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 gives 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.

Noose snorts. “Yup. Too many freaks. Not enough circuses.”

“Wow, you're so easily amused,” I say, crossing my arms and getting a jolt of pain. I can't so easily twist and move my arm like I used to.

“At least it's your left,” Noose says, winking, “can still wipe your ass and eat a helluva lot easier.”

I flop back on my pillow again. “You know, I'm not sure about you.”

Noose leans in, carefully folding his hands at the edge of my bed, almost prayer-like. “All you gotta know, honey, is that Trainer is my brother, and I don't want him fucked with.”

The unspoken threat settles between us, like déjà vu of the last time we met.

I give him the look he deserves, serving up all my frustration, pain, and doped-up intellect in a single stare. “You already told me that—the first time you threatened me.”

Noose blinks. “That was not threatening you. You'd know if I threatened you.” He chuckles. “If ya lived—though I take pause with murdering chicks.” Like it’s an afterthought, he adds, “Kids too.”

“Is this some kind of schtick?”

His golden-brown eyebrows pull together.

“An act? A routine? Scare the poor teacher, and she's going to quake.”

Noose's lips thin. “No.” His face is like granite.

Maybe he's not playing around by acting tough. Maybe Sean King isn't acting.

“What do you want then? Besides to show up and beat up my ex-boyfriend and tell me that you and Trainer are tight? Because I'd be stupid not to get that by this time.”

“Wanna do more than I have,” he confesses. “That sperm stain needs to stop breathing.” Noose rests his elbows on his knees, seeming to contemplate a thought. With a heavy sigh, he continues, “But, got bigger fish to fry, much as I'd love Fitzgerald coming to an end.”

“I wasn't saying I want him dead.”

“You weren't saying you didn't,” Noose points out, brow cocked.

Nervously, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with my good hand and change the subject. “Trainer murdered someone. Allen said so, and Trainer admitted it.”

Noose says nothing.

“You know what happened,” I state.

Noose nods.

“Tell me.”

“Not my story to tell. And a bit of advice?” His eyes peg me to the hospital bed, and I realize they're as light as Trainer's, just gray instead of green, like dirty glass.

Fine scars are scattered across his face, and one especially ugly one seems to be newer, crossing the bridge of his nose. The imperfections keep him from being truly handsome.

But I suspect a man like Noose is comfortable with his flaws.

Noose doesn't wait for me to answer. “You like Trainer. You guys do okay fucking, and getting along, right?”

My mouth drops open. “Gah! You can't talk like that. It's awful!”

Noose grunts. “Just did. Now hear me out.”

“Is there a choice?”

“Nope.” He smiles, oozing that weird charm again. I can't decide if I like him or I'm offended.

“I'm a captive audience anyway. I'm too drugged to go anywhere, and I tossed myself over the railing, so there's that.”

“Technically, I tossed you.”

God.

He lifts a shoulder dismissively. “Anyways, so what's a little killing between lovers?”

That hurts. I feel a scalding tear slide out of my eye, and I angrily flick it. The drugs have squashed my inhibitions, and I hate it.

“No to waterworks. It's where I draw the line.”

I glare through my tears. “Not tough enough?”

He glowers back.

I smile. “Here's what's between us, Noose. Trainer didn't tell me he was a murderer.” I arrange my face in an expression that says, “So explain that.”

I move to fold my arms again and think better of it.

“Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Trainer can barely talk to me about dick, and I'm the best friend he's got. Me, Lariat, Wring, Snare—we're his wingmen. Guys that don't have anything at stake for hanginʼ with ʼim except having his back. We're just there. You get me?”

I nod, thinking of Sam, who’s not a superficial friend like a lot of women. She’s been there for me no matter what.

“Yes.”

“He's never gone into any details with me. I know stuff because it's my job to. But Trainer didn't barf the deets out for me all nice and neat.”

“Sounds sloppy.” The corners of my lips lift despite myself.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

We sit there for a moment, and it's not awkward. Probably because we're both thinking about the same man.

“Trainer didn't come clean with you because he can't. And if I know him—as much as any human being can know him—Trainer was afraid you'd walk away.”

“I wouldn't.”

“Oh, really? What's this talk about? You deciding shit. Judging.”

I study my knotted fingers, not even able wring my hands properly with this stupid cast. The dull ache in my arm grows sharper.

“Don't lie to me, or yourself. Thinking about ditching Trainer because he killed someone is an excuse to forgo the potential for something really fucking awesome. Look in the mirror and ask yourself if you're the one who's scared to see it through. Because Trainer's brave as fuck, confused as fuck, and before you showed up—hopeless as fuck.”

Noose stands, towering over me. His eyes are piercing, nearly translucent in the odd mix of hospital fluorescents and ambient light filtering in through the lone window as the sun releases the day. “Don't you fuck him up more, Krista Glass.”

Tears come, but Noose has already left me with my decisions, shredded heart, and uncertainties.

And the self-examination is worse than the broken wrist.

Far worse.