Page 27 of Protecting Christina

“That only men drive trucks like mine.”

Shit. That did sound terrible. But I shrugged. “It’s usually men who need to overcompensate with big trucks to make up for their small—”

“I can assure you that’s not the case.”

I wanted to give him a snarky reply, but my eyes instinctively dropped to the bulge in his pants and I immediately drew them back up.

I would not allow myself to guess his size. That was sexist and childish. And I was neither of those things.

My car beeped when I pressed the button to unlock it. “Get in,” I ordered.

Although it was a sports car, it had four doors, but the inside was definitely smaller than his truck. His head brushed against the roof of my car even though he sunk lower into his seat, and his knees pressed up against my dashboard. He could have moved the seat back, but he didn’t complain, just crossed his arms over his chest. Probably because there wasn’t a lot of room at his side, either.

I grinned a little, knowing he was a tad uncomfortable. Served him right for calling me out on my comment. I needed an excuse to drive my car, and that was the best I could come up with.

It was pitiful at best. Sexist at worst.

This man had me overheating and making ridiculous comments. I couldn’t wait for this meeting to be over.

He interrupted my rant. “Take this road to the freeway and then get off at the second exit.” He held the open folder in his hand.

I pulled out of the parking lot and followed his directions without any argument. Despite having to concentrate on the road, my gaze kept drifting to my right.

Will looked out the window with his arms still crossed. The man confounded me and there was nothing I liked better than deciphering a complex situation. It was why I’d gotten into law. That and wanting to put assholes away.

“So, when did you start working with Gabby?” I asked nonchalantly.

“About three years ago.”

“Mmm…” That was longer than just a passing whim, but I wondered what motivated him. I immediately thought of Donna. “Was your sister in an abusive situation?” I ventured.

“I don’t have a sister. I’m an only child.”

“Lucky you,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

I said no more as I merged onto the freeway. Then added, “So, why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Help these women?”

He shuffled his body in his seat, looking as though he were trying to get more comfortable. “Because someone has to.”

It wasn’t much of an answer. It didn’t reveal much about his psyche other than confirming he had a bit of a hero complex. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad trait in this situation. I just didn’t like it when he tried to apply it to me and my life.

“Why do you do it?”

Without missing a beat, I answered, “Because no one else wants to.”

I discovered this truth when I approached my law office about getting more attorneys on board with situations like this. I was told the firm already had fulfilled its pro bono obligations for the year and wasn’t looking to take on more. As though these women were just a quota to fill.

After exiting the highway, Faye’s home was only a few streets away. The neighborhood looked well-off with expensive cars parked along several driveways. Everyone’s yard looked professionally landscaped and no one’s front door needed a fresh coat of paint.

I used to think that rich people didn’t have problems that money couldn’t solve. But I learned quickly that money didn’t buy you decency.

---