Chapter 19

Krista

 

It's a dream.

These past two weeks have been the best of my life.

A man did this, made me feel this way.

Blushing, I think about what that man does to my body, for my body.

We haven't committed another sin on my teaching table, thank God, but we committed plenty between the old cabin Trainer stays in and my condo.

Every surface christened, many positions explored.

And Trainer read his first sentence Thursday. A little flutter stirs inside my belly like a trapped butterfly as I remember the moment his face lit up, realization that he alone recognized the words and knew what they meant. Coming from his own mouth.

I was so proud, I cried.

Trainer hugged me, genuine happiness opening his expression. I swear I saw his soul that day.

Not pieces of it, but the whole.

Looking in the mirror one last time, I decide I'm stalling. I feel as though I'm meeting his parents today.

But I'm meeting his biker family. As Sam says: the biker gang.

If Trainer chose them, and he has no other family, except the elusive “Mama,” then that's good enough for me.

I've been teaching him for two weeks—but he's been teaching me too. And his lessons are the best I've ever learned.

Smoothing my hands over my short-sleeve blouse, I eye the form-fitting charcoal tunic. Finally, early summer has arrived, and Kent is having a rare clear, cloudless sky. My lightweight leggings are black—as are my flats with a line of little black gems scattered across the toes. I left my hair loose, its natural waves flowing just shy of waist length, though I'll need to braid it for the bike ride. My jewelry is simple, with gun mental-colored hoops and a wide sterling band on my middle finger.

Okay, Krista, get your ass moving.

Walking to the door, I grab a cropped jean jacket off the hook for the ride.

I turn the knob and swing the door open.

Allen stands there, arm raised as though to knock.

“Hi!” Startled, I jump a little, hand to my heart.

“Hello, Krista.” His turquoise eyes roam my form.

I feel uncomfortable with my door standing open and Allen having a view of my condo. And me.

We slept together in this place, but those moments feel almost sacrilegious now that Trainer has been here. It's as though he wiped away the stain Allen left here, the bad memories of crappy sex and lack of intimacies, like an eraser to a chalkboard.

I have a clean slate. Or at least it felt that way until Allen appeared at my doorstep.

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I try my best to hide my irritation. “What are you doing here?”

Allen smiles, and my own expression falters. He looks slightly predatory, like a shark scenting blood, or maybe I'm just imagining that. “I thought we'd let enough time go by. Maybe we can revisit our earlier chat.”

I don't know what to say to that.

Stepping through the door, I turn to close and lock it. Slipping  my key into my small, cross-body purse.

I don't want Allen in my condo. I don't want him here when Trainer picks me up.

Pivoting to face him again, I find Allen is uncomfortably close. Anxiety crawls up my throat, but I stand my ground, flicking my eyes over his shoulder. Besides, there's nowhere I can move. The door's at my back, and the stairs are behind Allen.

I’m trapped.

I swear I can hear Trainer's bike in the distance. Great.

Allen's eyes move to the locked door at my back. “I was hoping we could talk inside your place.”

No way. This is not the clean break I bragged about to Sam. I didn't tell her about my instincts regarding Allen. She would feel even more guilty for introducing us.

I want to protect Sam from more pain, more grief. Those are already things she has too much of.

“Allen, I just want to be friends.”

He laughs, and the brittle sound echoes in the strange acoustics of the open stairwell.

He takes a step back, spreading his hands with a jerk, and I notice he chose a shirt that matches his eyes. Of course. “The friend speech? We're more than friends, Krista.”

Okay. How could I have dated him for two years? He's clearly a narcissist. “We were more than friends, yes. But we didn't have any chemistry, Allen. I thought we went over that at coffee.”

I cross my arms beneath my breasts, searching his eyes, and see anger, denial, and something I can't identify. Maybe I don't want to.

Sam says I'm practically psychic.

Right now, my sixth-sense alarm bells are ringing from here to Oregon.

I know I can't get Allen to leave before Trainer shows up. And that has potential to be a disaster.

Allen reaches for me, and I pull away, my butt cheeks pressing against the door. He moves in, grabbing my chin in a painful hold. “I had all the chemistry I needed with you, Krista.”

My heart tries to beat out of my chest. Thump, thump, thump. “You're hurting me.”

Allen gives me a gentle smile that causes icy adrenaline to pour through my veins. “No, this isn't pain, Krista.”

I can definitely hear the bike now, and my palms dampen.

“I had plans for us, Krista. And I'm not going to let some slumming infatuation curtail our future together.”

Crazy. Allen is certifiable.

“Let go of me.”

His hand slips off my chin, and my exhale is full of pure relief. I've never been threatened by a man before.

Stupidly, I thought that only happened to other women. Nope. I'm not immune.

The familiar sound of a bike rumbling into my condo complex parking lot reaches us. The engine shuts off.

Allen's creepy smile grows.

How could I have never seen this side of Allen?

“Krista.” Trainer's voice, low and careful, floats up from the bottom of the stairs.

I shut my eyes. My earlier joy drains from me, and like a tire with a hole, I’m deflated.

Allen turns, literally looking down at Trainer from the landing that tops the short flight of stairs from my second-story condo.

Trainer's not looking at Allen.

He's looking at me. That beautiful green gaze glitters with the beginnings of wariness—and anger.

“You okay?”

Not really, but I don't want to inflame the situation any more than it is. “Allen and I were just talking.” And he was just going, I add to myself.

Trainer shifts frosty emerald eyes toward Allen. “Time to go, Krista,” he says to me, but his gaze never leaves Allen.

I nod. Yes, I totally want to get the hell out of here.

Allen tips his head back, folding his arms and planting his feet wide. “I know all about you, Brett Rife. And you're not good enough to polish Krista's shoes.”

Trainer says nothing, but if it’s possible, his eyes turn colder, like frozen glacial pools of rage.

I'd be a fool not to see that kind of talk is a big trigger for Trainer.

I turn to Allen. “I've been reasonable, Allen. But I don't appreciate you putting down one of my students.”

Allen turns back to me, planting the flat of his palm against my chest and shoving me the short distance against the door, pinning me.

The abbreviated scream is torn from my throat. I’m more startled than frightened, but the sound incites Trainer, as Allen knew it would. My peripheral vision catalogs the motion of a big man taking the stairs two at a time.

“The student you’re fucking,” Allen grits next to my ear, voice soft and low.

Terrifying.

Then Trainer engulfs the limb that pins me to my own door and swings Allen hard.

Allen is trained in martial arts and uses that now.

This time, my scream is loud and alarmed.

My ex uses the momentum Trainer just gave him, sweeping his foot under Trainer. His arm snaps out, punching Allen in the nose as he fights falling. Crunch.

I flatten myself against the door.

With wide eyes, I watch two men I've been with—in different ways, but so much the same—beat the shit out of each other.

It's not like on TV, where it's pretty and organized, perfect for viewing.

Trainer will lose, I think, my heart in my throat, choked with grief, with anger at Allen. Trainer is bigger and stronger than Allen, but Allen likes being a master at all things. He feels like a big man because of his expertise in defense.

It doesn't take long for Trainer to realize that his own strength and momentum is being used against him. Allen tries to capture any limb that gets near him, putting Trainer in painful holds.

“Allen, stop!” I scream, covering my mouth with my hand as Allen bends Trainer to his knee, ready to dislocate his shoulder in what I recognize as a classic martial arts hold meant to incapacitate.

Allen's bright eyes meet mine, shining with triumph that makes the orbs appear to glow in the shadowed alcove.

Trainer grabs Allen’s nuts in that moment—and twists.

Allen bellows a sick shout of pain and begins to sink, releasing Trainer. He crowds Allen as he goes down, blood dripping from the various wounds Allen's inflicted.

I catch sight of the imprint of Allen's class ring on Trainer's cheekbone as he puts a forearm to Allen’s throat, driving him to the ground.

Allen suddenly bucks, slamming his forehead into Trainer's on the way down.

Trainer staggers backward, then with a brutal kick, centers a lucky strike on Allen's face.

He falls backward, smacking the concrete hard with his palms. His ironed button-down shirt, once royal blue to match those arrogant eyes, is now covered with liquid rust.

Then, impossibly, with nothing but brute force, Trainer gets over the top of Allen again, blood raining down his jaw and dripping on Allen.

“Stop!” I scream at them.

“Don't you ever”—Trainer whips his face to the side, splattering blood across the rail that runs down each side of the staircase—“ever”—he slams Allen's head on the pebbling concrete on the landing, making him groan—“touch her again.” Trainer releases him, and Allen falls back, chest heaving.

Trainer stands. “Krista's mine.”

I am?

I am.

Trainer sways.

I rush to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He ignores me, sliding out a cell.

I watch a list of phrases surface on the black viewer after his thumb presses it.

He taps the one that says need back up. When Trainer hits Send, the symbol of a hangman's noose comes up, and I know who's coming.

The guy who broke into my place.

Allen sits up, and I almost laugh, though nothing about this entire situation is remotely funny.

But he's always got himself in complete order. Not a hair out of place, outfit mussed, or word misplaced. That's not what's going down anymore.

He looks like shit now. 

“Perfect.” Allen spits out a wad of bloody phlegm.

Trainer puts me behind him, and I peek around him as Allen drags himself to his feet.

Trainer and Allen stare each other down for an impenetrable moment. “You'd never best me in a dojo, loser.”

“Don't have to. Just bring it when it counts. Don't need no dojo to protect Krista.”

Allen laughs, grimaces, then spits again, narrowing his eyes on Trainer. Then his gaze shifts to me. “This is what you want?” Allen sweeps an abraded hand at Trainer. “A Neanderthal to add to your ʼtard-wrangling acquisitions?”

My mouth gapes.

“How dare you?” I seethe. “Speaking about my students that way!” I move to go around Trainer, and he says, “He's just baiting you like a coward.”

Allen sneers, “You're less than nothing, murderer.”

I stop in my tracks, staring at Allen. “Now what are you accusing Trainer of?”

“Trainer? Oh, yes—his biker gang name. Great company you're keeping, Krista.”

“Brett Rife is a murderer.” Allen looks at me, and whatever he sees there tells him what he needs to know.

He smirks at a silent Trainer.

“I'd bet my Fitzgerald fortune this big idiot never told you.” Allen throws his head back and laughs, which devolves into a coughing fit. He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand, knuckles wiped clean of skin and freely bleeding.

“Trainer?” I ask in a small voice.

He turns only partway in my direction. I guess he's not allowing himself to be vulnerable with Allen around.

Our eyes meet before his flick to Allen then away.

“Tell her, moron.”

Trainer's face hardens. “I'm not dumb,” he says without giving Allen a glance.

Allen's golden eyebrow whips up. “Smart enough to stick your dick in Krista.”

We ignore him.

Trainer's eyes move to mine. “He's tellinʼ the truth.”

“You murdered someone?” I ask incredulously.

Trainer nods. No explanation. No anything.

The deep, purring rumble of another bike landing beside Trainer's barely registers. Probably because I'm stricken by his confession.

“Why?” I ask, barely able to speak around the lump in my throat.

“He needed to die.” Trainer lifts a shoulder, and I want to cry at the abuse all over him, courtesy of Allen—courtesy of people who came before I knew him.

I step back from both Trainer and Allen, looking from one to the other, painfully confused.

Noose trots up the steps, hanging on to the rail, and looks around at the carnage, bruised faces, and a terrified me.

He lifts his hand, and it comes away bloody.

Noose grins, nodding. “Class-A clusterfuck. Thanks for inviting me to the party,” he throws in Trainer's direction, but his eyes are on Allen.

Leaning against the wall, I fight passing out, concentrating on evening out my breaths instead of the ragged sucking inhales that saw in and out of my lungs. “All of you—leave,” I manage.

Noose gives a slow, emphatic shake of his head. “Nope. Think shit's gotta be worked out.”

“Fantastic. Neanderthal II.” Allen glares at Noose.

Noose's head swivels toward Allen. “Don't like you much, pal. Just a first impression. But I suggest you shut the pie hole underneath your nose unless you want round two with my friends Left and Right.”

Noose raises first his left hand then his right, smile broadening.

“Fuck. You,” Allen says with perfect clarity then smiles.

Oh no.

I push off from the wall at the same time Noose steps toward Allen.

Bad move, I realize later.