Duvall, she is the liaison between the Suffolk County Police Department and Hensley University.”

  “Hello ladies, I’m happy to be here with Hunter to teach you how to protect yourselves.” Crystal placed her hand on Hunter’s lower back as she spoke, clearly trying to reiterate her claim of him.

  Hunter steppe
d forward slightly, dislodging her hand, and addressed us again.

  “Crystal will spend the first thirty minutes of each session outlining safety awareness and prevention strategies. The remaining sixty minutes I will instruct you in physical defense techniques. You’re all to be congratulated on taking the initiative to participate in the seminar. It’s the first step in protecting yourselves and, by doing so, you have substantially increased your odds of avoiding or escaping an attack.” Hunter then stepped aside allowing Crystal to take control without his distracting presence.

  “Can anyone tell me what your best weapon is in preventing an attack?” Crystal looked around the room as people called out answers.

  “A gun.” “Mace.” “A Taser.”

  Crystal shook her head. “Those are all tools you can use to protect yourself during an attack, but they will not prevent an attack. Any other guesses?”

  No one said anything. Crystal continued to stare at us, unwilling to give us the correct answer. I groaned inwardly.

  In the interest of expediting the lecture, I answered, “Our mind or intuition?”

  Crystal nodded her approval, “Exactly. Your brain and your gut are your best weapons to prevent an attack. Be aware of your surroundings, think about safety measures, and assess the risks you’re taking. Your gut is your intuition or sixth sense. It’s imperative that you listen to it; if something feels wrong, don’t ignore that feeling. We all have innate self-preservation instincts, and we need to heed to them.

  Here are a few general safety points to remember—always be alert to your surroundings. At night, walk in well-lit, heavily traveled areas. Use the campus escort security service or walk with a friend. Be cautious of strangers who approach you trying to engage in conversations. Never hitchhike or accept a ride from someone you don’t know. In regards to your home and car—always lock your doors even when you’re home or in the car. Make sure your cell phone is always nearby and accessible.”

  Crystal paused to assess our attentiveness. “Don’t worry; you will receive a packet at the end of each class that includes the information presented.” She gentled, “You must be scared, that’s why you’re here. Fear is a potent protector and will help you remain vigilant.” Crystal hardened her tone, “And most crucial, do not impair your awareness by using alcohol in excess or taking any sort of drugs. If you’re going to imbibe, make sure you’re with friends you trust and stick together, no matter what. Just like you should have a designated driver when drinking, you should have a designated sober friend to remain aware and ensure the safety of your group.”

  I quickly caught Sam’s eye.

  “Well there go my plans for picking up random hitchhikers this weekend. Newsflash—I have appointed you the ‘sober friend.’ I’ll order your tee shirt as soon as I get home…or perhaps an embroidered sash would better highlight your status.”

  Sam struggled to contain her laughter.

  When I returned my attention to the front, Hunter’s arctic glare pierced me, “Are you finished now Miss—”

  “Ev,” I blushed, caught being my usual snarky self.

  “Ev?” he questioned in return as if my answer was incorrect.

  “Everleigh,” I replied dispassionately. He continued to stare at me as if I was a suspect withholding information. I sighed my displeasure, “Everleigh Carsen.”

  “Are you finished interrupting the seminar now Miss Carsen, or shall we plan to be inconvenienced further?” he scolded as if I was an errant child.

  “I do believe I’m finished,” I responded tartly, burning with anger at his reprimand. As he redirected his attention to the rest of the class, I couldn’t help but add, “For now at least.”

  His captivating eyes shot back to me and turned glacial with his anger.

  “Miss Carsen, everyone is here of their own free will and at no expense to themselves. Most are here because they are justly afraid for their safety. You are belittling their concerns, diminishing the seriousness of the threat, and minimizing the suffering of the victims with your flippancy.”

  I stared at him open mouthed, for once, rendered speechless.

  “You’re wasting my time, Crystal’s, as well everyone else present. I believe this would be an appropriate time for you to leave,” he ordered firmly with no room for negotiation.

  “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I began, stuttering in my shock, but he cut me off.

  “I thank you for your apology, presuming it’s sincere. You may return next week, provided you join us with the intent of learning, participating, and extending everyone in this room the respect they deserve.” He turned away from me dismissively. I had been deemed unworthy of further consideration.

  Mortified and disoriented by what transpired, I rose from my seated position and collected my belongings before silently exiting without a backward glance. In the hallway, I struggled with my coat and haphazardly wrapped my scarf around my neck. As I opened the front door the wind stung my eyes, exacerbating the tears that were fighting to escape. I stomped to the car, jumped in, and slammed the door. Tears prickled the back of my eyes and a telltale itch began in my nostrils.

  Damn it! I was not going to cry. I never cry, not since my mom died and I learned what true pain was. I would not give some pompous, condescending muscle-head that type of power over me. My humiliation before fellow students and the Sports Illustrated swimsuit imposter was no excuse for tears.

  How dare he? Who does he think he is? My righteous indignation swept aside my momentary weakness. I inhaled deeply, held it, and exhaled slowly, attempting to calm my rage. I would never intentionally disrespect the victims; my heart ached for what they had survived. If I met any of them personally, I would have been the first to offer support during their recovery. Yes, I’m extra snarky when I’m afraid, a common coping mechanism. Who wouldn’t be scared living in the danger enveloping Hensley?

  I had considered transferring during winter break, what sane person wouldn’t? After exploring the possibility, I found I would be required to repeat some courses to earn sufficient credits to graduate and my graduation would be delayed by at least a year. I weighed the risks of remaining against the loss of a year, torn. When it became clear I would not be able to obtain comparable scholarships and grants on such short notice, I put the matter to rest.

  Perhaps Mr. High and Mighty decided to single me out because I was slightly heckling his girlfriend, how gallant of him. Okay, I may have outright mocked Ms. Silicone, but I limited my commentary to Sam’s ears while he harpooned me before an audience.

  I grabbed my iPod; music would be required to exorcise my anger. As if by magic, the first song to pour from my speakers was “Sweet As Hole” by Sara Bareilles, or as many fans refer to it—“That Guy’s An Asshole.” I smiled at its timeliness; I swore there was a genie that lived in my iPod. Provided I instilled my trust in her infinite wisdom, demonstrated by selecting random shuffle, the mystical imp saw fit to grace me with the perfect song when I needed it most. Grateful, I sung along, relishing the lyrics, shouting the final lines of the chorus like a mad woman.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  “One of the greatest victories you can gain over someone is to beat him at politeness.” -Josh Billings

  I arrived home and proceeded to make a pot of coffee, finding solace in my drug of choice. Feeling more like myself, I headed to the bathroom to restart the day.

  Once showered, I applied make-up while examining my reflection. An oval face with blue-green almond shaped eyes, slightly upturned nose, and full lips greeted me. No one part was exceptional, but the effect of the whole was pleasing. I had been called pretty or cute most of my life—except when I glam-up on special occasions—then I was elevated to “beautiful” status. While beautiful was an appealing compliment, it also required far more effort than I was willing to invest on a daily basis. I had learned to be content with cute and pretty in recent years.

  Needing comfort after my trying morning, I selected my ne
w dark wash skinny jeans before sneaking into Sam’s room to steal her cream Merino wool sweater; it was chunky, soft, and warm, just what I required. It was a rarity I could borrow Sam’s clothing as she was five feet one and slender, compared to my five feet seven hourglass figure. I returned to my room and zipped my knee-high brown leather boots. I loved these boots—if an equestrian and a motorcycle boot had a baby, these would be their chic offspring.

  Discovering it was already 9:40, I hustled to make my 10:00 class. With luck, I found a spot in the metered lot near my destination. Happy with the pleasant turn my day had taken, I smiled as I headed to class, stopping to obtain yet another coffee from the cart inside.

  Thankfully this would be a small class of thirty students at most. The benefit of being an upperclassman was most of the advanced courses were intimate when compared to introductory level courses that often exceeded one thousand students.

  I selected a seat in front, learning long ago that all professors granted higher marks for class participation to those seated in the front row. The drawback to this ploy was you could never be late or skip class without notice.

  Placing the coffee on my desk, I pulled my laptop from my oversized purse. After booting up my precious—yes, that sounded like voice of Smeagol from the Lord of the Rings in my head—my desk was jarred as someone settled in behind me. Receiving no apology, I was prepared to scold the ill-mannered culprit, but Dr. Forster entered the room, derailing my reprimand.

  “Good morning future corporate giants. It’s a pleasure to see so many familiar faces. Welcome to Business Strategy.”

  As Dr. Forster distributed the syllabus, he briefly recounted the course description. Following his first lecture of the semester, he thanked us for our attention and kindly dismissed us twenty minutes early—I loved when professors wrapped early the first day. The sound of students preparing to depart echoed behind me until the professor spoke.