Trainer

by Marata Eros

  I tap my polished nails on the desktop and check my roster for the fifty-second time. Jerk.

  Brett Rife was supposed to be here—glancing at my watch gets my panties in a twist—nineteen minutes ago.

  I knew this guy wouldn’t want to learn anything now, just like in high school, and waste my time.

  Hearing a low rumble that sounds faraway, I lift my chin off my hand. I wonder if that could be him.

  The sound grows louder, practically vibrating my teeth. Half-standing, I ask to the silent room, “What the hell is that?” Then it shuts off abruptly.

  I run to the door and peer through a slim rectangle section of glass bisected by a gridded diamond pattern of tempered glass.

  A big, beautiful black motorcycle gleams like an ebony dream in the empty lot. School is out for the day, and my sessions for my three students run from three in the afternoon until nearly eight at night.

  Brett Rife is the first.

  A huge guy dismounts, cleaving himself from the dark machine like he’s part of the machine. He appears to take stock of the bike then pockets something before turning in my direction.

  I jump back from the door as though caught and race back to the classroom, past the sign pinned neatly to the door that reads Special Session-Reading.

  He looked like a felon. Tatted, huge, and muscular. Why would someone like him need my class?

  That guy didn't look like he needed anything. Or anyone.

  Instant shame swamps me. I shouldn’t judge. Not being judgmental is one of my best features. It keeps me teaching instead of criticizing. However, Brett Rife was rude to not be on time.

  The steady gait of boots with thick tread strike the polished linoleum floor to the beat of my heart, and I sit behind my desk, rustling the useless papers I have in an attempt to look casual.

  My stack of phonics books, flashcards, and my beaten-up ruler are stacked neatly at the right side of my desk.

  He walks through the doorway—filling it—and stops dead center, his fingers turning white from the grip he has on the half-open door.

  Brett Rife is a beautiful man.

  Fine scars, in various stages of age, litter the surface of every bit of visible skin.

  His skin is magnificent, but it's his eyes that stop my breath, my thoughts, and my forward motion.

  They're such a pale green they appear translucent.

  He's so tall that there's nothing empty around him, just his body. I stand, because it's physically impossible for me to sit when someone that big is so near to me.

  I'm only five foot six, not short by any means, but I feel fragile compared to this monster of a guy.

  The more I stare into his eyes, the more I feel I know him. And his pain.

  Pain is what I see.

  Then the blinders sweep down over the expressive gaze that drills me where I stand. Not before I caught a glimpse of something, though. Something important. It vanishes with his will for it to remain hidden.

  “I don't want to be here any more than you do, so let's get the shit on the road.”

  Blinking, I sit down.

  He finds a chair in the front row, seats himself, tosses out his legs, and glares at me from hooded, swimmingly gorgeous emerald eyes.

  I jump when the door automatically clicks shut.

  He smirks at my reaction.

  Somehow, it makes me want to cry. Because that pain I saw? This is how he covers it.

  I see him.

  And Brett Rife will learn. Because that's my purpose on this earth.

  Chapter 6

  Trainer

  I manage to slip out after an all-nighter at the club without anyone asking me where in the actual fuck I'm going at three in the afternoon.

  Could be getting my cock waxed.

  Did a lot of that last night. I run a hand over my face. Still avoiding Crystal.

  There's something about a girl ignoring me then finally paying attention for reasons that shouldn't matter—I feel like shit for giving in.

  Crystal’s that way.

  I know every rider's had her. Just don't want to. I don't feel that special. And Crystal goinʼ after me just makes that dim fucking feeling of failure even sharper.

  Thanks to Judge, I'm finally getting to a point of feeling neutral at least. Thinking clearer in my head.

  Not talking like an idiot every single day.

  I straighten, popping my back as I tap the low ceiling of the club and survey the damage.

  Lots of shit I used to have to clean up. Not having to do it no more rocks.

  Guys are sprawled out like human carpeting with semi-naked chicks draped over them.

  I smile when Storm charges in, looking half-outta-the-bag, his kinky reddish-blond hair standing straight up on one side.

  “What?” he yells.

  A rider rolls to his side, displacing a girl without a top, and she yelps as she falls on the floor.

  With an arm swoop, he hauls her back onto his lap.

  I ignore the make-out session and turn to Storm, slipping my smartphone into my back pocket.

  “Why'd ya text, Trainer?” Storm is checking out the female flesh on display, barely paying attention.

  “You're on cum fest duty.”

  “No—shit! Come on… I'm hung like laundry. Barely keeping my chow down.”

  Know that one. Never mattered. “Don't matter. Gotta get outta here and see ta something. Get cleaning.”

  I turn around and walk toward the door, feeling kinda bad that Storm is doing the detail I was on barely a month ago. But I don't tell him that. I got a duty. That was made clear. Once I got patched in, that shit goes to the prospect.

  Hard though. I feel like I should still be doing that shit. Like I'm not good enough to be patched.

  Noose comes in as I'm leaving. He looks at the carnage over my shoulder and snorts a laugh. “Nice.”

  I nod.

  His eyes take in my seriousness, and he says so quietly that only I can hear, “Ya off to the teaching?”

  I nod again.

  He claps my shoulder, moving sideways to get through the door. We're about the same size. He works at it, whereas I'm just this way without much gym time.

  Been working my whole life. Got the muscle of survival to prove it.

  Noose turns again and studies my face. “See ya later.”

  He raises his fist, and we tap knuckles before he walks away without looking back, hollering something at Storm.

  Noose doesn't have any problem ordering prospects around. I smirk. At all.

  The sun strikes my face, and I stand in the ray until it passes, liking the warmth, the reminder that I'm still alive.

  But I'm putting off the teaching by stalling in the sun like a cat taking a nap.

  My bike sits with the others, gleaming because I wax her every other month. I copied Noose and got a Road King. Not that I'd ever say. Not many MC guys have these. They're mammoth and difficult to move.

  Don't care, though.

  Road Kings are built for two. Comfort. And someday I'll have a lady who will ride with me. Maybe.

  Being ballsy getting one. Like a lady would like me well enough to be with me.

  My fists clench, and I stride to my bike, give it a rough start, and pull out.

  Better get this over with. I’m late as fuck.

  The ride's great, late afternoon in early June that's unconvinced summer's around the corner. Don't like hot weather anyways.

  Clicking on the left blinker, I pull into the Martin Sortun parking lot. The words on the signs are all just jibberish, but I know the place.

  I kill the engine then listen to the ticks as it cools.

  Don't want this. This learning shit.

  I hike a leg, swinging it over the seat, and give a light bounce off my ride. Pocketing my keys, I walk toward the entrance to the school. I see a flash of something and slow, holding my hand over my eyes to shade them from the late-day sun.

  Must've been nothing. I guess. But I'm not much f
or seeing shit that's not there. Always had sharp eyes.

  I blast through the door, kicking it so hard that it hits the wall and bangs back.

  As I move through the school, the smell brings back pretty shitty memories of being teased for being slow.

  Judge doesn't miss a chance to remind me that the way I was raised made me believe I was stupid, and that I’m not actually don't have shit for brains.

  I go to the door marked with a sign. I look at the email that Judge sent and carefully check the letters there against the ones posted on the door. They match.

  Grasping the handle, I open the door then step inside.

  A beautiful girl sits behind the desk, and my heartbeats go pear-shaped, splitting and dividing, having erratic babies in my chest.

  I clamp down. Hard.

  But my eyes do their work, moving from a head with loose curls that spiral down to a small waist, great big tits, and what looks like a nice spread of ass.

  This lady, my teacher I guess, is too pretty to exist.

  So I do what I do when I'm scared. I get mad.

  She moves to stand, and my earlier glimpse confirms everything I thought. Perfect.

  “I don't want to be here any more than you do, so let's get the shit on the road,” I say more harshly than I mean to, but there's no taking it back.

  Lumbering to a desk, I plop down, kicking out my legs, and cross my shitkickers at the ankle.

  My heart's racing so hard, it's giving me a dull throb in my head.

  Her eyes are the same color as Noose's, but deep like a stormy ocean, and they don't look at me with hate. The way most eyes do. The ones that misunderstand me.

  “My name is Krista Glass.”

  Her voice is throaty, like she practices sounding sexy.

  I look away.

  Maybe she just is sexy, without the practice.

  The rustle of a skirt has me turning. Big flowers move with her as she walks toward a long rectangular table with two chairs.

  Krista carries a large stack of cards, books, and other shit and sets it carefully at the corner.

  “Those seats are for students during the day, Mr. Rife—not adults.” She stands patiently by the chair that's hers, fingers lightly holding the back of the empty one.

  For me.

  I stand then wade through emotional quicksand to reach her.

  She's a tiny lady. Maybe a foot shorter than me. But she's not afraid of my size. I can tell.

  I like that she's not afraid. Don't need to be.

  I don't hurt women.

  Krista pulls the chair away and sits in the one I thought was mine. “Here, you take the end one. That way you don't have to squeeze behind me.”

  She smiles again.

  I notice the table has us against the windows, facing the only door to the room.

  I like that too. Wanna see who comes and goes.

  “Why don't you tell me a little about your situation?”

  My face heats. “Can't read. That's my fuckinʼ situation.”

  Instantly, Krista says, “You can't read because you weren't taught or because you can't recognize letters?”

  My head jerks to her, and for an agonizing moment, I forget all my internal shit. A near first. “What do you mean?” I ask before I think about it.

  “I think you know.” Her eyebrow rises, and my gaze caresses the slight arch.

  I shrug. “I know what the letters are. I mean—I know that's a K,” I say with great hesitation, pointing to a flashcard that has a picture of a kangaroo with the letter K.

  My head starts to pound, and I rub my temples.

  “Headache?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that normal when you try to read?”

  I look at her again. “Are you testing me?”

  She nods. “I think I know why you can't read.”

  “ʼCause you think I'm dumb.” My voice is a low bass growl.

  Krista leans back, and my eyes go to her breasts then to her eyes.

  Everything is so beautiful, I don't know where to look first.

  Her lips curve into a smile. “Classically, people with dyslexia are pretty bright. But the disability can mask that.”

  “Hang on.” I hold up a hand, and she waits. “Dys-what?”

  “Dyslexia. It's where people see letters in the wrong order or direction. Often, teachers don't know enough to recognize the issue, and the child gets labeled as slow or learning disabled.”

  My mouth softens, and her eyes crinkle at the corners.

  Another thing I like about Krista Glass: her smiles are real, and they reach all the way to her eyes.

  “Can you…” I look down at all her books, flashcards, and paper and softly close my eyes, measuring my breaths. “Help me learn to read?” I finish on a whisper.

  Hate asking for anything.

  “Yes, Mr. Rife, I can.”

  I open my eyes, and she’s still staring at me.

  She's an unguarded lady. People could hurt her because she doesn't see it. Krista's not had the pain.

  The bad.

  That makes me happy. That there's a person in this world who hasn't. Gives me hope that not everyone has Arnies in their life.

  My eyes travel her face.

  I'd kill an Arnie that touched her, I decide easily.

  “Sorry I came on so strong.” I hike a thumb back at the door.

  Krista shakes her head with a smile, and soft rich brown hair tumbles around her shoulders. “It's okay. To tell you the truth, I'm so nervous to do this new job, it wouldn't have mattered what you said.”

  I jerk my head back. “Why?” How could anyone like her be nervous of anything? How can she admit how she feels?

  “I've only taught young kids. I don't know if I can do as well with adults my age. But”—she puts her palms out, and I fight the urge to take her hands—“I love trying.”

  There's that smile again.

  *

  I'm trying really, really hard.

  But being next to Krista smelling so good makes me think of eating her from the pussy out.

  Pretty fucking distracting.

  I like the learning, though. I suck at it, and the process makes me kind of start a sweat goinʼ, but for the first time ever, I understand words. Some.

  “See this sight word?” Krista asks, pointing to a jumble of letters.

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember what I told you about sight words, Brett?”

  I haven't told her I'm MC yet. My road name will be on the way out of here.

  I glance at the clock. Five minutes left. Feels like that's all the time I've been here.

  Goes fast next to Krista Glass.

  “Yeah. They're words that can't be sounded out. Gotta memorize them. The combinations.”

  She smiles.

  I'd kill to see that again. I'll dream about her smile tonight.

  “That's right,” she exclaims, lightly touching my shoulder. The contact makes my dick get hard.

  Not now, I tell it. But it has a mind all its own. Stays hard.

  Great.

  “I don't want to overwhelm you for your first day. Actually, I believe you don't have a very severe case.” She appears pensive for a moment, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, and I hold back a lustful sigh. “I'm wondering why no one picked up on your dyslexia for all those years. It's puzzling.”

  Probably because school wasn't a priority. I went when the Arnies weren't around and stayed home when they were.

  Someone had to protect Mama.

  “Don't know,” I answer honestly enough.

  Krista stands. “Got to wrap this up. I have Corina next, and she has more challenges than you.”

  I lift my eyebrows, and she grips my bicep. “You'll be reading inside of two weeks, Brett.”

  “Actually, my name is Trainer.”

  “Oh…” She seems flustered, looking at some scribbled words I can't read on a sheet of paper on the long table. “I didn't get that nickname. I'm sorry
.”

  “No big. It's what I like.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “I won't forget, Trainer.”

  Me, either.

  Krista Glass is unforgettable.

  We walk to the door. I feel light, like I'm floating.

  A mousy chick opens the door just as I reach to open it, and her breath catches at the sight of me.

  She's got a massive tick in one eye and rushes in, practically running to the same desk I sat down in.

  Krista and I exchange a glance, and I get what she was saying before. Everybody's got something.

  I move to step out, and a tall dude in a suit almost runs into me. I sidestep, gracefully avoiding a crash. For a big dude, I move like liquid.

  “Excuse me,” he says. His voice is cultured. Formal. Smart.

  All the good feelings I had with Krista fly away like released pigeons.

  He doesn't notice. Too busy checking out Krista.

  “You look beautiful.”

  Krista's skin flames to a deep pink. She seems uncomfortable.

  I hesitate. It's crystal clear she knows this guy.

  But, my instincts fire off. Don't know why. Never mattered much. They've always been spot on.

  “Thank you, Allen.”

  Stupid name.

  He cocks his head at me. “Would you excuse us?”

  Krista glances inside where Psycho Tick is sitting, looks at me, then looks at Allen.

  “Um, this is Br—Trainer. He's a student, and Corina is waiting for me inside. It's not the best time, Allen.”

  “I see,” he says.

  I know that tone. He's pissed and doesn't see anything. Nothinʼ at all.

  “Since when did you start teaching adults?” Allen turns and studies me like an insect tacked to a science board.

  Don't like this fancy dick.

  “Allen, this is all pretty sudden. Maybe we can talk later,” Krista says, putting her hand on his arm.

  Don't like that, either.

  He pulls away.

  “I don't appreciate not being in the loop, Krista—and the audience.” Allen angrily hikes his chin at me.

  “It's not Trainer's fault. He's within his rights to be here and be taught. I'm on teaching time, and I have to begin.” Krista wrings her hands. “It's my first day,” she adds in a low voice.

  “Okay.” Allen clenches bright, perfectly straight teeth. “Call me later.”