Truth Be Told (Blackbridge Security 4)

“Really?” Deacon says to Flynn. “Do you really think Remington doesn’t know you were parked outside of Paddy’s the entire night?”

Flynn narrows his eyes. “Does Anna know you were in the passenger seat?”

Deacon snaps his mouth closed before looking at me.

I hold my hands up. “I knew you guys had it under control. I was at the house with Alex.”

“What are we arguing about?” Quinten asks as he walks into the room, his huge hand swiping down his long, dark beard.

He’s the only one with pep this morning and I hate how much of a morning person he always is. I know this guy would still have just as much energy if he was like the rest of us and didn’t get a wink of sleep.

“Obsessive men,” I say, feeling like a rock star but wondering if Wren is going to speak up and explain that we texted a hundred times last night as he gave me updates on the girls.

“Wren was telling me that he didn’t get to the list I needed,” Deacon adds.

“So that means we can wait for Kit to get back?”

“No. Wren’s going to get that list to me today. We won’t be delaying the new program.”

“Kit is the weapons expert,” Quinten hedges. “Maybe waiting would be best.”

Deacon narrows his eyes. Wren is normally the troublemaker in the group. Flynn balked and argued about being sent to New York a while back, but he came home in love. Quinten never argues about a job.

“What’s going on?” I ask, somehow out of the loop.

“Oh!” Wren yelps, the excitement enough to breathe a little life into his exhausted body. “Let me show you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Quinten hisses, shoving past Wren as he pulls out his phone and begins swiping. “I haven’t gotten around to compiling the list, but I do have the graphics already up on the website.”

Deacon’s lips twitch as Wren turns his phone around for me to see.

“Really?” I look up from the phone to stare at my boss.

He’s normally so serious, but I know Anna is changing things for him. I just never thought he’d go to this extreme.

“Hashtag Blackbridge Special?”

Flynn snorts. He knows exactly where that damn viral tag came from. Remington just happens to be the daughter of a very famous TV-series couple. Her parents are awful, but their relationship was splattered all over the country, hitting the front page of gossip magazines more than once. When people found out he was hired as her babysitter/bodyguard, women came out of the woodwork wanting to work with Blackbridge. They didn’t need real help, and they were clogging up the time it took for Deacon to go through real requests.

“Is that you?” I ask, turning to face Quinten. “This is gold.”

Right on the front page of our website is a picture of Quinten, his huge stature looking a little mean and way too serious. His bulging arms, covered in tattoos, draw my eye.

“Did you touch up his tats?” I ask Wren.

“I added a little color,” Wren says with the hitch of one shoulder. “Figured it would draw more women in.”

Quinten grumbles.

“Are we an escort service or something now?”

Deacon shakes his head. “Keep reading, asshole.”

I scroll and scroll through numerous pictures of all of us, narrowing my eyes at the liberties Wren took in touching up my own picture. “My eyes aren’t green.”

“But how hot would you be if they were?” His eyebrows waggle.

“Fucker. There’s nothing on here explaining what this shit is for.” I hand the phone back to him.

“Wren,” Deacon snaps, a warning in his voice. “I told you to make it professional.”

“Look.” Wren moves his fingers, expanding the screen where down at the very bottom of the page, only visible by zooming in does it say…

Learn how to shoot with a Blackbridge hottie.

“Nope.” Deacon shakes his head. “No fucking way. This isn’t what we discussed.”

“We already have over three hundred women signed up,” Wren argues.

“What?” Quinten snaps. “There are only seven fucking lanes at the gun range. I can’t possibly teach that many people.”

“Horny women, you mean,” Flynn adds with a cough behind his hand to hide a laugh.

“Wren—”

“It’s not all horny women! You said you wanted to help the community by teaching women to protect themselves. I’m doing that.”

“By having three hundred women show up?” I chuckle. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“It’s an interest form, dick, not a free-for-all. I figured—”

“Wren,” Deacon warns again already guessing Wren’s plans.

“If you want to help. This is the best way to do it. I’m able to track those that complete the form. I have a bot set up to flag the ones that need the help the most.”

“Because they’re hornier?” Quinten hisses. “Are you tracking like lube and vibrator purchases on Amazon?”

Wren hisses and since he’s normally the jokester, the one giving us the most shit, we all pay attention.