Page 34 of Unbossly Manners

“What are you smiling at?” Selena asked. “Naughty thoughts about the dick up there?”

My eyes widened into a mock incredulous look and we both chuckled silently. Jackson rolled his eyes at our sophomoric humor, which made us fold over, wracked with more laughter, my hands covering my mouth to contain any sound.

“Let me ask again. Was that consent?” Derrick asked.

“No,” Jackson’s voice boomed and I jumped.

Selena and I recovered, painting serious looks back on our faces.

The projector went dark and the tactical part of the training began. Jackson and I were paired together, and Selena was with Analise.

Derrick explained that most attackers want an easy target. Women needed to be aware of their surroundings and if someone approached them, they put their hands out defensively and told the person to stay where they were. It felt funny but it made sense.

We role-played back and forth several times, switching attacker and target.

We learned a few self-defense moves, like grabbing someone’s windpipe instead of their neck to choke them. It can easily be crushed. And the one that made my blood turn was how easy it is to scoop out someone’s eyeball. I’m not sure I could do that.

“Clutch your partner by the top of their hair.”

“Ready?” Jackson asked.

I nodded and he placed his hand on top of my head and gathered my hair into his hand. I performed the moves I’d just been taught, but as I went for an uppercut in front of his jaw, my toe caught on my long skirt and my palm hit Jackson square in the septum.

He cried out and dropped to his knees, his hands cupping his nose.

“Jackson!” I knelt in front of him, blood dripping between his fingers.

Derrick was beside me with a box of tissues. Jackson held a wad to his nose and leaned forward.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my hand on his back.

He couldn’t speak with all the tissues over his mouth. His eyes were shut as he breathed through the pain.

“There’s an ice pack in the freezer,” Derrick said. “I’ll get it.”

Jackson shifted and the front of his shirt came into view. It was covered in blood.

“Do you have an extra shirt?” I asked, wanting to be useful but feeling helpless.

He nodded, his hand still over his face, unable to talk.

“In your office?”

He nodded again.

I swept his office and found a light blue athletic shirt in the backpack next to his desk.

“Do you have a spare shirt?” Jackson asked, entering his office. He had tissues stuffed in his nostrils and he held the ice pack to his nose.

I glanced down. My cream shirt was splattered with red spots.

“I can change later.” I held out the fresh shirt to Jackson.

He unbuttoned his soiled top and I helped him pull it down his arms, and stuffed it in his bag. There was blood on his chest from where it had seeped through the fabric.

“Wait.” I took tissues from his desk and poured a little water on them from a water bottle.

I walked to him, his warm spicy scent drifting into my senses. Heat snaked through my veins.

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