Trainer

by Marata Eros

  My bare skin pebbles at his words. “No.” I can't think of anything else to say to stop the horror I feel building like vile steam inside this place.

  Abbi's wide, dark eyes flick to me.

  “Don't look at her. She will be my wife, and you will take and do the things I can't do to her.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Hands and knees,” Allen says.

  My swallow is painful. “Allen, don't do this.” I try to jerk from the restraints holding me. Thin metal encircles the narrowest part of my arm, exactly over my wrist bone. The circle over the cast of my left arm is bigger. My eyes travel up, until I see a solid metal ring held by another embedded in the wall.

  Thin chains conjoin the two.

  My head whips back to the scene in the center of the cold, dank place with four concrete walls and no window.

  Abbi slowly lowers herself to the cold floor.

  Allen slowly unbuttons his slacks. Tearing the belt through the loops, he lets it fall to the floor, where the buckle clanks against the cement. Abbi flinches.

  Allen pushes his underwear and dress slacks to his feet and kicks off one pantleg.

  He stands, naked from the waist down, with an erection.

  Allen's hand climbs beneath Abbi’s short skirt, and the sound of material tearing is loud within the confines of the space.

  Lace is tossed aside.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I yank at the chains again, and pain shoots from my wrist to shoulder, and I'm certain I've re-injured my arm, but I don't care. I have to stop this.

  Allen ignores me, picking up a small tube of something that must have fallen from his pocket.

  He pops the cap and squirts gel onto his palms then slathers his penis with lube.

  So familiar, I have time to think before he kneels behind Abbi. Gripping her hips roughly, he stabs himself inside of her without warning.

  She bites her lip and doesn't shout out.

  He's done this before. A dull resignation sweeps across her features.

  “No,” I breathe.

  Abbi's clearly being raped, but not reacting as though she is.

  Allen doesn't hold back.

  And I thought he was rough with me.

  I want to look away—but I can't. The sounds of their bodies slapping together is deafening.

  Allen is awful, but predictable, and I know when he's getting close to release.

  The girl moves as though to disengage.

  “No,” he commands in a hoarse voice. “Stay.”

  He grips her hair, yanking her head back so her neck is cranked at a painful angle, and tips his head back, releasing inside her with a final grinding thrust.

  The sight is burned into my brain, churning my gut. I'm responsible for this.

  Allen's trying to… I don't know what. Hurt me by hurting someone else?

  Because he knows that will hurt me worse.

  Allen pulls out of Abbi, and she tries to salvage some dignity by pulling down her dirty skirt.

  Semen stains the ground beneath her.

  Allen stands, planting his foot in the middle of her rear, and shoves.

  Abbi sprawls out on the concrete, painfully cracking an elbow on the way.

  She yelps, rolling over, and tries to gain her footing.

  Allen stalks after her.

  Oh no. “Allen!” I scream with what's left of my voice.

  Allen leans over, scooping Abbi up by the waistband of her skirt, and sets her on her feet.

  As soon as she's righted, Allen retreats a step then punches her in the stomach.

  She folds, gasping and obviously in pain.

  “Stop!” I beg in a wail.

  “No,” Allen says in a good-natured voice. “She'll get everything I want to do to you, but can't.”

  “Please, please, Allen. No!” I jerk against the chains. They clink their awful music, my cast making the motion awkward and painfully numb.

  Allen shoves Abbi into the wall, and she yelps, biting her lip again.

  Then I notice all the bruises, old and new, pockmarked on whatever skin is revealed.

  “Run!” I scream at her.

  She stays.

  Allen punches her in the face, and I hear a crack.

  Finally, she staggers more or less toward the door.

  Allen laughs, causally walking after her.

  He trips her as blood pours from her face.

  Abbi barely breaks the fall with her palms as her knees smack the unforgiving floor.

  As she turns her head slightly, I catch sight of a bubble of blood filling her right nostril.

  Abbi raises a delicate palm as if to ward off Allen's next move.

  He kicks her face, and Abbi falls over, rolling onto her back with a moan, then goes still.

  “No, no, no,” I gasp.

  Allen hops on top of her, straddling her body. He places his palm on her chest. “Still warm,” he says with satisfaction and stands again, feet on the ground and on either side of her chest. One foot still remains inside a pantleg, and he gives an irritated fling with his leg. The pants skitter a couple feet to the right.

  He lowers himself to between Abbi's legs and tears the skirt up.

  I'm light-headed and feel my vomit rising.

  “What are you doing, Allen?” I ask in slow revulsion.

  Allen grins at me. “Viagra, Krista. It's the wonder drug. Let's me fuck on demand.” He winks.

  I try to keep my gorge down, but when Allen begins to rape Abbi a second time—and she's either unconscious or dead—my breakfast erupts out of my throat. The whole time I’m throwing up, I can hear Allen's ragged panting as he uses the woman beneath him.

  Wiping my mouth against my shoulder, I finally look at this man I dated for almost two years.

  Strings of saliva hang from his mouth as his hands wrap Abbi's slender throat.

  With a hoarse shout he finishes, his fingers tightening around Abbi's neck.

  I don't have to guess if she's dead now.

  No one is that still in life.

  *

  It seems naïve, but as the hours pass and Abbi's body remains broken, battered, and saturated with Allen's bodily fluids, I realize I never knew what a dead person looked like.

  Abbi was pretty.

  Now the rosy color of her life has bled away, to be replaced slowly by ashen skin.

  Her dark eyes stare at nothing.

  I stare at her.

  How did I ever dare to stand in judgement of Trainer—when I just murdered this girl in front of me? That was what Allen said when he walked over to me, pantless, his spent penis making a fleshy slapping noise against his thigh.

  Grabbing my cheeks in his hand, he squeezed them together until I resembled a blowfish.

  “Now,” he said, inspecting me like a prized bug, “that's what happens when you're naughty.” He waves a vague hand behind him to indicate Abbi's corpse.

  “There are a million Abbi's.” He grinned, and I recoiled.

  “You will marry me, or I will do this to countless more people. Beginning with your parents.” He made air quotes around the last word. “We both know they're not bio. However, you do care for them. And next on my list will be the giant imbecile Brett Rife. He's probably loved fucking your tight cunt.” He enunciated the T hard enough to create a dot of spittle at the corner of his lip, and I stared at it to avoid his crazed eyes. “I will enjoy baiting him with a few choice crumbs, and he'll come running!”

  Allen suddenly released my face and paced a few steps away. “That would be very rewarding. But not so rewarding as forcing your compliance. You marry me, I get my rightful fortune, and Mommy, Daddy, and Fuck Stud shall remain unharmed.”

  He halted, turned sideways, and swept a palm toward Abbi's body. “Or what I did here will look like a day at the spa compared to what I do to your mommy and Mr. Rife, the Dumb.”

  “He's not dumb,” I whispered with my last thread of defiance.

  Allen frowned, walking back
to where I leaned against the wall.

  His hand came out, and I screamed, clinging to the concrete, as though it would offer me protection.

  Gently, he flicked some of the hair that came loose from the braid I had it in that morning. “Is that my answer? Because I have the means to make everything I just outlined a reality. Your new reality.”

  I couldn’t breathe. My lungs had frozen. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. My eyes were drawn back to Abbi. A dead and broken doll.

  Then my gaze shifted to Allen's, his insanity etched on every plane of his face.

  Finally, I nodded.

  “What?” Allen cupped a hand behind his ear.

  I can't kill anyone else. I might not have been the weapon, but I was the motivation.

  “Yes.”

  Allen jerked me against him.

  I moaned as my abject terror loosened my bladder, and I peed myself.

  He smirked, diving in next to my ear, and nipped the lobe. “Good.”

  Shoving me against the wall, he took a look at my soaked pants.

  “I think you can lie in it.” He nodded to himself then looked at Abbi's corpse.

  “Abbi will keep you company.”

  Hot tears started to run down my face, blurring my vision, but I could make Allen out perfectly.

  He was the one leaving with all the hope, happiness, and humanity, taking it all with him.

  Chapter 28

  Trainer

  Sam's wide eyes take me in, from the top of my head to my scuffed-up black boots.

  “Krista's not here,” she says instantly.

  I frown.

  Gotta be. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Car's out front.”

  Now it's Sam's turn to frown. “What?” She turns, stuffing her feet into bright-red plastic shoes with holes over the toes.

  Sliding past me, she leaves the door standing open and walks out to where Krista's car's parked.

  “She just left…” Sam bites her thumbnail, and I glance quickly inside the front door then close it, following behind her.

  Dread coils inside my guts.

  Sam makes a slow circle around the burnt-orange Fiat.

  I watch her, hands to hips.

  When she gets to the driver's side, Sam stops. “Trainer,” she calls urgently.

  Striding around the front of the car, I see it too. Hell, I can't see nothinʼ else but the chocolate-colored strands of Krista's hair, stuck to where roof meets door… by scarlet glue.

  My lady's blood.

  I stand beside Sam, and we stare at the damning patch, the evidence that someone hurt Krista.

  Then took her.

  “Allen,” Sam guesses.

  “Yeah.” Nothing else—nobody else—makes as much sense as him.

  Knew he was an Arnie.

  Sam looks up at me, eyes shining with tears. “I introduced them.”

  My stomach does a slow turn, and I know exactly what I need to do. “Gotta make a call.” I move toward the open courtyard near Samantha's front door, where wooden beams cut the view of the sky above my head.

  Scrolling through my contacts’ images, I find the hangman's noose then tap the icon for a telephone receiver.

  Ringing starts.

  Noose answers in his chatty way, “Yeah.”

  “Gotta a problem.”

  “What kind?”

  “Somethinʼ I can't talk about over the cell.”

  “Got ya.” Then after a few seconds, Noose asks, “Where you at?”

  I tell him.

  “Hang tight. Be there in a jiffy.”

  With a grim nod he can't see, I blank the screen, pocketing my cell. I walk over to an old wood bench with its legs embedded in pebbled concrete that sits directly before the entryway to Sam's house.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asks slowly, coming to stand in front of me.

  “Waitinʼ.”

  “Ah—maybe you're not aware, but that fucker Allen has brained Krista and taken her somewhere.” She folds her arms.

  Sam needs to eat, I think randomly then say, “Got my friend coming. We'll come up with somethinʼ.”

  I know better than to go shootinʼ off half-cocked without my brothers as backup. Might get fucked-up. Can't help Krista then.

  “Right.” Then her face lights up like she's thought of something. “Is this the dude that came by and choked Krista, put her on notice about not hurting you?”

  My face whips to hers, and I stand, towering over her, though she's a pretty tall girl. “Choked her?” Noose didn't mention that, only admitted to giving her a talking to, which I was mighty pissed about anyway.

  Sam nods vigorously, curly hair bouncing around. “Yes, held her to the door by her throat.” Noose's motorcycle roars in the distance.

  We're gonna have words, then he's going to help me get Krista.

  *

  Noose is sprawled on his ass.

  My knuckles throb from being used so soon after the my last beat-up session with Noose.

  “What the fuck?” Noose says, popping to his feet. “That hurt, fucker!”

  “Oh shit,” Sam mutters in the background.

  I swing my jaw toward where Sam stands behind me. “She told me you choked Krista.”

  Noose's hooded eyes move to Sam, who shrinks back, then back to me. “Not really.”

  “Not fucking really?” I say, flinging my arms wide.

  “Yeah, broke into her security-breach condo, and she freaked out, tried to take off.” He shrugs. “Got her at the door before she could get out and alert the media.” He chuckles.

  I glower at him.

  “Listen, didn't leave a mark on her.” Noose slides his jaw left to right, eyes tightening with pain. “Twice in twenty-four hours. Hurts like a bitch now,” he mutters, shooting me a glare.

  Noose wags his finger. “I can do that shit, ya know.”

  We all know. Noose is a master at hurting where it shows or doesn't—his choice. Still don't like him putting hands on Krista. “Don't ever touch her again.”

  Noose's eyebrow quirks. “Let's make that possible by finding her first, eh?”

  “Yeah.” I'm still pissed. My hands fist, and I ignore the pain at my knuckles.

  Noose gives me the weight of his hard stare. “Save it for the fucker who took her.”

  “Wait a second,” Sam says from behind me, and we look at her.

  “I wouldn't suggest you just go over to Allen's and demand Krista.”

  Noose snorts. “Why the fuck not?”

  “I'm really trying hard not to be intimidated by you right now. But I have to say, you scare the pee out of me.”

  He smirks, taking time to smack a cig out of the ever-present pack he carries, and lights it. Tipping his head back, he shoots smoke rings.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  “Well, why don't you just try? You know, to tone back”—she waves her palm around at him—“this whole bad-ass act.”

  Noose doesn't answer.

  I do. “It's not an act. Noose is always legit.”

  Sam's brow stitches in a small frown. “Well, that's just frightening.”

  Yup. Good man to have on your side, though. That's why I called him up.

  “So where's the evidence?”

  I jerk my jaw toward the Fiat. Noose slides from the seat of his bike and follows me to the car.

  He flicks his half-burnt cig, and it lands near the front tire of Krista's car, smoldering.

  Noose bends down and smells the matted tuft of hair and blood.

  “That's weird.”

  I shake my head at Sam. She mimes zipping her lips gesture, but rolls her eyes.

  Noose rubs a strand of hair back and forth between his index finger and thumb.

  He straightens, staring at the spot of gore on my lady's car.

  “Looks bad.”

  “You think?” Sam says with that bitchy tone some girls get.

  Noose looks at her.

  She shuts up in a hurry.


  He strides to the front of the car, about where the center of the hood is. “She was walking away. He grabs Krista, then drags her to…” He stuffs his freshly lit cig back in his mouth and takes three steps to where the blood is, jerks the cig out, and with both hands, cages the evidence of her injury. “Spins her and brain dusts her on the car.”

  That knot's back. The tight thing I've lived with my entire life. Back like it never went away.

  I rub the spot in my chest and ask Noose, “He snuck up on her and did this?” My voice cracks, and Noose gives me a sharp look.

  Not losing my shit.

  “Nah. She knew he was coming—I'm betting—just not his potential for violence.”

  “I knew it.”

  Noose dips his chin, smoke sliding out his mouth as he answers, “Yeah. Knew he was a class-A chode right outta the gate.”

  “I introduced them,” Sam says a second time, mournfully.

  Noose laughs.

  Nothing's funny right now. Nothinʼ.

  “Good call.” His lips twist, and he puts out his smoke on his boot sole.

  Sam bursts into tears, covering her face.

  Shit. Noose exchange an uneasy glance with me.

  *

  “He's a lawyer. Follow the law. Call the cops.” Sam looks between the two of us, wiping her running nose and sniffling. “Krista said she was going for a restraining order.”

  “She was.” Noose says.

  “Yes, she's been putting it together recently that Allen's more unstable than she realized.”

  Sam twists a spiral of hair, lets it bounce back, then does it again. “Are you sure it's him?”

  Yes.

  “Know anybody else that wants to beat the shit outta a schoolteacher and kidnap her?” Noose looks at me. Puts up a palm.

  Sam shakes her head.

  “Okay,” I say, “think we all know it's Allen. Not gonna call the cops. They'll see his fancy shit and figure we're the bad guys. It's how that shit always goes down.”

  Sam looks like she's going to argue that.

  But she and I both know what I am and where I've been. I know what I'm talking about. Cops don’t care about the invisible people like Mama and me. Cops don't see prostitutes, or their bastard kids, as people.

  They won't see me now when I say my girlfriend's been taken by a psycho lawyer who's got a bankroll.