by Marata Eros
“Fuck!” he hollers. “I hate those.”
Wring smirks. “So stop giving our boy Trainer grief, and I won't be inclined to impart brain dusters.”
“He's going to learn how to read,” Storm says with a smugness I want to wipe off his face with my fist.
Wring gives him a narrow glance. “Maybe people that wish to improve themselves are braver than those who want to make fun of them.”
I blink at Wring.
And with that, he walks away, whistling tunelessly. He whips out a switchblade and cleans his nails as he walks.
Storm's neck grows ruddy, and he turns to me. “I guess I was an asshole.”
I don't miss a beat. “Yup.”
“Didn't mean nothinʼ. I know it took you a million years to patch in and you did all kinds of stupid, gross shit.”
“Yup.”
“Fuck.” He rasps a palm over his kinky hair. “Sorry. A couple of weeks ago, we were both prospects with the shit detail. Now you're patched in. Trying to make the transition is all.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, for a quiet fucker, you sure say a lot.”
My lips curl.
Storm huffs, walking away.
A sweet butt comes up to me, showing me what she’s got. Crystal is her name. A month ago, she wouldn't give me a glance because I wasn't real. I was just a prospect.
Now I'm really fucking real. Earned this spot. Hardcore.
“Hey,” she says.
Just looking at her makes my dick stiff. She's a perfect woman, but like Noose says, she’s conniving as fuck. I don't really know what conniving means exactly, but think it means she might lie and hurt everybody to get what she wants. Hard to remember that when the acres of smooth skin and smoldering hiked tits are packed against my chest.
I swallow.
Then she says the perfect thing for me to walk away.
“The other girls say you have a huge dick. I want to be split.” She winks.
I sorta cringe back. Every sweet butt I have sex with, I love. Just for that time, in those moments. I don't hold nothinʼ back. Not one thing.
To know they talk about me like I’m just a cock, with no man attached, breaks me down some.
Feels raw.
“Not interested,” I say quietly and disentangle myself from her clinging.
“What the fuck?” she says, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Is it because I wouldn't bang you before you patched in?”
Kinda, but if she wouldn't talk and say that shit, it might've happened. Everything she says is like a small weapon of words. Why don't people understand words can cause wounds too. Like they're not plugged into life or somethinʼ. Hell, I'm a dude, and that shit bothers me.
Only from women, though. Men, I couldn’t give a fuck about.
Except Judge. He means more to me than he should. My eyes tear around the club before landing on the church door. For a year and a half, I've listened and participated in all kinds of things.
A small seed of happiness burrows into my chest like a worm, seeking its target.
The heart.
Crystal rants behind me, but I ignore her. I got church. The brothers are waiting.
The only real family I got.
*
Viper sits quietly in his chair, looking us over, like a king over his subjects.
Storm's late and comes in like a dog with his tail tucked.
Wring gives him a slanted stare, and he looks away from those incinerating-blue eyes.
I love the way the brothers take an insult to me like an insult to them personally. Even though they were hard on me, I could feel the training, the concern, and the shaping of who they wanted me to be.
Probably why my road name is Trainer.
Over and over again, they said I needed extra training. When they patched me in, they said I was all done. That I could train others now.
Trainer.
Stuck to me like glue. Like it better than Brett anyway.
“So we've got the gun running out of the way, though there's Bloods trying to reclaim their leader's territory.”
“Always,” Noose says, flicking the hard-boxtop cigarette lid over and back, over and back.
Noose would rather be outside blowing smoke rings than sitting still in church. This, I know.
Viper's pool-water eyes move to me. And I'm reminded that his eyes are the lightest blue I've ever seen. Just like mine are the lightest green I've ever seen. Kinda weird twindom.
“You're going to a school so you present well for a possible trial?”
I nod.
Storm opens his mouth, and Wring raises the switchblade from the nails he’s been cleaning restlessly. Without even looking up, he says, “Don't.”
Storm's mouth snaps shut, but Lariat and Noose give him a speculative stare.
“Shit,” he mutters, running a nervous palm over his head.
Viper ignores them all and continues to stare at me.
“Don't want to, but Judge said it'd be ʻprudent.ʼ” I almost slap my hand over my mouth. I don't know where that word came from.
Snare whistles, sending me a wink. “Love the four-dollar word, Trainer.”
I don't look at them, but I feel heat on my face. Don't know whether I'm proud or embarrassed.
I look at Viper instead. He seems safe.
“Good. Whatever he says. We won't drag our mouthpiece into this until we must. Al has plenty of Road Kill shit to manage without a little bit of trouble over a bar thing.”
“It's not a little bit,” I confess, and all eyes shift to me.
Noose doesn't look interested. That's when I figure he knows, but I gotta be sure. “You know?”
He nods.
“What the fuck is going on?” Viper says.For a moment, I feel sorry for him. He's always putting out fires, as Lariat says.
“I bashed this guy's head in with my mom's ashtray when I was seventeen.”
Silence can be loud.
Like now.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Viper says, running a palm over his face a couple of times, then he turns to Noose, palms flat on the table. “You're supposed to vet men, Noose.”
He shrugs.
Viper states, “I will not go back on a brother, but hell, this is complicated.”
Noose shrugs a second time. “Juvie thing. Mom was in danger. Trainer stepped up and waxed him.” He gives a chin flick in my direction. “Dig his innovativeness,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
Don't know the word, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.
“What's that mean?” Storm asks for me.
I duck my chin, hiding the smile.
Lariat says, “Means he's a McGyver. When shit needs doing, he uses whatever's handy. Innovation.”
Viper rests his chin in his hand. “Now that dictionary time is over with?”
“If I do this class, then it looks like I've made good on being better, trying to self…”
“Improve?” Wring supplies. “What a bunch of trumped-up shit.” Then he nods slowly. “But the courts like that crap. It was smart on your Judge's part.”
My Judge. Yup.
Tears clog my throat. I've never cried in my life. Not one tear. But thinking about Judge looking out for me to the finest detail is… The gesture moves me, even when I fight being moved.
Viper's a sharp man.
He pounds the gavel—yeah, I know the name for that now too.
“Church's over.”
The guys throw their chairs back and head out. When it's just me and Viper, he squeezes my shoulder as he walks out.
Hard.
I know what the unspoken support means.
Maybe I'm not so dumb, after all.
Chapter 5
Krista
I look over the tips of my fuzzy purple bunny slippers at my mom.
She stares back over the rim of her teacup. “This is utter bullshit, just so you know my thoughts.”
Like I'd ever have a choice. “God, Mom, I so kn
ow how dumb it is. But I'm hogtied by bureaucracy. It's Washington state. Sanctuary haven, taxation up the wazoo, and you know how liberal I am, but it comes at a price. Now the government has its nose up the ass of education, and I have to deal with the choice I made to become a teacher.”
Mom rolls her eyes. They're not far from my color, but mine are a dark gray, like pewter, and hers are more like a blue that wants to be gray. We’re two halves of the same whole.
Unfortunately, we're totally alike, so that causes some clashing at times.
“Why are they coercing you, honey?” She sets her teacup down in the saucer with a clank and begins to dunk the bag. It has definitely steeped long enough. The liquid is as black as tar.
“It's not technically that. The whole thing just feels like it is, though. Ellen Rowe wants to keep me, but it's part of giving high-needs teachers a break from the demands of our kids, and this hiatus to teach different learners has been mandated.”
“Bullshit,” she murmurs a second time.
Agreed. I give a rough exhale, attempting to rub my eyes out of my head. This change has not been a recipe for a good night's sleep.
“You'll make them stay that way.”
I pop my eyelids open and frown. “Mom, please.”
She smiles. “Why don't you have a night at our place? I'll cook.”
Mom and Dad are on some crazy health kick, eating fats and eschewing bread.
I shudder. Give me all the pizza in the flipping world, carbs be damned.
“Are you going to do that steak-and-salad-plus-butter thing? Because, I won't lie, I don't know if I can handle it.”
Mom brays like a donkey. “Yes, for certain I will be fixing whole foods that are good for you. Unfortunately, I'm close to my cycle, so there will be special compensation for that.”
My ears perk up, and I boing like a piece of toast in my seat, feet dropping to the floor, and lean forward. “So there’ll be crap food in the house for us?”
Mom nods then shoots a covert look around my tiny condo as though Dad might be lurking there. “Don't tell Daddy.”
“Jesus, no.” I toss a pillow at Mom, and she catches it deftly.
“Brat.” She arches a dark eyebrow.
I deflate against the couch again, secure in my immediate junk-food future. “I know.”
A few moments pass in comfortable silence, then after sipping cold tea, Mom says, “How many students?”
“Just three.” I play with the fringe of my pillow. A Pier One hippie-chic type. Love it. Has every color in the rainbow. Tiny beads decorate the tips, and I roll the smooth glass between my fingers, liking the tactile moment. “Supposed to be kids that had learning disabilities. Disadvantaged kids.”
Mom's brows pull together in a delicate frown. “Sounds just like what you're already doing. How's this a ʻresetʼ?”
I shake my head. “Different. My age group. Two guys, one girl.”
“Bizarre.” Mom raises the teacup to her lips again.
I sigh for the second time. “Yup. But I'm recharged and ready. I get paid the full-time salary, but I'm only working for a four-and-a-half-hour block total.”
Mom shrugs. “Weird and lucrative.”
I jerk my head off the back of the couch. “Mom, you don't teach for the money. The pay's a joke, and teachers work like slaves. At least those of us who want to make a difference.”
“Do you?”
I let the time between answering swell. I think of Ian's face when he mastered the hard consonant of the.
“Oh, yeah,” I answer softly. “I think so.”
“Then that's all that matters. You know Daddy and I have always encouraged you pursuing what you love. After all, what's good about spending the majority of your waking time working in a job you hate? Forget money at that point.” Mom gives a small sniff of disdain and stands, tapping my foot with a finger.
I groan and plop my feet on the floor again. “I'm not getting out of my pajamas to go pretend to eat healthy food with you and Dad then secretly scarf down hot tamales and popcorn while we watch chick flicks.”
Mom turns so that only her profile is visible. “I'll be tossing on my jammies the instant we pop through the door.”
Nice. “Fine, I'm convinced.”
Mom's smile widens. “Ah-huh, broke your arm.” She winks.
Setting the empty teacup in my sink, Mom scoops her purse from its perch looped around the back of the wooden chair at my tiny, two-seater kitchen table, then grabs her coat as she heads out the door. I shove my feet into my Crocs by the front door then grab my slippers and follow her out, still wearing my pajamas. I lock the door to my condo before leaving.
Love my family. Love my life.
*
The smell of pancakes wakes me like the best alarm clock ever. I stir, barely mustering enough energy to rise from my warm cocoon of bed linen.
What a night. My tummy growls because the load of junk food I had last night awakened my metabolism.
Now it's time to pork on low-carb pancakes.
Gross.
I stuff my feet back into my slippers. The violet bunny ears with white centers wag as I pad from my old room into the kitchen. “Please tell me there's coffee and real pancakes.”
Mom laughs. “It must be nice to be you. Only child, every need met, get to have breakfast in bed.”
“I'm out of bed, Mom,” I comment with a grump. Not a flattering description. Princess, etc. Maybe I might be one.
I pretty much am.
Dad breezes in, looking much younger and buffer than a fifty-year-old guy should. “Hello, Pumpkin.” He kisses my temple then frowns, his eyes sweeping my form.
“Are you eating enough?”
“She carb-loads like a fiend,” Mom elaborates, and I roll my eyes.
I weigh plenty, thank you very much, though if I'm honest, I have more ass and boobs than a girl needs. But I'm not all caught up in the Anorexia Movement. Starvation is not a plan. I eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm full. But I eat what I want to eat. Unlike my crazy parents.
Mom puts a steaming mug of coffee down on the table and mutters something about the antioxidants in the java.
I slurp, drowning out her wisdom. “Thanks, Mom. Oh my gosh, where's the sugar?”
“We have the whole-leaf liquid stevia,” Dad offers, coyly not mentioning the sugar I know they keep around.
No. I trudge over to the glass dish on the kitchen counter, lift the lid, plucking a raw sugar packet from the bowl, and close the lid. After a pausing, I turn back around and get a second.
Dad covers his eyes. “I can't watch.”
“Don't.” I breeze by, ripping the top off the packets, unceremoniously pouring the entire load into the black goodness.
“Real cream.” Mom plops a small carton down in front of me. I pour some into my coffee, stirring until the color is exactly what I like. I take the first critical sip then moan in pleasure. “This is definitely the life.”
Dad harrumphs and sits at the table.
They're so traditional, my eyes ache watching them. Mom dishes Dad up and pours sugar-free syrup over his pancakes. She flounces back to the kitchen and gets my pancakes, which look better, full of carbs and fluffy. She's a short-order cooked today.
I dig in.
Somehow, between bites, Dad gets all the same info out of me that Mom did last night when she stopped by.
He thinks the arrangement is as weird as she does.
I explain that it was something implemented after my hiring.
“Dad, I just have to give up thirty days of my life so I can get back to what I love doing when September rolls around.” I stab a bite of pancake then lift it high. “I do get to continue for the summer if the students need more work or if I like it.” I plop the yummy morsel in my mouth and chew.
“Extra money.” Mom lifts a shoulder, sipping some whole milk, which leaves behind a slight moo-stache. “You've talked about wanting that.”
I nod. “I'm lazy and want m
y summer free, but it'd be great to have the extra. If it worked.”
Dad nods. He threads his fingers through his thick hair, and I notice the light silvering at the temples. “That's key. If you don't care for the position, then you're only stuck for a month. You can do anything for a month.”
He takes a swig of coffee, and our eyes meet over the cup's rim.
“For sure.” I shrug. “What's a month?”
We laugh.
*
I take care with my outfit today. This isn't little kids that are forgiving of my light makeup or casual Friday attire.
These are my peers, and I have to look professional and ready to play the part.
But I don't want to look like I'm trying, either.
God.
I gaze into the full-length mirror and just know that the outfit's a fail.
But here's the thing—it's my third one. I'm pressing my timeline to be at the school because I'm fussing over appearance like a dork.
Starting with my head, I check off what I do like: dark hair swept up into a messy bun.
Check.
Smokey taupe eyeshadow appears to make my eyes smolder like two pieces of brilliant stormy ocean under a gray sky.
The screaming-crimson blouse with tiny buttons down the front completely covers my ample bustline, but doesn't hide my shape. I don't do frumpy. My long skirt is simple with a pattern of bright-red, white, and black flowers. Black ballet flats complete the look.
At the last second, I toss on silver hoops and slender silver bangles.
I smack my deep red lips together and thank the heavens I only wore mascara today.
Not trying, remember Krista?
Hopefully, that won't matter. I bite my lip, get lipstick on my tooth, and waste five minutes fixing that. Then I rush out to my burnt-orange Fiat, tear open the door, and chuck my slender black clutch purse and cell inside.
Ready!
I sail off without a care in the world, ready to take on the new students.
*
Sitting at my desk in Martin Sortun Elementary, I prop my chin in my hand. The school, located on the far east side of Kent, not too far from Meridian Valley Country Club where my folks live, had a different name when I went here.
