Trainer

by Marata Eros

  I shut my eyes, listening to the whoosh of the elevator doors open then close.

  Then the dinging of the floors.

  Suddenly, the doors open, and a hand has encircled my wrist. The grip is painful enough to make my eyelids slam open.

  An icy-blue gaze meets mine. “Your fucking thug-on-demand boyfriend is here.”

  My eyes widen. What? Trainer?

  Fear thrills through me.

  “Set her down.”

  Simon does.

  Allen jerks me forward, and I moan from the pain of my casted arm slamming against my hip, and topple forward into Allen's hateful body.

  “I'm going to fuck you until you come apart. But I might make it easier if you put on a little show right now. Academy Award time, bitch.”

  He shakes me, and I open my eyes, head tipped back. His manic stare sears me. “Brett Rife is here. Tell him you don't give a shit about him, that you're with me and can't wait to begin our new life together.” He shakes me again, and Simon covers my mouth as I open it to scream in pain.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Fitzgerald. She's barely hanging on.”

  Allen incinerates Simon with a glare.

  “You can give me all the dirty looks you want, but Krista can't do both. You either beat her and she doesn't show her face—or you don't, and she performs the circus act you're demanding.” Simon lifts a strong shoulder. “One or the other.”

  Allen's teeth grind, as he clearly decides. “Fine.”

  Jerking me against his side by my good arm, he whispers fiercely, “Slap a smile on that pretty face, and stop acting weak and doped up.”

  Biting the inside of my lip is the only way to keep another round of tears from sprouting. I'm not acting. I couldn't beat my way out of a wet paper bag right now.

  How will I keep from bawling when I see Trainer? How will I be able to force myself to not run to him and throw myself at his feet, begging to be saved from the misery that will soon be my life?

  Because Allen will hurt Trainer if I do that. He has the means to do it, and Trainer can be made to disappear. His background will assure it.

  Dragging me behind him, Simon follows Allen. We walk what seems ten miles to a giant vestibule area, the part of the mansion with which I'm most familiar.

  We stop short before a huge sitting room. I know that's what they're called but this is so large it seems like a laughable distinction. One wall holds nothing but glowing wooden shelves with books stuffed inside.

  I decide it isn't too challenging to put on the act.

  Allen stops so abruptly, I have to cling to him for balance. A light sweat coats my forehead, and my stomach is empty of everything but the one and a quarter bowls of soup I slurped down. My heart races, fueled by adrenaline.

  Trainer stands quietly next to Noose.

  He's wearing clothes I've never seen before: a button-down shirt with pearlized buttons, tight jeans and beautiful hand-tooled boots.

  No club vests in sight.

  First, I wonder how he found me. Second, the longing inside my chest is so profound, I can't breathe—or think. How will I ever lie convincingly?

  Trainer's eyes aren't vulnerable or tender. They're hard as they run over my hand clinging intimately to Allen's arm.

  It's not what it seems, I yell mentally.

  Yet, I say nothing. Instead, I swallow my desire, fear, longing… and love like a bitter pill of unrequited want.

  “Well hello, Brett.” Allen's lips curl in a triumphant smirk, as he pets my hand clinging to his arm.

  Trainer says nothing, his eyes on me and only me.

  “Krista's car was dumped in front of Samantha Brunner's house. Nobody's seen her for almost forty-eight hours,” Noose explains.

  Allen slides his arm around my waist, subtly pinching my side. “Well here she is, safe and sound.”

  So unsound. So unsafe.

  I hitch a breath. “I'm fine,” I bark from a throat I've not spoken out of very much in the past two days.

  Noose frowns, as does Trainer, their eyes giving me mirrored sharp looks. “Blood was found on your car.”

  I lick my lip. “I fell.” My free hand goes to the two stitches I received before I woke up, then falls. “Allen saw that I received medical care at the ER.”

  I try on a smile of reassurance, and Trainer's face tightens at whatever expression I've managed. He looks from me to Allen then finally asks in a low voice, more a growl, “Are you all right, Krista?”

  Tears flood my eyes, but I nod, not letting a single one fall. “Yes.”

  Noose moves toward me.

  Don't! I shriek inside my brain.

  Simon intercepts him, hand to chest. “Close enough, tough guy.”

  Noose's lips curl, and the expression chills my blood.

  Simon's face hardens.

  Noose's pale-gray gaze studies me, missing nothing. “You don't look so hot, Krista.”

  He presses against Simon's palm.

  Simon staggers back a step from the pressure.

  “I got a concussion,” I say, figuring the truth is better than any fiction I can contrive.

  Suddenly Trainer is there, a gentle finger tucking underneath my chin, and his eyes meet mine. “Has he hurt you?”

  So much.

  “No,” I lie softly. “But he's the man I love, and we're getting married.”

  I feel blood burst from my heart, flooding my system with a grief so terrible it threatens to kill me.

  In that moment, a broken heart is not just an expression.

  Trainer moves back as though struck by my hand, and Allen's expression is frozen on his face.

  It says it all: I've won.

  Trainer's bright-green eyes have turned from wounded to devastated.

  There's nothing I can do to take it back. Not without Allen hurting him.

  Trainer will get over me. But he'll be alive.

  Noose makes a sound of disgust and slaps Simon's hand away. “Come on,” he says to Trainer, “leave her with this winner.”

  Noose's disdainful eyes rake over me, with the certainty of my eventual disloyalty. “They deserve each other.”

  Trainer nods, giving me another parting glance, then all I hear are the echo of his boots striking the marble floor as he walks out through the expensive, double front doors.

  Out of my life.

  I cry then. No one can stop me.

  At least I could save Trainer.

  But not myself.

  Chapter 32

  Trainer

  I slow as I descend the steep, winding ribbon of asphalt that leads away from the mansion.

  “Something ain't right,” I announce to Noose.

  He slides his jaw back and forth. “No shit. Probably starting with that bitch stomping on your heart. Talk about wearing stilettos while doing a tap dance? Fuck me!” he nearly shouts, tearing fingers through his hair and ripping out the tie, only to redo it in the next second.

  “No. I mean…” Hell, I don't know what I mean. “She didn't look right. Krista looked hurt.” Besides the obvious cast on her arm and the gash on her head.

  Noose stops, gives me a hard look, then whips his head back to the mansion. “Fuck it.” Yanking a pack of hard-top cigs outta his back pocket, he taps one out and nips it between his lips. He raises the lighter to his mouth, cupping a hand around the flame as it sprouts from the tip.

  His gaze pierces the fog of smoke he creates, finding me easily in the haze. Tipping his head back, Noose shoots a cloud into the air. “Surprised they let our crude asses into the house.”

  I was too.

  His face turns in my direction, only the profile showing.

  My eyes sweep back to the mansion, then toward the end of the long driveway. No one can see us from the house, and they can't see us from the gated entrance, either.

  “Blind spot,” Noose comments, tracking my thought process from my face alone.

  Been told I don't wear my feelings much. Noose is sharp. Watches everything. “Good.�
�� Don't want none of ʼem seeing me and Noose chew on the shit that just went down. I feel shaky. Off balance. Not throwing Krista over my shoulder and dragging her outta there took almost more grit than I got.

  “I say let it go. She's not into ya,” Noose says.

  Seemed that way. Left my guts up there in that house at her feet.

  But there was something there.

  I shift my weight. Fear.

  I know pain. I know scared. Seen it.

  Lived it.

  Got a nose for it.

  Krista didn't have the look of someone at ease. “Krista didn't seem settled.”

  “What does that mean?” Noose asks, quirking a brow and tapping an ash to the ground.

  I shrug. “Seemed like she was saying something, but her body and face didn't agree.” I shake my head. Can't explain shit good. “Maybe I'm such a pussy, and I want her so bad that I'm thinkinʼ there's still a chance.” My eyes flick to his, then quickly look away. “When there ain't none,” I end quietly. “But her saying she's gonna marry that fucker?” I shake my head. Doesn't add up.

  Noose's slow grin has me getting pissed off. “Don't you fuck with me.”

  My hands fist.

  “Not.”

  “Then what's with the look?”

  I plant my hands on my hips, ready to gouge his ass like the bull with a red flag waving.

  “Krista Glass might be up to something besides wanting that dumb fucker up there.” Noose jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mansion. “I suppose it's possible. She seemed pretty convincing, though, hanging all over that perverted fuck.”

  We agree on that at least. “Yeah.”

  “But what angle is she playing?” Noose spreads his arms wide, his heavy muscles bunching, and he does a slow spin, cig bobbing from his lips. He takes the butt outta his mouth, joint style, and says, “Thinking it's time for round two. Just to be a thorough mofo.”

  My heart starts to thump hard. I want Krista away from fucking Allen and to talk to her without other people around. “How could he make Krista lie? I mean—” I suck a tortured inhale. “If she is lying.” Maybe I'm off on this. Maybe Krista's like every other back-stabbing human being walking around.

  “Got something on her?” Noose shrugs. “Blackmail is the sweetest motivator.”

  “You said it yourself, she's a schoolteacher. Don't seem right.”

  Noose slowly nods. “Might have a checkered past.”

  I cross my arms. “You said she came from a good family, normal childhood, and all that shit.”

  “Yup. But Fitzgerald might have something. Holy fuck, he's got the means to dig up the world if he needed to. Look at it all.” Twisting my neck, I take in every square inch of the manicured grounds. “Yeah,” I agree quietly.

  “Something stinks,” Noose says, tapping his nose. “I can smell a growler of bullshit in an empty stadium.”

  I can't help but laugh, then I swallow hard. “Does this stink?” I ask, ashamed of the hope that flares deep inside me.

  He shakes his head. “I guess I was willing to believe the worst of her.”

  I wanted Krista so bad. Loved her. Know that now. I didn't even have to work myself up to wanting to kill Allen.

  Natural as breathing.

  Noose gives a brisk nod. “Reeks like ass, garbage, and ten-day-old rotten meat.” He smirks. “First impression was she dumped you for Allen's money and associations. But now… I think your gut might be right after all.”

  My shoulders sink. “What do we do? Got the place guarded like Fort Knox. And there's that big fucker in there…”

  “Fuck him. Goliath will go down hard. Those big suckers always do.”

  I want to hug him. My emotions are shredded. Instead, I raise my fist, and he bumps knuckles with me.

  “Gonna get the boys on board, then cruise back and get Krista alone. She'll talk. If Krista really wants Fitzgerald, we'll bow out. But I wanna hear it straight, without that weasel up her ass.”

  Noose dumps his spent cig, crushing it with the heel of his borrowed cowboy boot. He checks out the instep. “Nice shoes.” Noose winks, striding down the hill.

  I follow.

  Fear for Krista keeps my heartbeats rapid. I can't help but feel like we left her there in a den of wild animals to be torn apart.

  I feel like a coward.

  But Krista claimed she wanted Allen.

  My head hurts with all of it.

  Except for one thing that makes me believe there's a chance. Krista can't act worth a fuck.

  And her eyes begged me to go. Not for Allen. Could have sworn that look was all for me.

  Like she was protecting me from somethinʼ.

  That look alone would have had me coming here again.

  For her.

  *

  Krista

  I slump against Simon, and he props me against a couch.

  “That was a miserable performance.” Allen cups his chin, gazing critically at me. “I think the idiots bought it anyway. Sure didn't kick up a fuss about us showing them the door and the news of our impending marriage.”

  Allen chuckles as I fight throwing up for the millionth time.

  “All right!” Allen rubs his hands together. “The judge should be here in about…” He checks his wristwatch, a smug smile curling his lips. “One hour.”

  “I think it's safe to give her some real food,” Simon says. “The threat is gone, she'll be your wife in an hour, and her being able to stand during the ceremony is a plus.”

  Allen gives me a withering look, and I cringe. “All squeaky clean, but you have an empty spot in your belly?” His voice is baby-talk condescending, and a rush of anger boils up inside me.

  I hate him.

  I hold my breath, saying nothing. Visions of Abbi's death flow through my brain with a chaser of Trainer's decimated expression for extra torment.

  Whatever it takes, I will kill myself. At least I won't have to be with Allen. And I won't be alive to live in fear of his threats against my family and friends.

  Tears run as I think of never seeing the wonderful faces of my students again.

  My parents.

  Trainer.

  I weep, loud hitching sobs erupting out of me.

  “Shut up, Krista.”

  I can't stop. It's like a faucet's been turned on without any end in sight.

  My head rocks back as his open-handed slap stings my face.

  Tears dry, and sadness separates me from my body.

  “Boss,” Simon says.

  “Shut up. She's a wreck, and needs to pull up her big girl panties and deal with her imminent role.”

  How did Allen fool me for two years? Oh yeah, he took out all his sadistic urges on Abbi. With my good hand, I wipe the wetness and snot off my face.

  Maybe he was the only one I couldn't see.

  Simon wrinkles his nose. “Better get her fed. Don't want the judge to get the idea of not going through with things.”

  “Fuck,” Allen curses.

  Simon picks me up by my armpits and half-drags me into the kitchen.

  It's outfitted like a hospital. Every surface is medicinally white, lacking all warmth.

  Simon grabs a tissue box and sets it down in front of me. I honk out a few blows and toss the crumpled tissues on the sea of pure white marble.

  An older man sits at a grand table.

  A servant dressed in immaculate white clothing places several dishes at his elbow. With a small shake of his head, followed by a subtle nod, dishes are added and subtracted.

  His eyes catch mine, and hope surges. Maybe this man will see reason.

  “Hello, dear,” he says, turning the tines of his fork upside down and delicately stabbing a morsel of food off the fine china in front of him.

  Allen watches us quietly, arms crossed, mild scowl affixed to the serene insanity I've played witness to for the past two days.

  Licking dry lips, I implore him, “Please, sir, please help me.”

  He chews slowly, a
s though contemplating what I asked. “I'm afraid Allen is your future.”

  My attention shifts from Allen's smirk to the other man’s grim resignation. “What? Are you all insane?”

  The older gentleman inclines his head. “In an effort to keep that possibility at bay, we've taken careful measures to see that potential diminished.” He raises his fork. “However, one can't predict genetics. They are a wily part of the equation.” He chuckles, capturing another bite.

  Anger has my head up off my folded arms, and my eyes sharpen on the older man. “You're not making sense.” Tears of frustration fill my eyes.

  He bestows a benevolent smile on me. “Allen is my son.”

  My eyes shift to Allen. He raises an eyebrow and dips his chin in acknowledgement.

  “So?”

  “I am Orson Rothschild.”

  I shrug. “We've met before. I remember you. It's been forever since I saw you, and it was a brief introduction.”

  “Not as brief as the moment when you were born.”

  My mind spins, trying out all kinds of reasonable explanations for this newest insanity, attempting to solve his strange comment. Nothing fits.

  “Dear old Dad loves his riddles,” Allen comments in a bitter voice.

  “Too true,” Orson concedes. His sharp eyes find me. “Have you solved your part in our elaborate puzzle, my dear?” He takes a careful sip of ruby liquid from a crystal stemware.

  “No,” I whisper, but I'm sure it will be awful. I’m so sure of it, my body aches with dreadful anticipation.

  Orson looks at Simon. “Leave us.”

  Simon nods, glancing at me with a look of sympathy, and backs out the door.

  The solid mahogany plank of wood swings back into place and stills.

  Orson dabs the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, folds it neatly, and lays it on his mostly empty plate.

  “I am your father,” he announces in a bland voice.

  I laugh. “I have a dad, and he's great.” The unspoken you're not hangs between us.

  “I know.” Orson's smile is a ghosting of lips. “They were handpicked, your parents.”

  Blanching, I say, “Allen tried to tell me I was adopted. It's untrue.” My parents keep no secrets from me.

  “Don't fault them. It was part of the contract of your adoption. If they were to ever speak of your true lineage, their guardianship of you would be terminated, and you'd be relegated to state care. They were bound to silence because of their love of you. An excellent and circular manipulation. Very effective.”