Trainer

by Marata Eros

  “Explain.”

  I do, in great detail.

  Orson captures a jaw artificially unsoftened by age between a curled index and thumb. “This poses a problem.”

  I jerk my head back, snorting derisively. “Don't pretend you care about me gaining your billions.”

  Orson hits me with a look of disgust. “It's not about the money, fool. My fortune has always been a tool of manipulation to perpetuate the family lines. There are very few females who will do.”

  I search his face. He’s bluffing, but about what isn’t clear. Suddenly, a slow realization dawns. “This is about the family fortune. If I do not marry a predetermined female, you lose the money too.”

  His silence tells me I’m right.

  Having the upper hand for perhaps the first time in my life, I move in for the metaphorical kill. My experience as an attorney is no small thing in tightening the rope around his neck.

  “What clause or loophole is attached to our family's money?”

  My father turns on his heel, moving to a thirty-foot-long set of custom-built bookshelves that span the entire wall. A ladder that reaches ceiling hooks onto a solid copper rod across the top of the bookshelves. Instead of climbing the ladder, Orson rolls the wheeled ladder out of the way and pulls out the Holy Bible about halfway up.

  As the books spine tips outward, the entire bookshelf slowly swings open to reveal a dim room.

  Sudden brightness bursts to life as minuscule LED lighting illuminates a huge vault. I follow Orson across the threshold.

  Curiosity killed the cat.

  *

  The room appeared bigger from the vantage point of the library. However, since it's use is nothing more than a vault, the space doesn't need to be large.

  The darkened area is roughly circular, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. Vaults of many sizes run floor to ceiling, touching one another in a more or less jigsaw array.

  Some look antique. Some modern.

  “What is this?”

  Orson says without turning. “What does it look like?”

  Secrets kept. Out loud, I guess, “Something I won't like.”

  “Oh, I don't know. I've come to admire the precepts of our ancestors. Though it does cause certain dilemmas.”

  I don't know what the fuck he's talking about, but Orson has always spoken in riddles. It's probably the singular thing that made me such a gifted attorney. My God-given bloodthirsty nature didn't hurt, either.

  “You ask why it's so critical that you marry Krista Glass.”

  I just stare at him, waiting. Orson adores the sound of his own voice, so I'm certain he'll answer all my questions when he's ready.

  He turns back to the oldest-looking safe in the room and with a few practiced turns of his wrist, he silently opens the smooth, round door.

  He extracts a single rolled piece of paper.

  Striding to a table that sits in the exact center of the room, he carefully unties the ribbon that surrounds the middle and unfolds it.

  I was wrong—it isn't a single sheet.

  There are many of the same size.

  “These are copies, of course. The originals have faded but were copied over a hundred years ago to preserve them.”

  “A fucking family tree?” I laugh. Not a small chuckle but a genuine belly laugh.

  “Foul language doesn't become you, Allen.”

  I roll my eyes. “Your good opinion doesn't matter. You've made that abundantly clear.”

  Our eyes meet, and I don't shift mine away. He's made me what I am, and he can deal with it.

  “I pay for your playthings,” he states.

  I feel a cruel smile take over my face. “It's kept precious Krista safe.”

  Orson's chin rises, and even in the artificial lights of the strange room, his eyes appear to be lit from within.

  That used to spook me when I was younger. But I'm all grown up now and am a diagnosed sociopath.

  Orson should be intimidated by me.

  “Take a look.” He taps the family trees.

  I step forward and peruse the oldest. Blah, blah blah. Johnny begat Samuel who begat…

  Wait a second.

  The same surnames come up over and over again.

  Quickly, I move the oldest sheet aside and scan the next. Then the next.

  And on.

  Seven sheets later, I raise my eyes to Orson.

  “This was done on purpose.”

  Orson nods.

  “This is the most fucked up scenario of history I've ever seen.”

  My father's shrug is a practiced roll of shoulders, an answer without answering.

  My fist pounds the table once, and the injuries sustained from dealing with that idiot Krista is fucking sing through to my shoulder. “I see the last name is Krista's?”

  Orson nods.

  “What kind of sick fuckery is this, Dad?” I say with thinly veiled sarcasm.

  “You share the same father.”

  I blanch. I have slept with a relative? I glance back at the family tree—with branches so incestuous I can't follow them. Essentially, it’s a tree without branches. Finally, his words hit me like a sucker punch. “You are Krista's father?”

  Orson nods. “Yes, and we cannot let a drop of Rothschild or Fitzgerald blood escape.”

  “You were trying to get me to marry my half-sister.”

  Orson lifts a shoulder. “I was not so lucky. I was married to your mother, and she was only a second cousin.”

  “Lucky?” My voice holds a hysterical shriek.

  “Calm down, Allen.”

  “I can't calm down. There are almost four billion women for me to choose from, and you directed me toward a relative, a close one.”

  “It is the way it has always been since time immortal.” His eyes peg the seven sheets. “Centuries are represented here, Allen. This gives tradition new meaning.”

  I blast my fingers through my hair. “Why?” I demand. “Convince me.”

  “Do you want to inherit over fifty billion dollars?”

  “Yes,” I answer instantly. “What kind of inane question is that?”

  Orson is silent.

  “You mean I have to marry and have offspring with my own sister?”

  Orson nods. “It shouldn't take much to convince her. And what is very nice is that I went outside of family lines to impregnate her mother, thereby insuring a certain”—he waves his palm in a loose circle—“longevity to the lines.”

  “No, that's not it,” I say slowly, “it's more along the lines that you didn't want the potential for recessive calamity to take us all down.”

  Like insanity or inherited disease risk. Ten fingers instead of ten toes.

  “You're sick,” I hiss from between my teeth.

  Orson smiles. “But very, very rich.”

  “Why would our ancestors want a tree so polluted by the same blood?”

  “We feel…” Orson chuckles, placing a tender finger to the oldest sheet. “That our family is superior because of our pure blood.”

  He lets me think it through. Seconds pound into long minutes as I review Krista and what she has to offer:

  Billions of dollars.

  A fine, fuckable cunt. And wasn't that delectable fear I saw in those perfect charcoal eyes? Yes, yes it was.

  “Fine,” I bite out. “I'm in.”

  “Magnificent,” Orson says, his face brimming with my inevitable answer.

  “One question.”

  His eyebrow rises.

  “Is Krista the only relative I can have? Are there any more female bastards out there running around without knowing they carry the precious Fitzgerald or Rothschild bloodlines?”

  Orson's chin hikes arrogantly. “None. And so you're aware, every woman you've put your seed inside is dead, save one.”

  This revelation should surprise me.

  But it doesn't.

  Father had hundreds put down like dogs. Because they didn't have the perfect genetic stock.

  �
�Who was Krista's real mother?”

  “That's two questions,” Orson smiles, but it's more a baring of teeth.

  “Yes,” I grit.

  “She was a very distant cousin. A Rothschild. A woman who thought she could escape our family.” He tsks.

  “How'd that work out for her?”

  Orson's glittering eyes meet mine, and we smile at each other.

  “Badly.”

  Chapter 24

  Krista

  Noose was dead wrong.

  Having my left arm in a cast is still a pain in the ass, regardless of my wiping abilities. Yes, I can do all the basics, but it's like hauling around dead weight.

  I feel klutzy, because I am.

  Not only that, I'm also nervous. I'm going to see Trainer today, and I haven't worked out how I feel.

  Noose put me on notice, again. I filled out the paperwork for the restraining order, but I haven't had the time to drop it off at the local police station.

  And even though I completely understand my broken wrist was an accident, a niggling part in the back of my head tells me that if Trainer and I weren't involved, it wouldn't have happened.

  On the other hand, that might be an unreasonable dot I'm connecting. Allen's true colors showed in part, only because of my new relationship with Trainer.

  But what if there wasn't any Trainer?

  What if I'd chosen to overlook Allen's dull performance in bed and given him a second chance?

  Remembering the expression of disgust and disdain on Sam's face, I decide a second chance never would've worked. Allen didn’t respect me the last time we made love. He'd just taken from me. Actually, looking back, he never respected any of my feelings or choices. I was living in Allen's World.

  I have enough respect for myself to know that his behavior wouldn't be acceptable long-term. There's no apologizing his way out of our last sexual encounter. Mainly because he doesn't get it. And if I have to explain it to him—well, that defeats everything. He'll never see his issues—or ours.

  Shifting my weight in my chair, I dump my forehead in my good hand and huff out a pissed-off exhale. I'm still angry about all the things he said about my students. Allen might be an attorney with a nice bankroll, but he's ignorant of what I do for a living, though I've talked about my work extensively.

  That just means Allen never listened. Not really. He wasn't motivated to because he didn't care.

  The fingers of my left hand dangle out of my full-hand cast, and I make small circles on the long, banquet style table.

  My stomach's in knots.

  I haven't talked to Trainer since yesterday. I'll never forget his eyes as they watched Noose put me in Allen's car.

  I understand why he couldn't be at the hospital with me.

  But my heart ached with his absence and the unanswered questions.

  It's none of my business, really. But Allen made it my business when he blurted out the M word.

  Murderer. I sweep my eyes over the empty classroom, noting the familiar items: whiteboard, erasable markers, and a world globe. That ubiquitous smell that permeates every school covers them all.

  I got here the minute the Martin Sortun emptied. I needed time to get my head cleared before Trainer comes. My plan’s not working, though.

  The door bursts open, and my eyes fly up as I jump in my seat. I groan as the movement jars my arm.

  Sam runs in. Tiny diamond stud earrings wink as her hair falls away from her face and her vibrant purple tunic-length top floats around her hips.

  She's out of breath, eyes frantic. “Krista!”

  This can't be good. “What—what are you doing here, Sam?” I ask, slowly rising. I know for a fact she's got court today.

  “I remember him.”

  My eyebrow flies up. Huh? “Who?”

  “Brett Rife.”

  Oh. “Tell me.” I wince when my fingers grip the edge of the table, zinging pain up my arm.

  I let the cast drop to my side like a log.

  “His records are sealed, but I was the stenographer.” Sam hops up and down like a jumping bean. “I don't think I would've remembered, except it was my very first case after graduating.” She pushes her wild hair behind her shoulders.

  “I knew I knew that name!”

  Should I wait to ask Trainer? I glance at my watch. Half-hour until he walks through that door.

  I bite my lip and meet Sam’s eyes.

  “You're killing me, Krista,” Sam says, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a rush. “Don't you want to know what really went down?”

  I do. So badly. But like Noose said, it's Trainer's story to tell.

  “Just answer me this,” I say finally, after we've stared at each other a full minute. “Did the guy deserve it?”

  Sam gives a vigorous nod. “Twice.”

  The air seeps out of me like a popped balloon.

  “Brett Rife is one damaged dude, Sam. I love what you tell me about him, and what he does for you, but his history goes way beyond not being able to read.”

  Heaving a sigh, I realize I never slowed down long enough to examine our pasts. We worked—meshed or just had general compatibility—and now my lack of concern is going to bite me in the ass.

  Especially since I'm pretty sure I love him.

  “His mom's a prostitute.”

  My chin jerks up. “What?”

  “Yeah, a real class-A winner, jumped from guy to guy his whole life. He never had a dad. It's all in his file, the testimony his lawyer gave.”

  My mind's eye flows over Trainer’s muscled skin, littered with the scars of past abuse, and I close my eyes, leaning my fingers against the table as my head droops. When I open my eyes, my vision is clouded with tears begging to be released.

  “His absentee record for school is shocking. It's no wonder he can't read. It's a wonder Trainer's functional at all.”

  An image of him raised above me, pumping into my body with single-minded purpose makes my panties wet. My heart races, and my hands dampen.

  Trainer is so functional. In all the ways that matter. The ways that count in life.

  Sam walks over to where I stand, my eyes glued to the faux-wood tabletop.

  I don't lift my eyes, but her words strike me like blows.

  “You can't keep him for his big cock, Krista—like an exotic pet. He's a murderer, even if the latest jerk his mom picked deserved it.”

  A noise has my eyes shifting to the door.

  Trainer fills the space, his big body taking up every inch. His presence uses the oxygen I need to breathe.

  And I can't breathe…

  Sam stares at me. “Oh shit, he's here,” she says quietly, eyes riveted to my face.

  I give a sad, numb nod. “Yes,” I whisper.

  Needing to fix this mess, I move around the table. “Trainer.”

  Trainer holds up a hand. “That's okay, Krista.” His icy-green eyes drift to Sam. “I guess you're gonna believe whatever your friend says.”

  “No!” I cry.

  Sam gives me a sharp look.

  I split my attention between the two of them. Damn.

  “I mean—I listen to Sam, but I was going to ask you directly.”

  “You didn't, though, Krista,” Trainer states.

  He's right.

  I should have just told Sam to hold back until I could speak with Trainer. She could have filled in his version with whatever he needed to say then or later. I walk to him slowly, reaching for him with my good arm, and he pulls away, hurt etched in his eyes.

  I put that there.

  Talking to Sam shredded his trust.

  Then I think of Allen and how that might seem. Him being at my condo. Us “talking.” Maybe it all looks like I'm just playing him. It might add up to him in a bad way.

  “I'm not playing you,” I blurt.

  Trainer nods, then he turns his attention to Sam. “Guess you told her about Arnie. That you know somethinʼ, somehow.”

  Sam shakes her head. “Not exactly.”r />
  “I'm gonna tell you what you need to know.”

  I wince at the tone of his voice. Obligation. Resignation. The warmth that is usually reserved for me is absent—like he knew all along we weren't going to last and this moment was inevitable.

  No. “You don't have to explain,” I rush out, putting my hand forward.

  Trainer angles his body so my contact can't land as his eyes skate to mine. Uncomfortably, he holds my gaze. “Yeah, I do.”

  His eyes move back to Sam. “You don't make me sound too good. But you got a lot of shit right. I am a murderer. I ain't no dog.” He scowls at her, obviously referencing the “exotic pet” comment. “And my mama's a whore.” His gaze levels on her, glittering with anger. “And my cock is big.”

  Heat suffuses my face, and I fight not putting my hands to my hot cheeks. I've never seen Sam blush. With her dusky coffee-and-cream complexion, it'd be difficult to see. But it’s not difficult to see now.

  Trainer pauses, his big hand coming to rest on the doorjamb, though he makes no effort to enter the room.

  Sam stares at her feet, clearly ashamed by the words he bore witness too.

  But she’s not more ashamed than me.

  His beautiful green eyes, rimmed by thick, chocolate-colored lashes turn to me.

  “But there's shit you both don't know. I own it.”

  My hand flutters to my throat, where a thudding pulse beats as though a bird is trapped within the confines of my flesh, searching for a way out.

  “I own it. All of it.” He squeezes his hand into a fist, briefly touching the part of his chest where his heart lies beneath.

  My eyes shut, and a tear squeezes out. Oh my God.

  “I never knew what day I'd eat, get beat, see my mama, or be free of all that. Never knew. My life was a big mother-fucking Russian roulette. Always spinning,” his finger shoots up, making lazy spirals.

  I fixate on that digit symbolizing his horrible childhood—a circle without end.

  “Then I found these guys that are as fucked up as me, and they don't care how fucked up I am. They see me—really see what I am. And I'm relieved, because I finally have acceptance, and I don't have to be starved, burned, beaten, and screamed at to get it. I just work hard and be loyal, and it's there for the taking.”