Trainer

by Marata Eros

  “How are you, Krista?” I say in a low voice that I know from experience carries well.

  I take a step forward, close enough to see the knuckles of her fingers pale to white as she tightens her grip on her key fob.

  “What do you want, Allen?”

  “I'm not the bad guy here.” I spread my hands inoffensively from my body and take another step. Her car is just a few feet away.

  “I'm filing a restraining order against you,” she announces in a flat voice.

  Stupid bitch.

  I smile instead of sailing over the roof of her car and strangling her with my bare hands. “That's not necessary. After all. It was that Neanderthal who charged me.” Spreading my fingers, I place them above my chest, attempting to appear wounded. After countless hours in front of the mirror, I believe I'm quite good at it. “He drew first blood.” I stuff my hands inside my pockets and rock back on my heels, affecting a contemplative demeanor.

  Krista has let her hair run wild, and it whispers over her full breasts, hanging nearly to her waist.

  My mouth waters with the thought of holding all that hair while I do things to her—things she most certainly wouldn't like.

  My thoughts take charge of my brain, and I find myself with a huge grin for the second time today.

  Instead of smiling in return, Krista frowns.

  Why must I always be the amicable one. Sighing, I take another step. I'm so close to her car, I could stretch out and tap the roof.

  “There's definitely something I want to get straight with Trainer about everything.” Her hand rises and shoves the hair out of her face. Opening the door, she readies herself to slide inside.

  “Trainer?”

  Krista's chin lifts. “My boyfriend.”

  “Ah. The murderer. Oh, Krista, the company you keep.”

  “I don't need to say anything more to you, Allen. Not everything was your fault, but things aren't right between us, and I don't like how the tide's turned. The way you're behaving.”

  Krista's dark gray eyes suddenly find me over the roof. “The creepy way you show up wherever I'm at.”

  The GPS tracking device my people put on her car works like a charm.

  I guess it's now or never, as they say. “I have a proposition for you, Krista.”

  “I'm not listening, Allen.”

  Of course, the stubborn twat. “You'll want to hear what I have to say.”

  Her face creases into doubtful lines, and she crosses her arms.

  The low drone of a car approaching causes me to pause. Our eyes touch on it as it passes, then I look back.

  “I am worth a lot of money.”

  Krista actually laughs at this. At me. Keeping my expression neutral takes monumental effort.

  “You must not know me, Allen. I'm not about the money.”

  “Billions,” I say in a low voice.

  That gets her notice. A dark brow slowly lifts. “Even if that were true,” Krista says with slow enunciation, “I still wouldn't be interested in a man who doesn't even care about me.”

  “Does the name Orson Rothschild mean anything to you?”

  A burst of surprised laughter shoots out of Krista. She gives a vague nod. “Of course—who wouldn’t know Orson Rothschild? He lives in Bill Gates’s neighborhood, for God's sake!”

  “He is my father.”

  Krista unfolds her arms and opens the car door wide. “I've had enough of your games. You live in Allen Fitzgerald Fantasyland, and I'll just do me.”

  I take away the last of the space.

  We face each other over the roof of her car. “I took my late mother's name. She was a Fitzgerald.”

  Krista has one foot inside the car, her palm resting on the roof. “This is all so interesting, Allen,” she says sarcastically.

  That's when I know I won't be able to stop from hurting her—at least a little. I suck in a strangled breath then say with precisely clipped tones, “I must marry someone by age thirty, or I will be stripped of the family fortune, as will my father.”

  Shock registers across her pretty face.

  Finally, a reaction.

  “How is any of this my problem?” she asks, placing her fist with the keys against her chest. “You're not winning me here, Allen. You're making me more determined than ever to get the order against you. There's just something not right about all this.”

  I play my last card.

  “You were adopted. You're not even who you think you are, Krista.”

  “Okay, talk to you later. I call bullshit and everything else I can.” Her eyes are troubled when they look at me. Like I'm something to feel sorry for or be feared.

  She's got that last part down perfectly. “Don’t you want to talk to me about how the path of least resistance for you, dear Krista, is to marry me, inherit billions, and stop having to work with all the Dumbs?”

  Krista steps out of her vehicle and slams the car door. She walks around and moves right into my space.

  Excellent.

  Her bad arm has a dark gray cast, and she doesn't lift it. She uses her good finger to point in my face. “Don't you ever call my students dumb. They”—she stabs me with her finger with surprising force—“are. Not. Dumb!”

  Krista pivots on her heel and strides around the back, heading to driver’s door again.

  I flick a surreptitious glance around and see no witnesses. Then I do what I’ve been yearning to do since nearly the day we met. Grabbing a fistful of that thick, luscious hair, I wrench her backward with a satisfying pull that nearly takes her from the ground.

  I clamp a hand over her mouth and squeeze down so she can't bite me.

  When I slam her head into the roof of her car, a muffled cry escapes her before she slumps.

  Almost too easy. I hike her over my shoulder, fireman-hold style, then casually trot across the silent street.

  Whoever said quiet neighborhoods are safer?

  *

  Trainer

  I feel my brows come together. Where is she?

  Not waiting around for you, moron.

  Putting the flat of my palm on the solid wood door, it's like I'm almost feeling for a pulse.

  But the windows are dark.

  Not a sound.

  It's only been five hours since I took off from the school, leaving Krista and her friend, Sam.

  Still, wanted to make things right. Explain shit.

  Maybe even listen.

  Taking out my cell from my interior vest pocket, I thumb it open.

  I've got a picture for every number, so I don't have to read.

  But I can read now. I know what the letters are and can even sound out a few. If I wanted to.

  Don't, though.

  Need to straighten this mess out with Krista.

  My finger hovers over a photo of judge.

  I hesitate then hit his image anyway.

  “Brett,” he answers right away.

  After the polite stuff, I dig in, telling him what went down. I change some stuff so I don't have to talk about my own dick.

  Judge understands, though.

  “So to reiterate,” he begins, “Krista is uncertain about some key things in your past, her friend is playing advocate, and you waltzed into the middle of their conversation without them knowing.”

  I think through what he said, using stuff Krista and Judge have both taught me. “Yeah.”

  “Had it occurred to you that Sam was speaking quite baldly, leaving all the niceties off. After all, from what you've said, she is Krista's most-trusted friend.”

  “You mean they were thinkinʼ it's just them and not worried about audience.”

  “Yes. It sounds to me as though Sam censored nothing. If she'd known you were there, I'd wager she would have had a different tone, certainly a softer delivery.”

  “They were puttinʼ me down, and…” I can't finish.

  “No, I don't believe that was her intent whatsoever. Nor do I think she was inferring lack of intellect.”

 
I love Judge. He skirts around the D word. For me.

  “Now you've come to your senses and realized there could be two sides to the story. You've sought Miss Glass out, and she's not at home.”

  “No.” He goes silent for a second then asks, “Is there something you're not telling me?”

  “I still don't like the ex.”

  “Of course not.”

  “No, I mean…” I shake my hair out and press my head against Krista's door. “I mean I got a bad feeling about him.”

  “Do nothing more, Brett. He is an attorney, and from what your associate, Noose, says, he must be very wealthy.”

  “That's the thing. He doesn't make sense in this equation.”

  “How?” Judge asks in a sharp voice. “Because you have unique insights, Brett. Your environment made it such.”

  “Allen Fitzgerald feels wrong. Krista is smart and beautiful and all this great shit, Judge. But he could be hobknobbinʼ. Why did he go with Krista, a school teacher?”

  Teacher of dumb kids.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Hear the ghost of Krista's voice. Feel her silky skin underneath my fingers.

  “Brett?”

  My eyelids spring open. “Yeah.”

  “I called your name three times.”

  “Sorry, I can't stop thinkinʼ on this.”

  “Do you love the girl, Brett?”

  I didn't want to. ʼCause it's scary.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you owe it to yourself to sort this mess. Tell all the truths, even if they're dirty and ugly. Because a lie is never pretty.”

  Judge is right. But to be laid bare, for Krista to know about Mama and the Arnies…

  “Okay,” I whisper into the phone.

  “Brett?”

  “I said okay.”

  “It'll be fine. You'll wonder what all your anxiety was once you come clean with your past and the way you feel about her. And I'll tell you something, son. Even if she will not have you, it doesn't mean that you'll shrivel up and blow away. Other people don't define us. We define ourselves.”

  “Then how come I give such a shit?”

  “Because that is who you are Brett. It's who you've always been. It's as though you were meant to be part of a different family and were placed with yours by accident. And now the cosmos, or whatever force governs our lives, has seen fit to bring this fine young woman into your life. Though I don't approve of your biker gang, I approve of how they support you. It's about time you were able to live without fear of reprisal and have the potential for joy. It's about damn time.”

  I don't understand everything Judge says, and he promised to never talk down to me, but I know the bottom line is he thinks I deserve Krista. And I had to go through the fucked-up childhood to get her.

  If I'd been born rich and privileged, I'd never have met my brothers in Road Kill MC. Never have met Krista. I'd just be another dude with a regular life. Krista could have that fancy prick, Allen, but she chose me. At least, she wanted me before the whole murderer thing. So I must be worth something to her.

  “Thanks, Judge.”

  “We're here for you, son.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and say goodbye.

  With a light tap, I push off the door and jog down the half dozen steps striding to my bike.

  The hell with it. I'll ride over to Sam's house.

  Noose told me where she lived. She'll probably think I'm a stalker, but I gotta know Krista's okay.

  Gotta know if I have a chance at that joy Judge talked about. Maybe permanently losing the weight inside my chest.

  I want more of the warm Krista gives me.

  A lot more.

  Chapter 27

  Krista

  Initially, the pain wakes me up, then awareness and consciousness seep in because of my awkward pose.

  Pins and needles stab me everywhere, like microscopic sleet rocketing off my body.

  My eyelids crack open, and my gaze combs the space: concrete walls and floor. No windows. My heartbeat picks up the pace.

  A dangling bulb, like the kind in horror movies, swings from the ceiling. Pushed by a source of wind I don’t feel, it bounces frenetic light over my body.

  Looking down at myself, I notice my legs are neatly arranged.

  They hurt.

  So do my arms, since they're strung up over my head, with my cast making a horrible, painful thump in time with the beats of my heart.

  A whimper slips out before I can help it. Memories rush in like a river finding a new fork.

  Allen did this.

  The last thing I remember was yelling at him, disgusted with whatever his last comment was. I strode around the back of my little Fiat, distracted by the thought of desperately needing to talk to Trainer.

  I'd made up my mind that he’s my boyfriend.

  Of course he is. There's no way someone with a soul like Trainer’s doesn't have a great explanation for why he committed murder.

  Was it cold-blooded? Could Trainer even commit something that was?

  No, is my silent answer.

  A tear plops on my black leggings, making a wet spot, and I tell myself to suck it up. Now is not the time for wallowing in regrets.

  I'm in the care of a madman.

  Using whatever I'm strung to, I pull myself to my knees and stifle a scream when my arms move out of the position they've been held in. My broken arm feels as though it's re-broken.

  My arms have probably been in this position since Allen bashed my head into the car. At least, I assume that's what he did because the font of my skull throbs along my hairline, though I don't remember what caused the injury.

  Leaning against the cold wall, I hike my knee and plant my right foot.

  Dizzy, I stand.

  My breath fizzles out, and I suck in a deep inhale, trying to steady myself.

  The room swims in front of my vision.

  Quickly, I shut my eyes against the spinning concrete walls and flatten my body against the cold stone.

  My arms are bound, but I'm no longer hanging from them. Big improvement.

  I groan as blood pours into all the spots that the circulation had been cut off from.

  Hissing through the pain, I open my eyes again as I hear a key being used in a door I didn't see on my initial perusal.

  Allen steps in.

  I tense.

  The smell of his cologne almost gags me.

  “Well, hello, Krista.”

  “Untie me. Now,” I say through my teeth.

  Allen shakes his head as though saddened by my plight. “I think I much prefer you this way. Helpless. Compliant.”

  Bull shit.

  “I am neither of those things.” I frown, and the movement causes pain to swarm my head. A dull pounding starts in my skull. I wince and note that I can't touch what hurts or explore how badly Allen injured me because my hands are tied.

  Allen's eyes go to my head. “Sorry about that.” He snickers. “I got a little carried away.”

  “Carried away?” I ask in a thick voice. “You bashed my head in.”

  Our eyes lock.

  “Do you think if I wanted to ʻbash your head in,ʼ I wouldn't be able to?”

  I don't say anything, cold terror slicking my insides. Yes, I do think Allen's capable of that. And more.

  Whatever's on my face tells him exactly what I’m feeling. “Fear keeps you malleable, Krista. And I require cooperation in the extreme.”

  “I'm not cooperating with anything.” My knees weaken, and I mentally let go of Trainer, telling him goodbye. “Just kill me. Then you can move on to whatever woman you want. Just so we're clear—I'm not her.”

  Allen saunters over to me.

  He reaches out, and I flinch, cornered. Squeezing my breast, he pinches my nipple and twists. Hard.

  I scream. Tears of pain spring to my eyes.

  Reacting instinctively, I raise my knee between his unguarded legs.

  It's a glancing blow but has the intended result.

  A
llen sags.

  Planting my right foot, I raise the opposite knee and slam it into his taped nose.

  Blood bursts from his face as he falls backward.

  *

  I watch Allen writhe on the ground. Between his broken nose and his wounded balls, I figure Allen's out of commission for a while.

  Not so.

  After twenty minutes on the floor, Allen sits up, his crystalline eyes looking all the bluer for the red covering his face.

  Those eyes hate me, glittering with a bottomless rage.

  And I'm tied.

  Oh God.

  Then he smiles. “You think you hurt me?”

  I'm clearly stupid and have a death wish. “I know I did. Now kill me.” Maybe if I goad him, he'll make it a quick death.

  I don't want to die, but I don't want to live through what Allen has in store for me, either.

  Allen shakes his head, grimaces at the motion, and stands. He gives his balls a delicate adjustment and casually slides his cell out of his pocket. After tapping a few thing on the screen, he puts the phone to his ear.

  “Abbi,” he barks when someone has answered. “I need you.”

  A terse five seconds go by.

  His face screws up into a rage, and his curt reply is nearly instant, “The basement.”

  “You're going to drag witnesses into this?” I ask incredulously.

  “They're only a witness if they live to tell about it.”

  My heart beats into my throat.

  One minute.

  Then two.

  Three minutes pass before the soft knock at the door.

  I scream, “Don't come in.” My voice is so loud, it hurts my own ears, and my throat is instantly abraded from the force of my shout.

  Allen doesn't react. He calmly walks to the door and lets a woman in.

  The term cowering isn’t quite accurate to describe her demeanor. Like a dog kicked once to often, she scuttles into the room, and Allen jerks his head toward the center of the space.

  My eyes move to where Allen indicated: a drain in the center of the floor.

  The bare bulb continues to spin slowly, stirred by a current from the door’s motion, casting thin light over the two of them.

  “As usual, Abbi will be your surrogate.” Allen bestows his version of a tender smile on a girl who has to be close to my age.