by Marata Eros
Allen smirks.
“But I go with. I'm not letting you alone with Trainer's girl, no matter what bullshit slides out of that hole you got for a mouth. It's all brown and stinks to me.”
Allen's face tells me he's up to something.
But Noose will see it.
Krista takes ahold of my ruined shirt already stiffening with blood. “Don't leave me alone with him.”
The urge to cry sweeps through me, like smelling rain before a storm.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Pain rushes in where agony was a moment before.
I gasp out an answer, filling the void caused by emotions I'm not used to having. “Noose will be with you.” Never had physical pain from words before.
Krista searches my face, and I see the defeat in hers.
Holding the stare is the bravest thing I've ever done. Keeping my eyes on a face I love, not sure if it loves me back.
“Because you murdered someone.”
There's more to it than that. But words aren't there in the front of my brain like everyone else's. So I use the simplest one. “Yeah.”
“Set me down, Trainer.”
I do, carefully—like she's made of glass. Krista yelps, cradling her arm as new tears stream down her face.
The men walk down the stairs. Allen first, I notice.
Noose’s eyes meet mine. “Gonna be okay, Trainer.”
“Doesn't feel like it,” I admit as Allen breezes past me like we didn’t just go hard.
Only fought a few guys who put the judo moves on me. Didn't expect it from this douche. Packaging doesn't match the man. Sneaky fuck.
Keeping my arm around Krista, I reluctantly hand her off to Noose.
Her skin is pale like chalk.
Noose takes one look at her. “Shock.” He knocks her off her feet with a well-placed arm behind the knees, catching her and lifting at the same time.
“Hey,” she protests weakly, “I can walk.”
“What's wrong with her?”
Noose looks at her wrist. “Spiral fracture. Lots of pain. Slipping into shock.”
Allen glares, spinning on his heel. He strides to a BMW.
My soul flares like a sun spot. I recognized the letters. I mean, I knew it was a BMW using what Krista said is memorized visual cues. But to read it?
In the middle of this mess, with my girlfriend's wrist busted—I can read.
I jog after Noose and Krista.
Grabbing her good hand, I whisper, just for her, “I read something just now.”
The corners of her lips pulse once before her eyes flutter closed.
Straightening, Allen and I lock glares over the roof of the car. “This isn't through.”
No it ain't. I back away, wanting to be with Krista so bad, it's a well of raw pain.
Glancing back at Allen, I realize I want him dead more.
Noose sees our silent exchange and jerks his head to the right. “Head to the club. Tell the Prez what's what.”
He bends, sliding Krista into the back seat of the BMW. She curls into a fetal position, and he carefully shuts the door.
Noose moves around the back of the car, eyes his ride sitting there next to mine, and sighs before slipping in next to Krista.
Noose being there or not, it's so hard to watch that prick back out of the slot and drive away with my lady.
It should be me taking her to the hospital.
Because an Arnie is in charge, and people get hurt with Arnies.
And I got a feeling Allen Fitzgerald is a really bad one.
*
Krista
Lifting my arm, I admire the ugly cast. They gave me a choice of color, and I chose charcoal gray. I'm pretty sure it's going to look filthy pretty quickly, so the dark color seemed the best option for the almost two months I'll have it on.
Sam says, “Sit still.”
Carefully, she prints her name after the phrase she put on my cast.
I read it, letting the thing drop onto my lap. “It's a good thing that a lot of my students can't read well.”
Proof that I need to watch where I'm going is printed neatly across the longest and flattest part of the cast. In light-colored, metallic ink.
I groan.
“Hurt?”
I shake my head. “Well, yes. But they gave me joy juice.” I lift my other arm. Clear tubing runs from the crook of my elbow to a bag of happy liquid hanging from a tall metal hook thing with wheels.
“Where's the prick?”
“Allen?” I whisper back.
Sam nods, her topknot of thick curly hair bobbing with the motion. “Of course him.” She caps her pen, slapping it on the side table that serves as both tray and nightstand.
“He's out in the hall.”
Sam's lips curl in satisfaction. “I like Trainer's work on his face.”
I look away. I can't face telling her. Just when I thought I'd found someone extraordinary…
“Okay, so tell me what happened. I just got the Reader's Digest version.”
I take a deep breath, and Sam helps me get water from a bendy straw before carefully setting it at my bedside table when I've had enough.
It takes me a half hour to do the total gut spill.
Sam slumps in the chair. “I couldn't make this shit up. It's like a reality show.”
Frowning, I shake my head. “It's my life, Sam. I mean, I knew about the thing with the guys—the possible court date—the very reason why Trainer needed to ʻimprove himself.ʼ I got all that. I knew he was rough around the edges. That's not unusual with my students, really.”
“But you don't judge people.” Sam flings a palm out.
Annoyed, I exhale loudly. “No, a big character flaw, I guess.” Allen comes to mind. I should have judged that one a lot more.
“No.” Sam takes my hand. “It’s your best trait.”
We sit quietly for a time.
“Now what?” Sam asks.
“Trainer being a murderer isn't probably something I can move past. I'll finish our schooling—there's still four weeks left. But beyond that, I can't do romance. Not with all that. I'll be like a heroine in a bad soap opera.”
Sam winces, clearly visualizing it.
“I'm sure you've already considered how weird it was that Allen knew about Trainer's past.”
“He must've looked into it,” I say, playing with the sky-blue silky trim of the hospital blanket.
“And that's not weird?”
Lifting my eyes to Sam's, I reply, “Yeah. But I think we've already established that Allen is…”
“Has a screw loose. I mean, he shows up at your house, wanting to talk again.” Sam raises her eyebrows. “Unless you were just glossing over details with me, and you actually didn't make a clean break.”
Lifting my good hand, I cross my heart. “I was crystal clear.”
Sam inclines her head, causing her curly topknot to flop forward. “Okay, so Allen comes by and wants to ramrod his agenda to get back together, and you're not into it.”
A small laugh slips out. “So not into it.”
“He gets rough.”
I'm silent.
Sam's eyes sharpen on my face. “Has he been rough before?”
I don't know what to say.
“Krista?” Her hushed use of my name tells me she understands I've not been completely transparent about Allen and me.
“The last time we were… together—he hurt me.”
Sam's face morphs to horror.
I try to clear this part up. “Ah, I mean it was consensual, the sex. But the rough stuff, I told him to stop.” I swipe a tear, not realizing until just that moment how much I hadn't wanted what he did that night.
“Why didn't you tell me he was a fucker in the sack?”
I laugh. “I think he's just a fucker. Period.”
“Duh,” Sam says softly, her eyes brimming with sympathy, which makes me have a mini pity party. “God, I didn't know.”
I lift my shoulder. “It's over. And
after the ugly things he said about the kids I teach—and Trainer—I know how he really feels inside. He doesn't respect me, what I do, or what I’m trying to accomplish. Allen thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.”
“In the world,” Sam corrects, heaving a disgusted sigh.
I can only nod.
“But he knew something about Trainer.” Sam gives me a pensive look, chewing her lip. “I can find out the details of this.”
We exchange a heavy look.
“It doesn't really matter in the end. Whoever Trainer killed, he didn't think I was important enough to tell. He should have.”
Sam shakes her head. “But his actions, Krista. He's like this big defender of Krista—the biggest—besides me.” She blows on her fist and pretends to polish it on her shirt above her breastbone. “He's beautiful and strong, vulnerable and honest. He's all this yummy maleness, and you'd say no to that because of this past event from a long time ago?” Sams eyes roll to the ceiling. “I guess event doesn't cover it, right? It's murder.”
Definitely a deal breaker. I wipe more tears. “No, I'd get rid of him because Trainer didn't think I could handle the hard truths.”
Sam huffs. “Not pretty lies.”
I nod. “It's something my parents always told me. Ugly truths is what we want.”
“Not pretty lies,” Sam repeats like a mantra.
“Yeah,” I agree softly.
“This is going to be hard,” Sam says.
“You have no idea.”
Sam silently takes my hand, and with her free one, she closes the space between her thumb and index until they're almost touching. “A little idea.”
We don't talk anymore. Sam gives me the silent comfort she's so great at.
She leaves when Noose enters. He scowls at Sam as they pass each other, and Sam sticks out her tongue when she's nearly to the door.
Noose snorts.
Then he turns to me, and I almost can't meet his gaze.
But I do.
Chapter 21
Trainer
Noose leads me down the narrow hospital corridor, as far away from Allen Fitzgerald as humanly possible.
Noose slings an arm around me. “Listen up, ya morose fucker.” His eyebrows hike. “Why are you here, for starters?”
“Can't stay away. Allen's here, and Krista's hurt.”
Noose nods. “Solid, but ya gotta think, man. What would Judge say?”
He'd be pissed. “He'd tell me to stay away so I can't be tied to this.”
Noose steps back as he spreads muscular arms away from his body. “ʼKay. So you're here, why?”
I huff out a frustrated exhale. “I wanna explain shit to Krista. She doesn't know why I murdered Arnie. Allen's a fucking prick. He wants her, so he tells Krista just enough info to make her think I been holdinʼ out, being dishonest. Krista don't like liars.”
Noose grips my shoulders. “I love ya. You know this. But get the fuck outta here, Trainer. Let me handle shit with Krista.”
I stare at him. “She told me how you handled stuff. I don't like it.”
Noose squeezes my shoulders hard then releases me. Shooting out a raw breath, he hunts around for cigarettes, finds them, and sighs again, probably realizing he can't smoke in a hospital. “Yeah, coulda gone better. But here's the thing: you know I gave her the talk because I don't want some broad workinʼ ya over, yes?” Noose studies my face to see if I'm gettinʼ his motivation.
I nod.
“It's better that I'm here when that fuck Allen is too, right?”
Hell, yes. “Yeah.”
“Figured there had to be something good in this shit mess. And Allen is a cunning fuck. Girl doesn't want him. He presses, she gets in the mix of shit going down. Accidental, but the facts are: Krista's hurt, and we don't know enough of what went down between them before me”—he thumbs his chest—“and you”—he lightly taps my sternum—“blew in there.”
“I know it ain't good.” I hesitate for a sec, thinking of her face when I got to the top of those stairs, when Allen had her pinned against her own door. “And she's scared of him.”
Noose looks at me. “What's your gut tellinʼ ya? Because this prick is smooth. He convinces juries every day that his criminals are innocent. Fitzgerald is smart. And very, very rich.”
I raise an eyebrow. Sure he is, being a lawyer.
Noose nods. “Got some feelers out. Not enough to know the whole story. Pretty cloaked, his history. But he comes from a family who has billions. That little factoid is not well known. Uses his mother's maiden name.”
“But you found out.”
Noose hikes his shoulders. “The devil's in the details.”
Cocking my head, I give him a razor-sharp stare. “Does Krista know?”
“Doubt it. Lover Boy doesn't want people knowing he's related to Tycoon Daddy.” Noose smirks.
“I don't want to make Krista sound bad,” I begin.
“Can't,” Noose says. “Got her vetted. Nice girl from a nice family. Kinda a Pollyanna type, but there's worse shit to be guilty of.”
I smirk. “But I gotta ask—why wouldn't a lady stay with a guy for all that money?”
“Most would.”
But not Krista. My eyes move down the hall to where I know her room is.
Noose and I exchange a glance. “Maybe we need to find out why she dumped Allen. Because she's only dated him and some other guy from high school. Girl doesn't get around.”
Heat climbs my neck, and I grab my nape. Talking about Krista feels like a breech of loyalty or something. Hate it.
“Hey—settle, Trainer. Krista's a nice girl, but we're boot deep in shit right now. We got a possible court date for you because of those assholes you worked over. You gotta finish your class.”
True. “Yup. That's not up for negotiation.”
Noose's eyebrows pop at the fancy word I used, realizing it wasn't so hard after all. “Excellent. So we're together on this. You get the fuck outta here, let me handle Krista, set shit straight because you being here—it's suicide. If I were that prick, Allen? I'd already have called the cops and tried to blame you for Krista’s broken wrist.”
The first wail of sirens breaks out like a symphony in the distance.
Noose whirls. “Damn! I hate being right all the time.” He shoves me through a side entrance to the morgue. “Storm's outside in the club truck. Get in there and lay down!” he hisses.
I run for the hammered pick-up. Storm's eyes widen in the rearview mirror just before I yank open the back door and heave myself, Superman-style, onto the long bench seat.
Storm cranes his neck around. “What?”
“Shudup,” I hiss.
“Oh shit,” Storm says as cops begin to pour into the hospital I just came out of.
“Yeah, that.”
“I'm gonna take off,” Storm announces, beginning to back out.
And they think I'm the dumb one.
*
Krista
Cops file into my hospital room just as Noose perches on the narrow rolling stool Sam occupied at my bedside.
“What?” I ask, sitting straight up in bed. “What’s going on?”
“Brett Rife?” A cop bellows, placing his right hand on the butt of his weapon.
“Nope,” Noose says, crossing his arms and slowly spinning in the stool. His eyes hood as he stares at the lead cop.
I don't have any idea how Noose has made it this far. He seems to relish in unraveling people.
“ID!” a second cop commands.
Noose takes his time, searching every pocket until he gives a sardonic grin. “Oh yeah, must be in my back ass pocket.”
“Where everyone else's ID always is,” one of the cops mutters sarcastically.
“This man isn't Brett Rife,” I say.
The cops look at me for a full second then bring their attention back to Noose.
He flips the wallet out and chucks it at the cop with a hovering hand above his gun. Deftly catching it, he gi
ves Noose a withering look before reading whatever's in there.
“Sean King, age thirty, six feet four inches—” he gives Noose swift appraisal—“two-forty.”
The cop throws it back.
Noose raises his hand, and the wallet sort of folds into it from thin air.
He's got the reflexes of a cat.
The cops exchange an uneasy glance after that little maneuver.
“Do you know Brett Rife?” one asks.
“Trainer? Yeah,” Noose says in a bored way, relaxing into the narrow stool.
“Did Brett Rife harm this woman?” They look to me then back at Noose.
Unbelievable. I raise my hand. “Hello?” I wave it back and forth, and the cops turn their attention to me. Finally. “I'm ʻthis woman.ʼ For the record, my name's Krista Glass. Trainer's my boyfriend. I fell. I was not pushed, and Trainer didn't physically assault me.”
The cop appears almost disappointed. “Did anyone physically assault you, Miss Glass.”
Allen, my mind offers. “No.”
The cop picks up on my one-second hesitation because they're trained to do that. What I didn't expect was Noose's subtle acknowledgment of the same thing.
Tension that had been building suddenly begins to dissipate. “My ex-boyfriend, Allen Fitzgerald?”
The cops exchange another look. “Yes?”
“What can I do to arrange a restraining order against him?”
They tell me.
I'm going to do that the minute I get out of here.
I should be scared of Trainer because he's a murderer.
But Allen scares me more.
*
The cops are finally gone.
They couldn't find Allen, either. Noose had signed me in, and Allen disappeared in the meantime.
For now.
“This Allen is a real prick,” Noose states the instant the cops have left the building.
I fold the paper the hospital printed out for them: instructions to file a restraining order.
“The irony that I'd have to file a restraining order against an attorney.” I shake my head, using my good hand to bring my ice water to my mouth and use my index finger to guide the straw to my lips. Cool water slides down my throat, and I breathe a contented sigh, settling back against the plumped pillows. The dull ache of my wrist is beginning to get through all the meds they're giving me.