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  TRAINER

  A Road Kill MC Novel

  Volume 7

  New York Times Bestselling author

  MARATA EROS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 Marata Eros

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Marata Eros Website

  Marata Eros FB Fan Page

  Cover art by Willsin Rowe

  Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing.

  CONTENTS

  Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Marata Eros NEWS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  DEDICATION:

  For all the Trainers of this earth.

  I see you—others will never define your potential.

  Only you own that.

  Music that inspired me during the writing of TRAINER:

  Eurielle

  Carry Me

  And

  The Weeknd

  Often

  And

  Ariana Grande

  Dangerous Woman

  SYNOPSIS:

  Brett Rife is dumb. Stupid. Slow.

  At least that's what people assume. That was what the parade of men who came through Brett and his mama's house during his childhood fed him like poison on a spoon.

  Then Brett grew up, and when his Mama was threatened, he took care of what he must. When the Road Kill MC trio, Noose, Wring and Lariat, get caught up in Brett's mess, they see the raw potential of the man—to become a brother.

  Brett Rife becomes Trainer and gets the family he never had. Trainer doesn't know how to love. He's never been taught. So he’s given up, seeking solace in the club whores…

  Until Krista Glass.

  Krista is a special needs teacher. When she's faced with a forced sabbatical, she isn’t assigned her the early elementary students she’s used to teaching. Instead, Krista gets three adults.

  One man is so quietly brutal and deep—so unreachable—that Krista's not sure she can help him, until she finds that Trainer helps her in ways Krista never knew she wanted.

  Needed.

  As the stakes rise and a dangerous man begins to threaten Krista, Trainer must decide if he’s willing to compromise his position within RK MC and the courts to protect her.

  Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett:

  The BLOOD Series

  The DEATH Series

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM

  The REFLECTION Series

  The SAVAGE Series

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  &

  Marata Eros

  A Terrible Love (New York Times Best Seller)

  A Brutal Tenderness

  The Darkest Joy

  Club Alpha

  The DARA NICHOLS Series

  The DEMON Series

  The DRUID Series

  Road Kill MC Serial

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM

  The SIREN Series

  The TOKEN Serial

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  The ZOE SCOTT Series

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  Chapter 1

  Trainer

  Five years ago

  Mama stops his hairy wrist, but I know it's gonna happen anyway.

  The beatings.

  And it does. I feel the air pass over my head as I duck instinctively, but the blow strikes me anyway. I bow forward under only the partial impact.

  “Don't, Arnie! He's just stickinʼ up for me!”

  “You don't need nobody standinʼ up for ya—you got me!” he roars, pounding his fist on his chest like an ape.

  His meaty palm, just like all the others I've seen from Mama's men my entire life, hits me again.

  I fall to the floor, hands striking the dirty linoleum to break my fall.

  I know I can survive. Been surviving.

  I've taken the beatings, whippings, cigarette burns, and tool marks for years.

  But this time, something deep inside me snaps. I’m not five years old anymore, pissing in my own Wheaties. Pathetic. Scrawny.

  “Look at ʼim.” Arnie's upper lip lifts in a sneer of disdain.

  He's just Right Now Arnie. There’ve been an asston of Arnies before him.

  They’re all my mama ever picks.

  Arnies.

  “He's as dumb as a box of rocks.” He grunts.

  Yeah. That's true. I can't read. Can't figure. Can't do shit. But I can fight.

  Wiping the blood off my lip with my index finger, I fling it to the floor.

  I give Mama a look, and she gives a tiny shake of her head, begging me not to do what she sees on my face. The thrum of violence, always underneath the surface of my skin like an itch I can't scratch, is a current of agony.

  Just one more time, I think. Trying to put up with another beating. For mama.

  Then Arnie decides for me, releasing me from the prison of my own emotions.

  He advances on Mama with sure strides. Eyes widening with familiar alarm, she spins, trying to run. In slow motion, he charges at her. His brutal grip closes around her long hair like it’s a rope.

  He yanks backward.

  This is where I always insert myself, taking the beating meant for her. I take it until I can't gather breath in my lungs, can't see through the swollen eyelids, and can't stand because the room spins and my vision blurs.

  Mama usually gets beat some too.

  Not tonight. My body acts on its own. My mind is a distant observer.

  Standing from my crouched position on the floor, I calmly pick up the ashtray. A smoldering cigarette gives a dying sigh as the last spiral of smoke rises from the glass perch where it rests.

  Dumping the contents, I stride toward Arnie, who’s no small man at six feet two.

  But I'm taller.

  Bigger.

  I lift the heavy glass, turning it sideways so the jagged teeth of the design will do the most damage, and bring it down on his thick skull.

  The dull thunk is audible even over Mama's
hysterical screams filling the space of our small apartment.

  Someone pounds on the wall. “Shud up!”

  Mama and I don't listen.

  We're too busy looking at the pool of blood growing underneath Arnie.

  “Whadya do, Brett?” she whispers, eyes riveted on the spreading scarlet oil slick.

  I take in the streaming tears sliding in between the bruises, both fading and new, on her once-pretty face and speak for the first time since Arnie came home from “work.”

  As a pimp.

  “What I needed to,” I answer softly.

  “Oh, Brett, they're gonna put you away,” she says on a horrified moan.

  I nod. Maybe.

  Then her features take on hopeful lines. “Maybe you didn't kill him?”

  My eyes return to Arnie.

  I frown.

  His chest rises and falls rhythmically, stretching the red-and-black flannel shirt he wears to bursting.

  I know what I gotta do.

  “Yeah…” I scoop the ashtray off the floor. The blood smears look like the fingerpainting I did in kindergarten.

  I lift the heavy glass in the only dry spot left. Some of the serrated edges are filled with gory things thicker than blood.

  “What—Brett!” Mama screams.

  I always finish.

  Arnie needs finishing.

  I use my muscles this time, pounding his skull until the brains come out.

  Cocking my head, I study the gray chunks mixed with blood and other junk I don't recognize. Doesn't look like much.

  And this Arnie ain't gonna ever call me dumb again.

  Ever.

  Mama's screams are just white noise. I don't feel the hands she must put on me.

  I'm all for the work.

  The work of finishing Arnie.

  *

  Mama's crying, but I don't really notice. Mama cries a lot.

  “Don't take my boy,” she says, half-standing. “He's just a kid.” Her dark hair's uncombed, flying around her shoulders as she whirls to look at me, brown eyes swimming with endless tears that roll down her face.

  Mama's fingers grip the rolled-wood edge of the courtroom bench.

  “Sit down, Ms. Rife.”

  Mama sinks slowly onto the hard pew, and I face the judge. He's a big fat dude with jowls that jiggle as he talks.

  It occurs to me how funny it is. I want to laugh, but I bite my lip. He can make bad things happen.

  “My client has an IQ hovering at the level that makes competency in question, Your Honor,” my lawyer states.

  Shame fills me like liquid heat, rising from my feet to my head in a wave of sickening nausea. Why do people always find so many different ways to call me dumb?

  I turn and glare at Hammerstein, my lawyer, and his eyebrows drop above eyes slitted in anger—a look meant to shut me up.

  He told me, over and over, “You got to keep quiet and let me do all the talking.”

  Kinda tired of people talking for me.

  They been doinʼ it all my life. Beating me. Pretending I don't have a voice.

  Until I didn't have one no more.

  “He's also technically a minor.”

  This was what Hammerstein called his “ace in the hole.” Whatever that means.

  The judge looks unsure, looking from me to Mama, then staring at a stack of photos in front of him.

  Low murmurs fill the courtroom, until I want to cover my ears. All the voices at once sound like angry bees trying to dive into my head like it’s a hive.

  The judge pounds a wood hammer thing on the big desk in front of him, saying in a booming voice, “Silence!”

  Nobody says nothinʼ.

  Finally, he speaks to Hammerstein, “Your client”—he shakes his head slightly—“Brett Rife, has displayed a level of violence that, when given his almost-eighteen-year-old status, is disturbing.”

  A lady sitting in front of a typewriter thing quits clicking away, hands poised above it as the judge pauses.

  “Actually, it's a disturbing event regardless of gender or age group.” He sighs, his eyes shifting to me again.

  I stand there. I got nothing to hide.

  Been looked at plenty. None of it good. Except by Mama. She did the best she could. She just chose bad.

  Real bad.

  “Brett, do you understand you could go to prison?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  I guess I'd get fed. And maybe not beat by all the Arnies. But who would take care of Mama?

  Pressing my palm against my cheek, I chew on the inside. Helps me think. It takes some time for me to work through what I want to say, though, and to get a good enough answer ready.

  The judge waits.

  “I worry about what would happen to Mama,” I finally admit.

  I hear her begin to cry again in the background. Softly. Like the rain sounds when it lashes my windows during the night.

  Not going to turn around and look at her. I need to pay attention to the judge. Important stuff is going to be said.

  “Judge Carrol,” Hammerstein says before the judge can answer, spreading his hands wide, “you've seen the medical report on this boy.” He taps a folder full of paperwork set between us and the twelve people who will decide if I go to jail.

  They stare at me.

  I put my head down. Don't like being noticed. Makes me feel squirmy.

  Dumb.

  Heat climbs my nape.

  “Yes,” the judge says, and I can feel his attention like a weight. “There's been a lot of pain in your life, Brett.” His attention takes in the jury too. “The medical reports of what this young man has suffered is almost more than I can bear to peruse… or think about.”

  I don't say nothing because it's the truth. The part about the pain.

  “Brett, did you plan to kill Arnold Sulk?”

  My chin hikes in surprise. Arnie? No. Just happened. My thoughts are so loud, I'm pretty sure I said them. But when I check people out, everyone's still waiting for my answer.

  I glance at Hammerstein, whose face is screwed up tight. Probably constipated.

  “No, sir. He was beating my mama, and I had to stop that,” I say simply.

  Another attorney is sitting at a table just like ours a few feet away. “So you beat him in the head until his brains leaked out onto the floor?” he asks. His light-brown eyebrows rise, and he smooths his hands over a fancy suit jacket.

  Shame over my poor clothes stabs me again. Jeans and an old t-shirt. Don't have no money to look good.

  “Objection!” Hammerstein bellows into the quiet.

  But I nod. The other guy understands, fancy clothes or not. “Ah-huh.”

  I turn back to the judge. “I did that.” I jerk my thumb at the other attorney. “What he said.”

  “He admits he killed Arnold Sulk!” The other attorney slaps his paperwork down on the desk and glares at Hammerstein.

  I don't understand why everyone's mad. Can't they see that Arnie was gonna hurt my mama?

  Had to stop it.

  If I hadn’t finished it then, he would have done it to Mama again. Or some other lady.

  All the Arnies are like that. Like they were put on this world to do one thing.

  “Why did you kill Arnold Sulk, Brett?” Judge Carrol asks softly.

  I don't have to think this through at all. It's at the front of my brain, but the question seems as obvious as my answer. “ʼCause maybe he was going to finish Mama.” I hastily add, “This time.” All the other times, I stepped in and took the pain so Arnie couldn't finish.

  Like with all the Arnies before him.

  That's why I have bad skin. From all the Arnies and their hands, fists, tools, and cigarettes.

  The only place free of the scars is my ass end.

  “Finish?” Judge Carrol asks, and Hammerstein groans, putting his face in his hands.

  “Ya know, Judge…” I scratch my head, and the chain that binds my wri
sts rattles, thwacking the solid wood table. “Carrol,” I add, finally remembering his name.

  I smile broadly. I love the shit outta when I can remember something. It's a warm feeling. Not like the heat of my constant shame. But a good feeling.

  Like I'm okay.

  The judge smiles back.

  “Killing—Arnie was goinʼ after my mama. And he could kill her, Judge, because she's a lady, and he's a man. So I had to kill him first so he wouldn't hurt my mama no more. That's what good men do—they protect ladies.”

  It was a lot of talking for me. It's a relief when I can close my mouth. I don't like talking. But talking is easiest when it's something I really believe in a lot. I turn my head, and my eyes find Mama.

  She's got that look on her face—the look she gets when she's proud of me.

  I smile at her. The purity of the moment surfaces in the room, and for a second, it's just me and her. Nobody else.

  “Yes, they do, son. Good men protect women.” Judge Carrol turns to the twelve people. “You are a jury of Brett Rife's peers. Do right by him.”

  The wood thing hurts my ears when it hits the desk this time.

  Probably because the courtroom is so quiet.

  *

  “I did good?” I ask Hammerstein when he says the verdict went in our favor.

  He nods. “I was apprehensive that you might incriminate yourself in there.” Hammerstein gives my shoulder a hard clap, then his face seems to say he wishes he hadn't.