Trainer

by Marata Eros

  Shutting my eyes, I groan. Every piece of me hurts, and this stranger is going to see me naked.

  Allen is going to try to marry me. No—he is going to marry me.

  Fear coils like a slick snake inside my belly. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  He's evil.

  And he said he'd kill my parents. Trainer.

  Swallowing past my fear, I croak out, “I can do it myself. Just make him…” I suck in a breath and let it out. The guard turns his face away from my breath. “Stand guard or something.”

  Allen reaches out, pinching my nipple, and I cry out. The pain is so miserable in combination with everything else, I fight tears of frustration and despair.

  “Don't make suggestions, Krista.”

  I stare numbly at him, not able to comprehend where my life is now headed in just two short days.

  “Take her, Simon.”

  The hulk rolls his shoulders and drives his legs toward the few stairs that lead to a single door.

  With a hard turn, he twists a solid brass knob, and swings the door wide.

  Allen pushes past us and opens the bathroom.

  Marble covers every surface. It's austere and Romanesque.

  Cold, like a mausoleum. I'll die here, I think.

  My eyes already hunt for a blade. If I can get my hands on one, I could fill that huge clawfoot tub, stranded like a lost ship in the sea of ivory marble, and slice my life away.

  Allen would return, and his terrifying idea of marriage would be washed away in a tide of my blood.

  He meets my eyes. His own twinkle in perverse delight as he smiles.

  Allen anticipates me. Maybe he always has.

  Defeat swallows me whole.

  Allen watches Simon. “Undress her and make sure she gets cleaned up.” His voice lowers. “You lay a finger on her, and I'll cut it off.”

  “I don't need kidnapped tail, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  Allen grins. “Yes, I imagine Abbi serviced you very nicely, as well.”

  Simon frowns, setting me down.

  I bite back a moan. My body so weak, I can't believe I was contemplating suicide just two minutes ago.

  I look up at the guard, feeling even more hopeless. He's a huge man. His suit fits him badly, too tight across the chest and back, like his time at the gym makes all the clothes he wears suffer to accommodate his bulk.

  “I don't require Fitzgerald seconds. I get my own women, on my own time.”

  Allen's lips flatten, and my body tenses.

  “Clean. Her. Up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Allen's lingering gaze roams my body and with a purse of lips, he spins on his heels and leaves.

  My entire body collapses in relief.

  “Dickhead,” Simon mutters.

  Our eyes meet.

  “Please,” I swallow again, “get me out of here.”

  Simon sighs, shaking his head. “No can do.”

  A tear spills from my eye as Simon tugs off one of my shoes. I realize the other is somewhere down in the bowels of this house of horrors.

  He gently takes off my socks. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you do smell awful.”

  More tears follow. “Yes, I do. It might be the… I don't even know how many… hours I spent chained with a dead body for company.” I practically spit in his face.

  “Or maybe it's because crazy Allen is holding me prisoner? I don't know—take your pick!”

  Simon's dark brown eyes flick to mine. “The pay's good.”

  I cover my face with my hands, listening to him stand and move somewhere.

  When my palms drop, he's brought me some water. I gulp it down until it spills out the side of my mouth, then I wipe my grimy face. “Thanks.”

  “More for me than you,” Simon replies, setting the glass on a shelf behind the tub with gleaming chrome faucets. “Your breath stinks.”

  Have I been talking to a wall all this time? “Right,” I reply, weary.

  “Roll over.”

  I lie on the floor, and he unbuttons my jeans. With a quick, practiced jerk, he slides them past my hips.

  Seeming to remember something, he turns, cranking the hot water tap of the tub. Steaming water splashes inside the porcelain as my eyes remain on the ceiling.

  “Can you move yet?”

  I try to sit up, and a wave of dizziness sweeps through me. I grip the rolled porcelain rim of the tub. The tile's cold against my nearly naked lower half. “No,” I whisper.

  Simon slides his hands under my pits, hoisting me to standing.

  I lean against him.

  “Can you take your underwear off?”

  More tears slide down my face as my humiliation is complete.

  I manage to hook the fabric at the side and tug past my hips as Simon holds me upright.

  Kicking my panties off, he lifts me into the tub.

  The water's too hot, and I hiss.

  With one hand, Simon turns more water on from the cold side.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I nod, gripping onto him though I don't want to.

  “I'm putting you in the water. Lift up your arms so I can get the rest of your clothing off.”

  My tears join the rushing water from the faucet as he gently slides me into the water, and I lift my arms.

  Simon unravels the foul-smelling top over my face and tosses it.

  The bra, he expertly unhooks and says, “Arms.”

  I raise my arms, nipples puckering in the cooler air outside the steaming bath water.

  “Lie back.”

  I yelp when my back touches the frigid porcelain above the waterline.

  Simon stands, surveying my nudity. With a curt nod, he shrugs off his ill-fitting suit jacket, finally resorting to kind of tearing the thing off his limbs. “Dammit,” he mutters.

  Arm muscles are growing babies on his arms, and I blink, knowing I can't fight him off.

  I'm beyond starving. I was hungry the first day. Now I just want to sleep.

  Rolling up his sleeves halfway up his forearms that would rival Popeye’s, he walks across the bathroom then returns with a basket of toiletries. He pulls a stool from underneath the tub and plucks a bar of soap from the basket. He dunks his hands into the water, slowing lathering.

  “I'll bite you,” I warn him, feigning more bravado then I feel.

  “Hungry?” his smile is warm, belying our situation where a strange man will handle me intimately.

  “Pissed as hell.”

  Simon inclines his head. “Don't make me hurt you. I'll do it where they can't see it. Where others can't notice.”

  His eyes slide to mine.

  I see the evidence of what he's done in those eyes. They're not soulless—yet.

  It won't be long before they are.

  “I don't love him. I don't want to be here. This entire thing is against my will.”

  “Uh-huh.” His hands slow. “Go underneath the water and get yourself wet. Stand up and spread it.”

  I gasp. “You mean?”

  Simon nods. “It'll be my head if I don't get every crack and crevice.”

  Fresh tears join the old. “No,” I deny softly.

  Simon leans forward so our noses are almost touching. “If I tell you a secret, will it make you cooperate?”

  I shake my head. “I don't know.” I hitch back more tears, angrily swiping at my eyes while fighting lightheadedness.

  “I'm gay,” he says in a flat voice. “You're”—he moves back, sweeping a meaty palm at my body—“female bits do nothing for me. You can spread your cheeks, and it's nothing but a chore.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  He shrugs. “Packaging doesn't match, right?”

  Slowly, I nod, my eyes running over a brutally masculine face and physique. “Boss doesn't know. Don't figure that'd go over well.”

  His eyes search my face. “You're an open book.” Then Simon's face goes serious. “Better?”

  It's all bad. But having a man who won't m
olest me while he washes me takes away some of my fear. “Some.”

  “Good,” he gives a brisk nod. “Now do what I said.”

  Slowly, I dunk under the water.

  When I open my eyes, Simon's wavering image warbles in the water between him and I.

  What if I could drown?I'm dragged from the shallow depths of my imagined grave, my cast soaked.

  I weave where I stand.

  “No drowning, Krista,” Simon uses my name for the first time. “Turn away from me, grip the edge, and spread your legs.”

  Heat climbs my body, and I want to barf.

  A person has to have food to do that, though. But my body still tries, dry heaving in great whoops that arc my body while nothing evacuates.

  “Take your time.”

  His hand falls on my back—offering clinical reassurance.

  Shaking, I wipe my mouth and stand there.

  “Let's get started.”

  I tense.

  Then he does.

  *

  “Sip it slowly,” Simon instructs, bulky arms crossed over his barrel chest. His shirt and slacks are covered with dark wet spots from bathing me.

  I slurp the broth, and its flavor explodes in my mouth, quieting my weakness. My hand still shakes as I lift the spoon.

  Simon shaved me. Soaped me. Shampooed me. Rinsed me.

  I'm technically squeaky clean.

  But I feel filthy.

  Ready for Allen Fitzgerald to marry. Rape. I'm not deluding myself. He'll have to force himself on me for sex to happen.

  I finish the first bowl of chicken broth, and Simon puts another in front of me, inclining his head toward it.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Feeding you?” he asks.

  I shake my head, feel nausea sweep through me, and grasp the edge of a small table within my new prison. Shut my eyes, I wait for the sensation to pass. “Not hurting me?”

  Anyone who would work this closely with Allen has to be awful.

  “Thought I'd get there faster with a few mundane moves.”

  I give him a sharp look. “Like what?”

  “The gay thing.” He chuckles.

  My heart begins to race, flooding my system with adrenaline. “You're not?”

  “Fuck no. But I'm not stupid enough to do anything I'll get nailed for.” Simon taps his temple with his index finger.

  His cold smile ices my heart. “Enjoyed the show, though.” He tips an invisible hat my way.

  Tears run down my face, and I turn to my meal, trying to see the broth through the wash of my tears.

  “Don't bother with the waterworks, honey. It'll all be over with soon. Dickhead will marry you, get what he's after, and you can live somewhere separate, enjoying his billions.” He quirks a brow. “It's not a fate worse than death.”

  My narrow-eyed stare seeks him like a missile set to destroy. “And you'd like your freedom being stolen from you?”

  His smirk fades. “For the rich life you're gonna have?” He snorts. “Might bat for the other side for real for that kind of cash.”

  Simon lifts his chin. “Eat.” His tone implies there might be pain if I don't.

  I eat, but allow my eyes to hate him for lying to me. I don't know what I expected?

  The truth?

  Never.

  Chapter 31

  Hammerstein

  Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I'd hoped this call would never come.

  During all my years of being in justice, I never took a bribe, never accepted one or gave one.

  Except this one.

  Because emotion had been involved, of course. Isn't that always the case?

  Six years ago, Brett Rife's life was on the line, and I knew down to my marrow that his situation was a perfect example of life's cruelty. I simply could not let him be condemned.

  The judge was sympathetic, nearly. However, the jury was split.

  I reached out to Orson Rothschild, a man who attended the same exclusive boarding school I had when we were adolescents. He'd said if I ever needed anything once he came into his fortune, it would cost me only the price of a favor, no more.

  Now the proverbial check has come due.

  “Does this make what is between us square, Orson?”

  “Perfectly,” he croons.

  I had forgotten how much his smugly entitled arrogance irritated me. Certainly, it was even more of an annoyance when I was obligated to endure his attitude solely due to my indebtedness.

  Eleanor touches my shoulder, and I drop my forehead into my aching hand, pressing the fingertips of my free hand against my temple. The beginnings of a fine headache begin to thump mercilessly in time to my heartbeats.

  I stare at my cell, sitting on top of the acre of quartz countertop in the kitchen.

  “Then I will see you around three o'clock at my residence,” Orson says.

  Eleanor raises her eyebrow in question.

  I give a slight shake of my head, and our gazes return to the cell, listening to Orson Rothschild on speaker.

  “I'll be there,” I say softly before ending the call with a light tap of my finger.

  The screen goes dark.

  “I loathe that man,” Eleanor says for us both.

  I nod. “He's a necessary evil.”

  Eleanor's face turns to mine, her jawline only slightly softened by her sixty years walking this earth. “He freed Brett.”

  “Ultimately, yes.”

  We hug each other, trying to console ourselves.

  What's one marriage done in secret? It's a small penance.

  However, I know if this is the favor Rothschild has called in, there is a high price.

  One that might haunt me forever.

  *

  Trainer

  “This isn't that stealth shit you are about,” I say to Noose.

  He shakes his head.

  My eyes run over his fucked-up clothes.

  “Don't,” he warns.

  Can't say much. I look awkward as fuck too.

  Running my hands down my old clothes—or should I be saying, my pre-MC clothes—feels like I'm putting on things I've grown out of. Like this shit's the stuff I wore when I was a kid, and now I'm tryinʼ it back on, and it don't fit—even if it does.

  Bottom line: we're missing our cuts, and that just feels wrong.

  “Vipe says we can't kill the fuckers,” Noose repeats, as though talking himself out of what he wants.

  We're about a quarter mile from Rothschild's mansion. Noose works out his tension with cigarettes. I don't have nothinʼ for mine. The cold anxiety sits inside, simmering like a pot of water that won't boil.

  “Gotta push some line like we're concerned friends, haven't seen Krista. That kind of classic bullshit.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Noose. “Aren't we gonna get a butler or something?”

  Noose chuckles. “I got ways past that.”

  Probably.

  Noose flicks his cigarette, and it lands by a bush in the deep woods where we hang. He crushes the smoldering butt, then kicks dirt over it.

  “Gonna get your shoes messed,” I say, looking at the cowboy boots he borrowed from me.

  “Fuck it.” He winks.

  Then we turn toward the Rothschild mansion. We’re strolling, when all I really want to do is run to where Krista is.

  After a few minutes, a long sweeping driveway unravels to the right, and we take it.

  I'd thought Fitzgerald's place was for the richies, as Noose calls them.

  This place looks like a slice of heaven has fallen to earth.

  That feeling of not belonging moves through me, and I ignore it. Don't matter how perfect a place looks.

  It can still be filled with Arnies.

  They don't have to be poor to be evil.

  *

  Krista

  “Remarkable.” Allen nods in satisfaction as he makes a slow circle around me.

  A dress in gauzy white had been laid out for me, short-sleeved
, as though my cast had been considered. Tea-length, it grazes me at mid-calf and I pluck at the itchy and low cut bodice.

  He tilts his head, studying me like a unique bug specimen. A slight frown mars the perfection of his forehead. The tape he still wears on his nose is a nice touch.

  I bite my lip to keep the sudden urge to laugh hysterically from erupting and grip the sides of the lightweight dress with my fingers.

  “Her eyes are red.”

  Simon nods. “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald. That's because of what she's been through. She keeps crying.”

  Allen smirks. “Oh well, maybe Krista can keep it together for the ceremony.”

  “Don't know. Got her prepped. Like I was told to do.”

  Allen's hand snakes out, and he pinches my breast. Again. I don't give him the satisfaction of reaction.

  Pretty easy. I'm numb, and my nipples are getting there.

  Allen appears pleased by my silence. “You'll react later, love.” His bright-blue eyes gleam with intent.

  I shudder.

  Simon rolls his eyes when Allen isn't looking, and I glare at him.

  Liar.

  I jump when a doorbell rings, playing a tune I almost recognize.

  Allen's face whips to the sound, his vague frown becoming a scowl. “Fucking hell. Who could this be?” He strides to a window, peering out. “You'd think Daddy Dearest would want this day free of interference.”

  His gaze pierces me. “Bring her downstairs. The judge will be here in two hours.”

  Simon walks over to where I've been forced to sit for Allen's sick perusal. Not that I was strong enough to stand. “Can you walk?”

  I stand, attempt to take a step, and sway.

  Simon wraps an arm around my waist.

  “Don't touch me.”

  “Sorry, sister—no can do.”

  I realize how stupid I was to think I had a chance to get away. Forget Allen's threats of harming the people I love.

  I'm not physically strong enough to break away.

  And I'm sure that was part of his plan. With a huff, Simon bends down, places his arms beneath my knees, and lifts me easily. “Simpler to carry you.”

  My head rests against his chest, and he says, “For the record, I do feel kind of sorry for you.”

  “Not enough,” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” he agrees with the faintest tone of regret.