by Marata Eros
“Noose, no!” I shout, but my eyes go to Judge, who's spluttering, trying to capture breath he can't.
The big bodyguard has Allen against him, pinned.
Not for long, I think before Allen does one of his karate moves and has the guy upside down and flat on his back.
Allen faces me.
“Give me the cunt and get the fuck out of here. She's not worth dying over.”
I look down at her. Back at him. “Yeah, she is.” My voice is soft and urgent.
Never meant nothinʼ like I did those three words.
As I watch, Lariat silently moves behind the old guy with the gun.
The rope wraps his neck with a wrist flick and the smooth fingers of his free hand.
When the barrel of the gun flies up, another bullet goes off, and Noose falls to the ground.
I clutch Krista tighter.
Allen smiles.
I never been so torn. Noose is down, Judge can't breathe, and Krista's hurt bad.
Wring appears at my elbow. “Give her to me, loverboy. You got business with this douche.”
Allen doesn't move his face from mine. Carefully, I slide Krista to Wring. Trusting him with the most precious thing in the world.
The old man slumps to the floor with a wheezing last breath, gun clattering outta his limp fingers.
Allen doesn't turn, and I don't stop.
As we charge each other across the large room, Judge fades. The bodyguard. My brothers.
It's just me and this final Arnie. A man who tried to hurt my lady.
He can't be allowed to live no more.
Even if it means I can't, either.
*
Allen Fitzgerald has already taught me so much. All his dirty tricks and his martial arts shit.
Got it.
Judge told me I was a quick study of humanity, whatever that means.
I understood that I don't give myself over for the same beating two times in a row.
Like now.
Allen does a classic move, trying to grab my arm. I dive at him like sliding in at home base, taking his feet from underneath him and rolling over him. Tucking my arms underneath his pits, I bring my knee up between his unprotected legs and thrust hard. Real hard. Like I'm trying to reach his throat. Fitzgerald makes a strangled sound, I release him and see he’s holding a knife.
I bring my fist down on his wrist, chopping hard. He almost loses control, but with a spin, Fitzgerald's close enough to strike my chest, slicing hard.
Blood splatters, raining on his upturned face.
Don't know how bad I'm hurt. I keep working at him like I'm not.
“Trainer!” one of the brother's scream.
My hand reaches out randomly. For anything. Finding something solid, I wrap my fingers around the weight. Lift.
The thing I grabbed musta rolled off a table. Amber liquid still coats the interior, and the cut crystal shines in the light before I smash it against Allen's temple.
He makes a gurgling shout. Heaving the knife, he slices my arm holding the bottle.
Ignoring the new injury, I sit up on my knees, straddling his body. My vision wavers, and lightheadedness tries to stop me.
No!
Allen's form sharpens beneath me again.
I bring the fat, rounded end of the decanter down on his head. Something vital cracks.
My shoulders cave forward. Gray leaks in at the sides of my vision. I begin panting as the room does a slow spin.
I raise my arm. Strike.
Again.
And again.
Shit splashes where Allen's head was, and with a tired smile, I slump to the side, releasing the bottle.
Blinking, I watch the bottle rotate slowly across the floor, stopping only when it hits the body of the big guard.
Guess one of the guys got ʼim, I think before passing out, then a final thought threads through me before I give it up.
Krista's safe.
*
Noose
“I assume you brought the accelerant?”
Wring nods. “Hell, yes. Fire does more than keep us warm.” He winks.
“Listen, you fuckers. Trainer's bleeding out, and his girl doesn't seem too fucking healthy, either. Stop swapping spit and get it torched.”
I sigh. “Hate wrecking nice shit.”
“Whatever,” Lariat mutters.
“Already tap-danced around the perimeter.” Wring inclines his head.
I nod, squatting. I take a long drag on my smoke then touch it to the neat line Wring made. Fire catches, licking the line like a long-lost lover. In a whip of blue and orange, it slides up the gasoline, hitting the accelerant Wring used.
He notes the propane tank. “Let's split. That Tylenol capsule is going to blow.”
The white-and-red tank stays silent.
But halfway back to the Nova, I almost fall, nearly dumping an unconscious Trainer on his ass when it blows. I twist his body, taking in the half of the mansion torn away by the blast, like a giant took a bite out of a mansion sandwich.
Lariat and Wring jog ahead of us, knuckle tapping when the big boom sounds.
Evidence gone, I think. Guess it doesn't matter how rich a person is, if it's your time to go, happens no matter how much cash ya got.
I jog after them.
Worry creeps in, and I pour on the speed. Trainer's lost a lot of blood.
There's never been a man more deserving of a chance at happiness. I’m determined to make sure it happens.
Chapter 35
Trainer
2 weeks later
I stand between Sam and Krista.
This is a sad place, but I'm happy anyways—so happy I can hardly keep it in.
The graves have flowers. Not funeral flowers that smell like florist and death, but nice ones. I brought some too.
Picked them in a nearby field.
I slide my arm around Krista's waist, careful not to touch her cracked ribs.
Every time I think of Allen, I wanna kill him again. Glad Krista wasn't awake to see me do it.
When she asked, I told her, though. Told her about Arnold Sulk too, finally. After I told her the entire story, as best I could, Krista told me he deserved it.
After telling her about Allen, she said he deserved it even more. The smile on her face was the only hard one I ever saw her make.
Then she thanked me.
Thanked me.
I swallowed the burn of tears. Or I thought I did. Until Krista caught one on my face with her finger.
Then she held me when I cried, her small body cradling my much bigger one.
“I waited for you—to be here with me,” Sam says to Krista.
“I didn't think I'd ever see you again,” Krista whispers, and I stroke her side as she trembles, leaning her head against my chest.
We're never apart now. Krista doesn't like being by herself. She dreams. The dreams aren’t good.
Doc stitched me up good. Only needed ten stitches, but needed some blood.
Felt better after the transfusion.
It was Krista I was worried about. She's not the same after what happened.
Can't tell nobody what happened, either.
The Arnies in that house are dead. But Road Kill could be connected if we're not careful.
The news stories went on about how the billions of the Rothschild fortune hung in the balance. That after their suspicious deaths, the money would go to charity if an heir couldn't be found.
Krista and I hid in her condo. Not because the law was after us, but because we didn't want anything else. The shit between us was gone. And it was just her and me.
The borrowed cabin saw a lot of us too, that is, until my house is finished. Krista couldn't get any time off without making people wonder, and she taught the last two weeks for her other students, Corina and Dwayne.
I got private tutoring.
Don't know if I can read any better, but I learned every curve, smile, smell, and tender spot on my lady.
Sam sinks to her knees beside her parents’ graves, and Krista and I watch as she sets six roses between them for every year they've been gone. After kissing each headstone, she stands and takes both our hands, and we face each other in a loose circle.
Tears run down Krista's cheeks, but her eyes are happy. I got that look down now, I think.
“I love them,” Sam says, glancing at the graves, “but I think I'll spend more time with the living now. I almost lost you.” She looks at Krista then squeezes my hand. “And you.” Sam gives me a watery smile. “You big lug, you saved her. And I love you forever for that.”
My face gets hot. I know she doesn't really love me. But Sam loves what I did, and that's close enough.
Don't know how I feel about people likinʼ me or countinʼ on me. But I'm getting used to it.
Slowly.
Krista and I walk hand-in-hand to the Fiat.
I can't fit inside the fucking thing, so I'll take the Harley.
My eyes don't move off Krista until she's tucked in the car and a dot on the road as she drives away. The kiss I gave her is a promise of what I'll do when we see each other again.
Hanging out on the seat of my bike, I watch the growing gloom as the day gives it up to night.
Twilight settles like a opaque blanket of gray over the headstones, shadowing them against a colorful sky of orange, red, and pink.
Finally, head hung, I know I can't put it off no more.
Swinging a leg over the seat, I slide off, then begin to trudge up the hill, passing the fancy plots.
Keep walking.
Move past the cheap plots.
When the cheapest ones are behind me, I get to a section with only urns.
I approach a plain urn, just left of center of row upon row of numbered urns exactly like it. Mama reduced to a number. Margaret Rife, the simple inscription says. Her death date is this June of this year.
She was killed while Krista and I were healinʼ up.
My eyes stay dry. Not because I don't miss Mama, but because I cried a lifetime before she died. Not on the outside, but deep inside. On the outside, I bled a river, wore the burns and bruises of being a living shield for her bad choices.
Choices that left me unprotected.
Haven't told Krista that Mama's gone yet.
It's too much after the shit she found out about Allen and his family messed up her head. I don't need to add my shitty backstory to that. Maybe later.
This fucked-up life of mine might actually be okay for the first time, and I don't want to blow it to bits.
Judge survived. My chest gets tight just thinking about how that coulda gone.
Krista's safe, and she’s mine.
My finger traces Mama's name. My heart and mind are together on this. The final goodbye. Because I won't lie to myself. Every day I lived in her house, I said a small goodbye.
At the end of the day, I just delayed what I knew would happen anyway.
I turn away from her state-appointed grave and walk to my bike.
Said my goodbyes when I could.
I miss her.
I don't miss what I had to do for love.
*
Krista
A key turns in the lock, and I know who it is without looking.
I look anyway.
That strong man I love with every beat of my heart walks through the door of my condo.
The condo I'm selling.
His smile is immediate—wide and tender at the same time. I jump off the couch and wince as my ribs give a pang.
The MC doc says they take forever to heal. As I round the couch and head to the front door, I slip my arms around Trainer's flat stomach. The hard muscle beneath flexes as he gently tightens his hold around me.
But my body isn't the worst of the healing. It's my mind that is a festering wound.
Knowing what Allen was—who he was—is more than I can mentally handle.
Noose and the others found a vault in the house before they torched it.
Some really old papers hadn't been put away, and Noose scooped them up before burning the evil place to cinders.
With my real father inside, we confirmed. And my half-brother who was going to gleefully set me up for a lifetime of rape, sadism, and bearing the product of incest.
I shiver.
“Shh,” Trainer says, cupping the back of my head and pressing it against his chest.
He knows the terrifying memories are with me more often than not. But I don't think of the horror every single day of my life now. Just every other day. Still, nightmares during my fitful sleep have me waking up and clinging to Trainer.
Noose dug deep into the Rothschilds while Trainer and I were recovering from the abuse of knives, fists, and those moments in Orson’s mansion.
But together, we survived.
What Noose found out was terrible: Orson Rothschild's tales were all true. That lecherous family was a tree without branches.
I haven’t confronted my parents yet. I don’t know what to say, especially without revealing the entire truth and incriminating Road Kill MC.
Trainer would be there. He's always with me now, a loving shadow, my protector.
My arms tighten on him.
“Bad thoughts?” he asks quietly, which is code for what happened before.
I nod against his chest.
“It'll get better, baby.”
Trainer would know. The things he told me—and I believe his account is only partial—make my blood heat for the undefended boy he was. Probably like so many I've taught.
With a tired sigh, part contentment and part relief, I close my eyes, allowing myself to contemplate extending my sabbatical. I want to teach my kids, but if I'm shattered to pieces because of what's happened, how can I help them when I'm so busy gluing back the pieces of myself?
“Are you ready?” Trainer says, pulling away just long enough to study my face, feathering his thumb against my jaw.
He's expert at reading my expressions, probably because it was a survival tactic. It's what he knows.
I nod. “As ready as I'll ever be.”
We take the bike to my parentsʼ house. The bike feels safer somehow.
*
My mom opens the door, and her eyes widen, taking in Trainer. I always thought the resemblance was because of DNA. I know now it’s only coincidence.
She goes to hug me, and I pull away.
Mom frowns.
Dad walks up behind her and tenses at my expression before giving Trainer a thorough look.
He gives a lot of people pause. He's physically intimidating and awkward with his social graces.
I suppress a little laugh. Awkward probably doesn't cover it. But I'm hardwired for awkward people. Unique people. I was made to be the buffer. Their intermediary.
Trainer feels natural to me. He has from nearly the first tense minute we met.
“What's wrong?” Mom asks, taking Dad's hand.
I turn to Trainer and say, “Mom, Dad, this is Trainer.”
Dad sticks his palm out, and Trainer gives him a one-pump.
Mom stares. Probably looking at those Easter-grass green eyes and the dark hair.
Tattoos peek from the collar of his nondescript deep-brown T-shirt.
“Hello, Trainer,” Mom says clearly. “Nice to meet you. I'm Brenda.”
“I'm William—Bill,” Dad says.
“Hey,” Trainer says.
Dad takes a huge inhale, not really paying attention to the extra person in the room, refocusing on me. “We have something to discuss with you.”
Mom gives Dad a small smile. It's sad around the edges.
I have my stuff to say too.
“We were just about ready to text you for a little sit down—”
“Long sit down,” Dad interjects.
She nods.
“Then you showed up here. You seem upset, and I want to resolve whatever that is—but, Pumpkin,” Dad says, his eyes shiny, �
�we need to confess something.” His eyes flick to Trainer.
I tug Trainer to the large L-shaped couch that takes up half the living room and faces Dad's large screen TV.
He follows my lead, sitting as I do.
“I guess you don't mind if we talk in front of Trainer.” Mom looks between the two of us.
I squeeze his hand. Hard. “No, whatever you have to say can be said in front of Trainer.”
“Don't matter. I don't talk much. And I don't give secrets away.” Trainer lifts his dark brows.
Dad smooths his hands down his dark jeans. “Okay. Pumpkin.”
My bottom lip trembles at the endearment. I want to hate my parents for going along with Rothschild and his sick agenda or any part of what his requirements were, but it's so difficult.
“Do you know a wealthy man by the name of Orson Rothschild?”
I nod, surprise flooding my system. I don't trust myself to speak.
“Well recently, he was involved in a terrible accident, as were his son and what we understand to be a few bodyguards.”
Mom squeezes his knee. “In any event, his death is tied with what we have to tell you—and why we’re now free to do so.”
Her smile is tremulous. “We”—Mom's head dips—“are not really your biological parents.”
I knew they weren’t, but I'm still stunned.
Trainer releases my hand and slides his arm behind my back. Holding me up, he makes small circles on my back. Comforting revolutions of our contact allow me to breathe. Speak.
“What does this have to do with Rothschild?”
Dad sends me a sharp look. “You don't seem surprised.”
I give a soft shake of my head. “No.” I look at my lap, tears swamping my vision like liquid insects. “I recently came into some information that revealed the truth.”
“So you're aware?” Dad asks. He and Mom exchange a resigned look.
“Yes.”
Mom's face crumples. “We wouldn't have wanted you to find out this way, honey.”
“Yeah, me, either. Why didn't you tell me?” I shift my attention between them.
“Because when we adopted you, the stipulations dictated we never reveal your true biological parents. But now that man is gone, and he can't reach from the grave to hurt you if we come clean with the truth. You were our flesh and blood to us—we didn't care who you came from. We didn't think it would matter, as long as we loved you. And we didn't want to take one chance with you.”