Chapter 9

Krista

 

Tuesday, Trainer shows up, and we begin the tedium of memorizing sight words.

I suck in my breath when his hand accidentally brushes mine every few minutes.

By Thursday, I know it's no accident.

When Wednesday rolls around and every time I look at him, he's looking at me, I feel myself cave degree by degree. To him.

To the temptation that is Trainer.

Thursday's session is different. I receive a text from Corina saying that she'll be a half hour late, and her delay gives me more time with Trainer.

Time we can't use during the learning process to get acquainted.

He starts out with, “Got bad shit to tell you, Krista.”

I know. Knew it all along. Inside, I fortify myself. “Okay.”

He nods. “Love my mama.”

The intro surprises me, especially a little boy's endearment out of such a masculine guy.

“She picks men. Bad ones.”

I don't say anything. I've heard something like this before. Lots of my kids are from broken homes where their disabilities are tolerated very little, or not at all.

But Trainer's not a kid. He's a man. A man I'm very aware of.

Terribly aware.

My gaze sweeps his bare arms, where tattoo sleeves don't hide the pockmarks of abuse caused by branding and beatings.

His eyes take in my face, searching it for disparagement, disbelief, or some negative emotion.

I take a deep breath. “I'm still here.”

He gives me a rare smile. “I know.”

Trainer looks out the window, translucent eyes bleeding almost to white as he gazes into the trees circling the building.

When he finally speaks, it constricts my heart. “They beat us pretty regular-like. The men.” He takes a deep breath then adds, “The Arnies.”

My heartbeats begin a punishing rhythm. I don't want to hear. To know. To understand this beautiful, wounded man was once a fragile, inquisitive boy who couldn't see letters in the right order.

And was beaten for that. And lesser things—while watching his mom get beaten too.

I put my hands over my eyes, though the tears squeeze between my fingers.

Trainer picks me off the chair beside him and hoists me onto his lap. My hands fall, and he looks deep into my eyes. I suck up his unique fragrance of clean male, vague leather, and engine.

“Never told nobody this stuff. Don't mean to make you cry.”

“I can't help it,” I say against his neck. It’s so inappropriate, but I can't pull away now. He's telling me what's so difficult to say.

I won't reject him by creating a physical distance, though I know that's not my only reason.

His large hand winds my nape, each finger a brand of erotic heat against my skin.

“So when I wanted to get help learning, people made fun of me. When they tried to talk to Mama, the Arnies made her quit caring.”

“Or they'd hurt her,” I guessed.

“Yeah,” he answers and squeezes my neck. The strength in the gesture lays between us, unrealized. That violent potential that Trainer has.

When he's touching me like this, it's hard to remember what he's been put through, what he's capable of.

The moment is now. Him and me. The world a distant place that surrounds us, yet we're not a part of it.

“So that's why I'm dumb,” he states as fact.

I pull away sharply, my wet eyes searching his dry ones. “You are not dumb in any way, shape or form, Brett Rife.” My voice is a reflection of how I feel inside: convicted, filled with absolute surety and belief.

He nods. “That's why I can tell you, Krista. I can tell you the horrible shit.”

Feeling my brows pull together, I ask, “Why?”

“Because you believe.”

I put my hands on his broad shoulders for balance. “Of course I believe you're not dumb.” I give an indignant snort. I never thought for a second that he was stupid.

Trainer shakes his head and lifts my palm to place a hot kiss in the center that leaves me breathless.

“Nah. I already knew that.” His green eyes rise to meet mine. “It's the other thing you believe in.”

Another kiss has me biting off a moan.

“What?” I ask, voice breathy.

“Me,” he answers simply, laying a chaste kiss on my unresisting lips, “You believe in me,” he ends on a whisper.

 

*

Friday

 

Shit.

I glance at Allen’s text for the twentieth time.

We need to talk, he says.

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth and chew on it. Finally, I tap a response, breaking my run of avoidance—the inevitable.

How about we meet at Starbucks—8ish?

My feet shift restlessly on the floorboards of my Fiat. I'm still sitting in the nearly empty parking lot of the Elementary school.

Momentarily, I'm distracted by a deep bass that rumbles through the car, thrumming through my seat.

Turning, I see a great big bike come rolling in.

Black. The machine shines in the June sunshine like a giant ebony pearl.

My cell vibrates with a reply, but I'm riveted, like I've never seen a bike before.

Of course it's Trainer's. And that makes it different from all the others.

He must have seen me sitting in my car. If there's one thing I've learned in the four days of teaching him to read through the struggle of the mild dyslexia he's saddled with, it's that Trainer's naturally inquisitive and smart.

Somebody—or something—squelched that natural childlike curiosity. Hard. Of course, now I know part of the why.

Trainer's learning a new skill set that includes trust and hope. Plus, he’ll have to muster enough drive to learn after that natural impulse was amputated by sadists before he could cultivate it.

I know that desire is within him, buried underneath all the steel-plated armor. I'll have to find a way to pull that eagerness to learn to the surface.

That's complicated by our growing sexual chemistry, though, like the way we crossed the line yesterday with that kiss. It didn't go further, but it doesn't matter. It's not if it'll go further, but when.

I saw the sexual tension in how his eyes crawled over my body. In the soft way he said my name.

The invisible heat has smoldered between us from practically minute one.

I wipe sweating palms on my shredded jeans before adjusting my messy hair knot.

Trainer rests for a minute on the bike, and I take in his solid form.

He's a big man, and an intimidating one.

For some reason, he doesn't scare me.

I suspect Trainer would be tender and compassionate where he could, despite his terrible background.

Just a feeling.

The flat of his feet planted on the ground, he swings one leg over, scooping a half-helmet thing off his head. Resting it on the passenger seat, Trainer peers at the sky before leaving the bike, and I just know he's looking for rainfall.

Seeing a rare, clear day, he leaves the helmet where it sits.

His icy, green stare finds me in my car, staring at him like a dope. I'm helpless to look away.

Trainer begins to stride toward me with purpose.

My heart hammers against my ribcage.

Quickly, I check the text.

I'll be there. I barely have time to say kk to Allen’s cryptic response before Trainer is standing outside my driver's door.

His dick is in plain view.

I mean, it's behind dark denim jeans that are skin tight, but I swear I can see the outline.

Oh God.

Shutting my eyes, I know there's no amount of self-chastisement that will stop me from thinking about him sexually. Imagining us together. Yesterday's confession and interlude saw to that.

I hate that we've been set in motion.

And I can't stop it.

Opening my eyes, I find myself staring into his green ones, with only the glass of my car window separating us. They're so close, I swear I can see the darker green ring surrounding his pupil.

Trainer doesn't speak.

My hand shakes as I grasp the handle, and he takes a step back to allow me to exit.

Standing, I turn to grab my purse and planner, then pivot to face him.

Still silent, he eats up the step he retreated, right into my space.

His raw size engulfs me, and I think to shut my door, but he cages me with both hands, effectively shutting it before I have a chance.

My butt hits the door, and I look up, clutching my stuff like a shield. Maybe I can salvage some scrap of distance. Doubtful.

“Hi.” I clear my throat and repeat the lame greeting.

“Hi,” Trainer says back, but his eyes are on my throat… and lower.

They sweep up suddenly, dark brown lashes framing those gorgeous irises. Though they’re prettier than a girl's, there's no mistaking Trainer for being anything other than all male.

“Why were you sittinʼ in your car, Krista?”

I look down at the cell still clenched in my fist and brush his chest as I slide it into my purse.

We simultaneously suck in a breath at the contact, and my peripheral vision watches his fingers curl against the Fiat's roof.

“Just answering a text before our time.” I try on a smile. It falters because Trainer's looking at me like a dessert he's been denying himself.

“Gotta tell ya something else, Krista.”

His words from yesterday flood my brain, but I nod stupidly, managing, “Maybe after class.”

He shakes his head, and a long piece of chestnut hair escapes from a tie at his nape, falling forward to cover one of his gorgeous eyeballs.

I have an insane urge to put that chunk back, and clasp my hands together over my things.

He gives a sharp jerk of his head, and the tendril settles behind his shoulder. “Gotta talk about more bad shit. Be honest.”

My heart goes into overdrive at this point. His nearness. The smell of him.

More? My heartbeat speeds. “Have I done something wrong?”

Somehow, he knows how I've been feeling—probably all the moaning when he was kissing my hand then kissing him back yesterday. Maybe I stared at him too long, flirted, or led him on. I don't know, I agonize. I hadn't been that obvious. I mean, before he told me… what he told me.

We'd made progress. He had his twenty basic sight words memorized. Trainer was sounding out words without clenching his fists, as of yesterday. Victory.

We did get something done besides all the other stuff.

But now?

“Kinda,” he says. “But I figure it wasn't your fault, just one of those things that happen.”

Oh shit.“Gonna touch you now, Krista.”

What? Oh—touch me.

His eyes ask permission, though his words leave no choice.

A sigh slides out of me, and my purse drops to the ground between us.

My chin dips in acquiesce, but a moment later, my eyes rise to meet his.

I don't have the first clue what he'll do.

Then he does it.

One large hand lifts from the roof of my car and cups my chin, running a thumb along my jaw.

“Soft,” he whispers. “So soft.”

“What?” I ask just as quietly, then he takes me in his arms and presses me against the front of him. My head tilts back, and he captures it with the hand that just caressed my face.

His fingers dig into my hair, loosening the messy bun I carefully coiffed to look good for Trainer. Much to my shame.

Trainer turns my head, forcing my face to where he wants it to be, and kisses me.

Hard. Well.

Sucking and pecking at my lips, Trainer grinds the front of himself against me.

His stiffness presses against my belly, and I groan.

Losing it.

He takes that sound for what it is and wraps me tighter, eating the lustful noises as fast as I make them. I couldn't escape his hold if I wanted to.

I don't.

His tongue licks along the seam of my lips, and I part them for his entry. Trainer plunges in; our twining heat is all that I hear. All I know.

All I want.

A car door slams, and we reluctantly break apart, our chests heaving and gazes locked.

I turn to look at the intruder then cringe internally. Allen. Nothing awkward about having a guy you've slept with catch you making out with another man.

Nothing. At. All.

He's striding our way.

“Is he a problem?” Trainer asks, lust thick in his voice.

“No,” I answer automatically, because… well, I never thought a lawyer could be capable of anything the “dredges” are.

Just shows how little I know.

 

*

 

Allen slows as he comes nearer, taking in our flushed faces and swollen lips.

He smirks.

“Is this what we're going to talk about, Krista?” Allen swings a palm at Trainer.

Trainer stands with his boots planted wide and arms crossed, saying nothing.

I hate the way Allen looks at Trainer.

Like he's worthless.

That type of behavior is part of what's wounded Trainer in the past, and I don't want Allen, who has been given so much, to cause more harm.

I can't stand it—now more than ever.

Though I didn't notice at first, Trainer's taken a semi-protective position in front of me.

Allen's not a threat. But Sam's right: he is a colossal ass.

I touch my mouth where the heat of Trainer's kiss still lies, then let my fingers fall. “It's not what it looks like.”

It's exactly what it looks like. But I feel like I owe Allen an explanation. We're not officially broken up, yet.

“This isn't your business,” Trainer says.

Allen's eyes slim to daggers pointed at him.

The big body in front of me tenses.

Shit.

I quickly step around Trainer, meeting Allen halfway. “Things got carried away here, Allen.”

He folds his arms, eyes still on Trainer, and I can feel his anger like molten lava behind me, running over me to get to Allen.

“Really?” His smirk widens to a smug grin. “I'd say him jamming his tongue down your throat while he dry humps you against your car is really carried away.”

I nod. Yes, it was a dumb move. A move I gave permission for.

Why?

Because I'm weak. And if I'm honest, I want to sleep with Trainer.

Save him. Both.

I shiver. Maybe I already love him.

Clenching my eyes shut, I ask Allen without opening them, “I thought we were meeting at Starbucks tonight?”

“I thought you might need this before tonight. You left it over at my house.” He shoots a triumphant glance at Trainer, at once dismissive and informative.

My eyelids fly open, and he's handing me a bright-red peacoat, which I don't really need because it's June.

I want to hate Allen for his asshole behavior, but I realize my actions have brought out the worst in him.

Allen's just peeing in corners, giving me tangible reminders that we're still a couple. Even though we haven't been on a date in a month or slept together in six.

He could have handed that off to me tonight. Hell, Allen could have given it to me when he stopped by unannounced at the beginning of the week.

Now it's Friday, and he's back again. Doesn't seem smart. And Allen is a bright guy.

“Thanks.” I feel embarrassed, caught and exploited in a miserable emotional lump.

“You're welcome.” His pure-blue eyes peg Trainer. “If you couldn't figure it out, we're dating, Krista and I.” He wags a finger between himself and me.

There isn't a handy rock to crawl under, but I wish one would appear. Now.

“Doesn't look like she's dating you no more, Allen.”

Allen smiles like a shark.

Oh, my God.

“Okay, I already told you I'll see you tonight, Allen. It's Trainer's time now.”

“Yes, it does appear very much like it's his time.”

Jesus. I push my messy hair behind my shoulder and take a deep breath. “Allen, it's not professional for you to drop by whenever. Not again.” I finally stand up for myself, despite my guilt.

Allen cocks his head. The sun backlighting him makes his champagne-colored, carefully styled hair glow. Not in a good way. Like he's on fire.

“Professional,” he muses, tapping his square jaw.

“Fuck off,” Trainer commands.

Shit! I had this handled.

Keeping the brittle smile affixed on his face, he turns his attention to Trainer, and I can see he's not through.

Not by a long shot.

Allen spins on his expensive heel and strolls off. Casually.

Like he didn't just see me making out with a student in the parking lot.

As though the whole exchange was no big deal.

Allen hops in his bright-red Porsche and spins out of the parking lot, spraying loose gravel from the pavement.

Watching him go, I begin to shake as his sports car becomes a red dot in the distance.

When the tears start, I can't shut them off.

Trainer moves behind me, wrapping his arms from behind and crushing me against his body. “Don't cry, Krista.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say, meaning it. I have some fit of hormonal shit, and I—what? Try to fuck it out with my student?He’s supposed to be able to trust me. Gah!

More tears cascade.

Trainer turns me in the circle of his arms, and I can't look at him.

Shame rides me like a deranged monkey. “I'm sorry,” I whisper again. “You trusted me, and we were learning so well together…”

“Hey.” He puts his finger beneath my chin and lifts it. “I can kiss you and still learn.”

I shake my head.

Then he's kissing me again.

Oh God.

Then I'm kissing him back.

I pull away, drowning, trying to stop this thing that's between us. “No,” I whisper.

“No to me?” He cradles my face, kissing the tears and bending down to rub his face along mine like a cat.

“No—I mean yes to you. No to…” Then Trainer's dragging me to the classroom.

When we're through the door, he locks it.

Then he hits me like a ton of bricks.

What do I do?

Fall.