Trainer

by Marata Eros

“Go on,” he says, spinning the bottle of beer hard enough that some slops out the top. “Fuuuucker!” he barks, licking it off his hand.

  I laugh.

  His lips twist into a trademark grin, half-menace, half-humor.

  “She's the teacher.” I yank the stubby tail of hair at my nape.

  Noose whistles. “Nice.”

  “It's not like that.” I glare.

  Noose shakes his head, kicking a small pebble with his boot. “It's always like that.” He chuckles. “Got sweet butts coming outta our ears, and then complicated pussy walks by, and suddenly, a man can't think. The only thing thinking in that is”—he grabs his crotch, sets down his beer, and puts his other hand on his chest over his heart—“the little head and this beating mess inside our chests.”

  So maybe he gets me, some.

  Here goes nothinʼ. “She said I could learn.”

  “Fuck, yes, you can, Trainer.”

  I nod. “You looked into me.”

  Noose gives a single nod. “I know what I read on those papers. But I also know”—he taps his temple—“all the bullshit that's between the lines. Undocumented.” He takes another pull from his beer, grimaces, then threads fingers through his longish hair. “Think you did well only killing the last guy.” Noose adds with a bark of a laugh.

  I slowly pivot to face him, elbow planted on my thigh, and my beer dangles from my hand. “What do you mean ‘last guy’?”

  “I mean, that your mom didn't suddenly decide to invite that loser into the house when you were seventeen. At least that's not how it worked where I grew up.” He splays his fingers against his chest, dark-blond eyebrows hiked.

  Letting the silence eat up the space between us is easy. Talking about this shit is painful. The thought closes my throat and makes my guts feel like they're gonna fall outta my ass. A few heartbeats of time stack between us before I answer, “No. He was the tenth guy—I don't know—twentieth. It all blended, Noose.”

  I take another pull, and the brew sloshes in my gut, not settlinʼ shit. Stomach is still a churning mass.

  “Yeah,” he agrees softly then drains the rest of his beer and digs the bottle into the dirt beside the step. “What kind of chick is your teacher?” Dipping his head, Noose cups his hand around a cigarette he lights with the old one. He parks the butt of the spent cig inside the bottle.

  That's an easy one. “She's the kind I don't deserve.”

  “Probably the perfect one for ya.” Noose nods, as though agreeing with himself.

  We look at each other.

  “I can't stop thinking about her.” My fingers wrap my beer hanging between my thighs. I study the bottle instead of the man before me—or his words.

  “There's plenty of pussy here, Trainer.” Noose jerks a thumb behind him at the club.

  I nod. Yup. I lift a shoulder. “You know how much I love the ladies.”

  Noose smiles, sweeping his hand to my crotch. “If I had a foot-long cock, they'd love me too.”

  I turn away, shamed by yet another difference.

  “Hey, don't get your boxers in a twist, pal. That's not a little factoid the bitches keep quiet about. And let me tell you something, they say size doesn't matter, but I've never met a chick that wouldn't like some sizable meat when presented.” Noose gives a satisfied chuckle. “Hell, if I were you, I'd hang out my tile and have it read ‘Come and get it.’”

  He starts roaring, giving a sharp slap to his thigh. “Come and get it. Love that.”

  I shake my head, and he claps my shoulder. “Listen, Rose was out of my league. Didn't stop me from wanting her. And she's not complaining. Hell, Lariat's married to a lawyer. Maybe there's certain women that need something different than the simp fuckers running around being all sensitive and shit. Maybe they need a protector, a man who will die to please them.”

  Noose straightens, putting his boot on the step he was just sitting on, and stares off into the darkness of the woods that look more black as night blankets the day. “Or just die, brother.”

  Yup.

  *

  “Did some looking into this Krista chick.” Noose slaps down a stack of papers and photos in front of me.

  The letters laugh at me, daring me.

  I meet his eyes. “Not too good at reading, Noose,” I admit, like I'm a slow reader.

  Not the real truth: that I can't read. At. All.

  He shrugs. “I read through the shit. Not much to worry about. Krista Glass, age twenty-three, five feet six, one hundred thirty pounds. Mom and dad still hitched, normal childhood, no siblings.”

  He spreads out glossy eight-by-tens on the table.

  My teeth grind when I see a picture of her with that dick Allen.

  His hands are on her body, leading her into a restaurant I could never take her to.

  Not for lack of cash. But because I don't belong there.

  “He's a problem.” Noose points to the dick.

  No surprise to me.

  “Lawyer.” Noose’s reason is not the same as mine.

  But still… Shit.

  “Gotta mind your shit in this situation. Word has it she's dating this mouthpiece, and we don't want him digging around, maybe paying attention to you, causing trouble because he somehow sees you as a threat to the teacher.”

  “Krista,” I correct softly.

  “Fuck, Trainer. I want you to be fixed and fucked and loved just as much as the next brother. But between offing Daddy of the Week and this new mess with those fucktards you put in the hospital, I won't lie—you're skating on thin fucking ice, dude. Ya gotta do this class and do Teacher later.” He cocks a brow.

  And I'm somewhere between agreeing and wanting to punch him.

  Just trying to save the ladies. My mama and the blonde I never got the name for—I was just trying to save them.

  Now there's Krista. And Noose is telling me to keep a distance that's closing like one of his famous ropes around my neck.

  *

  I'm sitting on the same concrete step again. Next day. Different beer.

  Noose sinks to his haunches, his eyes piercing mine. He taps a knuckle on the stack of photos that lay atop papers I can't read. “Just finish the school. Go after Teacher when that's done and the possible trial is over. Don't let your big dick think for you.”

  I take a deep breath then let it out.

  Noose stands. “What? I know when you got to say something.” He rotates his neck, getting the kinks out in a series of small pops exploding between us.

  “I don't like this guy.”

  “Pfft. Figured. He's sniffing around Teacher.”

  I glare up at Noose.

  He raises his hands, palms out. “Hey man, get off my dick.” He chuckles. “Can't resist. Like when Snare married his sister.” Noose cocks his head, blowing out another smoke ring in an endless precession. “Come to think of it, I am being an asshole.”

  I say nothing.

  “All right… shit.” He stomps out the cig. “What I'm saying is: yeah, you don't like this guy. I wouldn't, either.”

  “No, I mean, I got—” Frustrated, I yank my hair tie from the back of my neck, and my hair swings forward, hiding my face. “He feels like an Arnie.”

  Noose frowns. “You mean like the douches that worked your mom over all the time?”

  “Yeah.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “I don't know. This dude…” He flicks the photo with the lawyer in it. My eyes latch on to the big hand at the small of Krista's back. I know I'm gonna have a lot of “restraint issues,” as Snare calls it.

  Noose continues, “He's got money, education, and no motive. He's not a pimp.” Noose has lit another cig, and he talks with it, nodding as he speaks. “He isn't after a hooker, doesn't look lit on meth and other shit, and has an alarmingly hard white-privilege angle.” Noose squints through the smoke.

  I snort. Oh, the shit we smack.

  Noose's ash on the tip of his cig is an inch long. He spreads his arms away from his body, and the mov
ement causes that tail of incinerating gray to fall like dirty snow between us.

  He takes the cig out, frowns, and uses it to light another.

  I raise my brows. “What is going on with the chain smoking?”

  Noose's eyes narrow as he waves away the veil of smoke. “Anxious as fuck.”

  Now that's something I never thought would cross his lips. Noose is anxious for nothinʼ.

  He clamps the cig with his lips and roughly assembles his hair at the nape, savagely twisting it through a buff-colored hair tie.

  “Rose is knocked up again.”

  I smile. “Congrats, man.”

  Noose lifts his fist, and we touch knuckles. “Thanks.”

  “Why do ya sound like someone just kicked your puppy?”

  Noose gives me a look like a drowning man. “Twins, fucker.”

  I stand in a stiff stagger. “What the fuck?” I breathe out.

  Noose gives a sage nod. “So forgive me if I don't think you having the hots for Teacher—” His face swivels to mine. “For Krista is worth worrying about. Jesus. I just look at Rose, and she's full of babies again.”

  Now it's my turn to comfort. Not something I get to do or know how to do that good.

  Clapping his shoulder, I say, “Aria's like two, right?”

  “Yeah,” Noose says mournfully. “Early trainer. Doing all her business in the potty now.” He shakes his head.

  In the potty?

  “This time next year, I'm going to be up to my earlobes in diapers and leaking tits.” Noose gets a half-smile. “That last isn't such a bad thing.”

  He takes a long drag.

  I blink.

  Noose cocks his head, giving me a speculative look. “Maybe TMI for you, pal.”

  Maybe.

  “Anyways, pretty stoked it might be a couple of boys. Sure have a full house, though. Charlie will be eight, and Aria will be three. Yeah…” He tugs at his short ponytail. “I feel sleep deprived just thinking about it.”

  Yeah. I repress a shudder.

  “Love the fam. Love Rose. I'll get through it.”

  He looks at me again, squeezes my shoulder. “We'll get through all of it.”

  Noose walks off, leaving a trail of smoke, the photos, and papers behind.

  I scoop up the stack and trudge to my bike.

  I stuff the shit in the trunk and lock it up tight. Gonna ride home and look over everything, use my scanner that translates words to audio. Then I'll know what those letters say about Krista Glass before I see her again.

  Better to know more.

  Chapter 9

  Krista

  Tuesday, Trainer shows up, and we begin the tedium of memorizing sight words.

  I suck in my breath when his hand accidentally brushes mine every few minutes.

  By Thursday, I know it's no accident.

  When Wednesday rolls around and every time I look at him, he's looking at me, I feel myself cave degree by degree. To him.

  To the temptation that is Trainer.

  Thursday's session is different. I receive a text from Corina saying that she'll be a half hour late, and her delay gives me more time with Trainer.

  Time we can't use during the learning process to get acquainted.

  He starts out with, “Got bad shit to tell you, Krista.”

  I know. Knew it all along. Inside, I fortify myself. “Okay.”

  He nods. “Love my mama.”

  The intro surprises me, especially a little boy's endearment out of such a masculine guy.

  “She picks men. Bad ones.”

  I don't say anything. I've heard something like this before. Lots of my kids are from broken homes where their disabilities are tolerated very little, or not at all.

  But Trainer's not a kid. He's a man. A man I'm very aware of.

  Terribly aware.

  My gaze sweeps his bare arms, where tattoo sleeves don't hide the pockmarks of abuse caused by branding and beatings.

  His eyes take in my face, searching it for disparagement, disbelief, or some negative emotion.

  I take a deep breath. “I'm still here.”

  He gives me a rare smile. “I know.”

  Trainer looks out the window, translucent eyes bleeding almost to white as he gazes into the trees circling the building.

  When he finally speaks, it constricts my heart. “They beat us pretty regular-like. The men.” He takes a deep breath then adds, “The Arnies.”

  My heartbeats begin a punishing rhythm. I don't want to hear. To know. To understand this beautiful, wounded man was once a fragile, inquisitive boy who couldn't see letters in the right order.

  And was beaten for that. And lesser things—while watching his mom get beaten too.

  I put my hands over my eyes, though the tears squeeze between my fingers.

  Trainer picks me off the chair beside him and hoists me onto his lap. My hands fall, and he looks deep into my eyes. I suck up his unique fragrance of clean male, vague leather, and engine.

  “Never told nobody this stuff. Don't mean to make you cry.”

  “I can't help it,” I say against his neck. It’s so inappropriate, but I can't pull away now. He's telling me what's so difficult to say.

  I won't reject him by creating a physical distance, though I know that's not my only reason.

  His large hand winds my nape, each finger a brand of erotic heat against my skin.

  “So when I wanted to get help learning, people made fun of me. When they tried to talk to Mama, the Arnies made her quit caring.”

  “Or they'd hurt her,” I guessed.

  “Yeah,” he answers and squeezes my neck. The strength in the gesture lays between us, unrealized. That violent potential that Trainer has.

  When he's touching me like this, it's hard to remember what he's been put through, what he's capable of.

  The moment is now. Him and me. The world a distant place that surrounds us, yet we're not a part of it.

  “So that's why I'm dumb,” he states as fact.

  I pull away sharply, my wet eyes searching his dry ones. “You are not dumb in any way, shape or form, Brett Rife.” My voice is a reflection of how I feel inside: convicted, filled with absolute surety and belief.

  He nods. “That's why I can tell you, Krista. I can tell you the horrible shit.”

  Feeling my brows pull together, I ask, “Why?”

  “Because you believe.”

  I put my hands on his broad shoulders for balance. “Of course I believe you're not dumb.” I give an indignant snort. I never thought for a second that he was stupid.

  Trainer shakes his head and lifts my palm to place a hot kiss in the center that leaves me breathless.

  “Nah. I already knew that.” His green eyes rise to meet mine. “It's the other thing you believe in.”

  Another kiss has me biting off a moan.

  “What?” I ask, voice breathy.

  “Me,” he answers simply, laying a chaste kiss on my unresisting lips, “You believe in me,” he ends on a whisper.

  *

  Friday

  Shit.

  I glance at Allen’s text for the twentieth time.

  We need to talk, he says.

  I roll my bottom lip between my teeth and chew on it. Finally, I tap a response, breaking my run of avoidance—the inevitable.

  How about we meet at Starbucks—8ish?

  My feet shift restlessly on the floorboards of my Fiat. I'm still sitting in the nearly empty parking lot of the Elementary school.

  Momentarily, I'm distracted by a deep bass that rumbles through the car, thrumming through my seat.

  Turning, I see a great big bike come rolling in.

  Black. The machine shines in the June sunshine like a giant ebony pearl.

  My cell vibrates with a reply, but I'm riveted, like I've never seen a bike before.

  Of course it's Trainer's. And that makes it different from all the others.

  He must have seen me sitting in my car. If there's one thing I'
ve learned in the four days of teaching him to read through the struggle of the mild dyslexia he's saddled with, it's that Trainer's naturally inquisitive and smart.

  Somebody—or something—squelched that natural childlike curiosity. Hard. Of course, now I know part of the why.

  Trainer's learning a new skill set that includes trust and hope. Plus, he’ll have to muster enough drive to learn after that natural impulse was amputated by sadists before he could cultivate it.

  I know that desire is within him, buried underneath all the steel-plated armor. I'll have to find a way to pull that eagerness to learn to the surface.

  That's complicated by our growing sexual chemistry, though, like the way we crossed the line yesterday with that kiss. It didn't go further, but it doesn't matter. It's not if it'll go further, but when.

  I saw the sexual tension in how his eyes crawled over my body. In the soft way he said my name.

  The invisible heat has smoldered between us from practically minute one.

  I wipe sweating palms on my shredded jeans before adjusting my messy hair knot.

  Trainer rests for a minute on the bike, and I take in his solid form.

  He's a big man, and an intimidating one.

  For some reason, he doesn't scare me.

  I suspect Trainer would be tender and compassionate where he could, despite his terrible background.

  Just a feeling.

  The flat of his feet planted on the ground, he swings one leg over, scooping a half-helmet thing off his head. Resting it on the passenger seat, Trainer peers at the sky before leaving the bike, and I just know he's looking for rainfall.

  Seeing a rare, clear day, he leaves the helmet where it sits.

  His icy, green stare finds me in my car, staring at him like a dope. I'm helpless to look away.

  Trainer begins to stride toward me with purpose.

  My heart hammers against my ribcage.

  Quickly, I check the text.

  I'll be there. I barely have time to say kk to Allen’s cryptic response before Trainer is standing outside my driver's door.

  His dick is in plain view.

  I mean, it's behind dark denim jeans that are skin tight, but I swear I can see the outline.

  Oh God.

  Shutting my eyes, I know there's no amount of self-chastisement that will stop me from thinking about him sexually. Imagining us together. Yesterday's confession and interlude saw to that.