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.”

“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.”

I open my eyes, and his next words are a weapon, each one a bullet to my heart.

“Then I meet this beautiful girl.” His eyes rove my face, and the tears come faster now. “She's so beautiful, it hurts to look at her.”

Sam's soft sobs are the only noise in the room.

“She doesn't tell me I'm dumb or make fun of me. She teaches me. And when I hold her, all that shit that happened fades away to nothing. Like it didn't never happen. That she made that nightmare go away for good.”

“Trainer—”

“Shut up!” he bellows, his breath blowing the hair that’s come loose from my messy bun. “You wanted to know.” The last word seethes out from between his tight lips.

I cringe back, and Sam sobs.

“But she'd rather believe everyone else but me. Her fancy ex. Her best friend. Because they think they lived what I lived.”

He steps in so close to me, I can feel the heat of his breath on the top of my head.

My fingers ache to hold him. What he’s mistaken for distrust is really just confusion, the result of miscommunication and bad timing.

“They didn't live a minute in my shoes.”

My bottom lip trembles. “I know, Trainer.”

His fingers cover my lips, and I suck in a sob. “What—?”

“Don't talk. I'll learn how to read, Krista.”

My eyes widen as his finger traces the contour of my bottom lip, his fingers saying goodbye. I feel it down to my toes.

“Just not with you.”

“No!” I yell.

Trainer spins on his heel, striding toward the entrance to the school.

I chase after him, leaving behind the classroom where we made love, where I taught him he was smarter than he knew.

Turns out he was smarter than all of us.

 

*

 

Trainer slammed the door, making the glass shiver inside the frame. He clearly isn’t going to talk to me, so  I watch him stalk to his bike, jump on, and roar off. When I can no longer see his figure, I trudge back to the classroom, where I sort of fold myself into one the classroom chairs. I bang my knee in the process.

It hurts, I guess.

But I don't care. All I can think of is Trainer and how I blew it in a bunch of small ways.

They were all ways that mattered, though.

“Krista…” Sam says helplessly.

I don't look at Sam. I just sit there, staring.

A tissue box lands on the desk, and I suddenly become aware of the wet heat of my tears cascading down my face.

Lifting my cast, I study it, as a fresh wave of tears bursts.

“This is my fault,” Sam cries, plopping down beside me.

I shake my head. “Nope, it's mine. I should've just gone to that cabin last night after they released me from the hospital. Shouldn't have waited even a minute.” Angrily, I swipe away the tears. “Trainer coming in on your comments was just cementing his feelings that he was second in my heart. That trust was last place. He's too fragile emotionally to deal.”

I put my head in my hands, and my arm gives a painful squawk. “God.”

“It's a mess,” Sam says.

I nod.

“And I didn't even get to the part that he referenced. The judge let him off. I guess there was so much history of abuse that Brett's hospital records were like the Dead Sea Scrolls. This was just the latest pimp that took out all his awfulness on the son of his prostitute.”

Air squeezes out of my tight throat. “Figured that. I mean, Trainer's not a cold-blooded killer. But I have always sensed a willingness to protect others.” In a low voice, I add, “Except for himself.”

Sam and I exchange a loaded glance of remorse, sadness, and emotional exhaustion.

“I was going to say that despite all those facts, there's a counterpoint to it all.”

“Except the cock part.” My smile is rueful, my heart heavy.

A sad little laugh slips from between Sam's lips. “Yeah,” she says softly, “that's not up for debate on being a negative attribute.”

She takes my hand, and I give her a bone-crushing squeeze back. “You're not mad?” she asks.

Sam meant well. It was just bad timing, and I don't have the heart to come down on her, even if I didn't want to accept responsibility. It's too close to the anniversary of her parentsʼ death. I don't know if she could handle it all.

Shaking my head, I wrap icy fingers on my forehead. “No, I feel like kicking my own ass, but never yours.”

“He loves you,” Sam says. “Even I could see that, and I was last in line when they were handing out intuition.”

My sadness is so vast, I can hardly speak past it, but I do. “He did.”

Past tense.