The Trainer (33 page)

“Amazing. You know, I can’t imagine making a
plan that would cover the next ten years.”

“And I can’t imagine a life without this
security, sir.”

He nodded. “I guess that’s what makes you a
slave and me a trainer, sweetie. Interview ended, let’s get back to
work.”

Even if the day didn’t seem different than
any other, it was great to feel like he was in charge. It got even
better when Anderson invited him to sit in on one of her catch-up
interviews with Lorens. Although he didn’t get any deep insights on
how the Trainer did her own interviews, he did feel like he was
truly her apprentice. He hung on her every word, took copious
notes, and learned more about a bodybuilding regimen than he ever
really needed to know.

“You’ve lost inches, Lorens,” Anderson
commented. “Chest, arms, legs—everywhere. How are you cutting
down?”

“Very slowly, Trainer,” the big Dane said.
“Now, I am down to a one hour workout every day, plus a little
running and a little bicycle for stamina and good health. Not so
much protein any more. My lady does not like too many muscles!” He
laughed, and it was difficult not to laugh with him.

“One hour a day sounds like a lot,” Michael
commented.

“When I met him, he was working out four
hours a day,” Anderson said. “It’s not an exercise, it’s a
religion. When do you work out, Lorens?”

“In the morning, very early. I come back
home before she is awake to make breakfast. I run in the afternoon,
while she is working. Sometimes, I take the dogs. And we have a
great cycle, for two riders, which my lady enjoys riding—but she
never pushes the pedals!” He smiled and breathed in deeply. “I am
very happy, Trainer. It is all I wanted.”

“It’s good when it works out that way,”
Anderson said. “I’m glad it did for you, Lorens. And your mistress.
Now, let’s get back to the program—I see she likes some pretty
fancy manners around the house. You never turn your back on her,
you never sleep when she’s awake—nice touches. How does she punish
you?”

He never lost his smile. “Oh, she is very
clever, Trainer. When I fail her in any way, she sends me away. I
am forbidden to serve. Sometimes, for her pleasure, she has a
gentleman friend who is also very strong, and there is a whip which
I have felt many times. It is an honor then, to take pain for her.”
He rounded his shoulders and demonstrated how he braced for it.
“But when she is not pleased, I am alone. She invites another slave
to come and serve her.”

“And the last time that happened?”

Proudly, he answered, “Fourteen months ago,
Trainer.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she
said wryly. “But I’m glad you came. You set a good example.”

And he did. He was a classic Anderson
slave—attentive, subtle, and surrounded by a kind of attitude that
was almost palpable. Other trainers had mentioned an aura that
followed exceptional slaves—and Lorens had it. If he had any
obvious fault, it was that he was exceptionally cheerful, but that
was the demeanor his owner preferred, and you couldn’t argue with
that.

Michael was alone in his room that night
when he began to reflect on what he had really learned so far.
There was no order to it, nothing that he could write down as an
outline: This is how to train slaves. Yet there was a feeling he
had, a sense that there was something here that was eluding him,
something larger than a mere lesson plan.

He stood in front of the mirror at
attention, studying his posture and correcting it until it was the
standard expected by Anderson—and by Chris. He laced his fingers
behind his neck to throw out his chest, another common posture, and
straightened his head a little. Damn! There was so much they had to
remember—and still maintain a calm and serious demeanor, or be
cheerful in the face of bad days and the unfair twists and turns of
life. What was inside of them that Anderson could see but he
couldn’t? What made Chris so damn sure that his slave Robin was
innocent—and what bound him to her? She was just one of
what—dozens? A hundred?

He let his arms down and felt the gentle
twinge of holding the position too stiffly. Damned if he could
figure out how to hold it softly!

He wondered if not being able to figure that
out had anything to do with not being able to figure out what
exactly he was learning other than patience.

Chris could see Anderson’s silhouette as she
parted the drapes and watched him settle with the cab driver. He
wondered if Lorens was nearby, waiting for her to sleep so that he
could or whether he was tossing and turning in his bed, feeling
awkward and wakeful.

He opened the front doors with his key and
felt the emptiness of the hall. No one was waiting to take his
coat, so he hung it up himself. It smelled like smoke. Anderson
wasn’t going to like that.

“Hail the conquering hero. Wasn’t that a
line from something?” Her voice was hard, and Chris paused before
walking into the front room.

“I’m sure it was, Trainer.”

She was dressed tonight in red—a wool vest
embroidered with zig-zagged tribal patterns, layered over one of
her worn white cotton shirts. Her long skirt was a deeper red than
the vest. No silver jewelry tonight—only a dark stone dangling from
a chain around her throat. There was a fire lit, although the
weather didn’t really warrant it. It looked like it had been
burning for some time—there were no pieces of wood left in the
metal stacking frame.

“But you wouldn’t presume to correct your
Trainer, would you?”

“That would depend on the circumstance,” he
said wearily. “As does everything else.” She didn’t invite him to
sit, so he remained standing.

“I’m still finding it hard to believe you
went out there.”

“It was the right thing to do. An
investigation would have—”

“Would have ended in the same result,” she
interrupted.

“With all due respect, Trainer, I don’t
think so.”

“Obviously. So off you run to California,
where you proceed to—what? Brutalize some former street kid? For
what? To avenge the harm done to your client?”

Chris smiled and stopped hiding the hand
with the bandaged knuckles. “Someone’s been telling tales out of
school.”

“Chris—what on Earth got into you?”

“That’s a telling question, Imala. What I
did may in fact have a great deal to do with what’s gotten into
me.” He paused for her sigh of exasperation and shrugged. “I cannot
in good faith offer an excuse other than this: my responsibility to
Robin demanded that I be there for her. My current—condition—made
me less able to handle my anger, which is regretful. You were
correct, it would be impossible for me to do that for everyone
whose training I’ve participated in. This was a special case. And
I’m satisfied with all but one aspect of it.”

She angled her head suspiciously. “I can’t
wait to hear what that is.”

“I should not have hit the wall quite as
hard as I did.”

She shook her head. “I’m a sucker for a
straight line, Chris, and you know it. I’m still disappointed.”

He spread his hands in front of him. “I
await your discipline.”

She smiled. “Is that why you did it?”

“Certainly not!” he replied indignantly.
“Besides, if I had—you wouldn’t do a thing.” His mouth jerked up on
one side as he struggled to keep serious.

“True ’nuff,” Anderson said. “Well, I
suppose everyone has to come to this crossroads eventually. I’m
glad it finally happened.”

“And is that why you forced it?”

“Certainly not, to coin a phrase.” Hers was
strong, but lacked the same indignation. “If I wanted to get rid of
you, I’d throw you out.”

“That’s a comfort. But there is no
crossroads, Trainer. You didn’t order me to stay, and I didn’t defy
you by going.”

“Impasse?”

“No. Just a disagreement. Nothing to be
overly concerned with. May I be excused?”

“Sure. After you make good on a promise to
me. You still haven’t shown off this thing you’ve been building for
so long. Let’s take a gander now.”

He looked slightly surprised, but shrugged
again and nodded. He unknotted his tie and slid it from around his
throat, and started to unbutton the shirt he was wearing. It was
wrinkled from the hours on the flight. “I’m sorry,” he said
somewhat belatedly.

“It’s all right, Parker. I know you’re
shy.”

He pulled the shirt out of his trousers and
took it carefully off, draping it across the back of a chair. He
was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, which he pulled up over his
head in one smooth motion. Then, he stepped closer to allow her to
examine the creation that was his upper body.

“Oh my,” she said softly, rising. “You have
been a good boy.” She ran a finger lightly across the top of one
shoulder, outlining the muscular structure that had just begun to
form two years ago. The firelight danced and made rippled patterns
down his chest, which was perfect, considering the subject matter
of the tattoo. She examined it, bending down to see more of it. Her
fingers lightly traced under the pectoral muscles, and she moved
them away when he shivered. “Sorry about that. But there’s
something about so much work that demands a respectful and admiring
attitude.”

He blushed, and she laughed out loud. “Thank
God I can still do that, Parker! Sometimes, you do have me
worried.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, ignoring the
tease. “The colors? You don’t think it’s—excessive?”

“No, dear, I don’t. I think it’s perfect.
Now, I think I’ll go to bed. And—you may, too.” She tapped him
lightly on the shoulder when she went by. “There’s a lot of work
still to be done, Parker, crossroads or not. Let’s try not to have
any more emergencies, shall we?”

He picked up the shirts and his tie with a
sigh and nodded at her back. “Of course, Trainer. Good night.
Oh—Trainer?”

She turned to him. “Yes?”

“‘See, the conquering hero comes! Sound the
trumpet—beat the drums.’ I believe that’s Thomas Morell.”

“Parker, whatever you are—you are always a
wiseass.”

“Undoubtedly.”

She laughed again, and he followed her
upstairs after banking the fire and checking the doors.

“Now, observe. Watch her very carefully as
she goes down.”

I wish, Michael thought bitterly. But he
obediently looked at Joan as she dipped into a kneeling posture
which was not one of Anderson’s standards. The British woman was
kneeling with her knees drawn up tightly together, her back
straight and shoulders back. Her palms were resting on the sides of
her thighs, fingertips straight down. Her chin was lowered. It was
not the most attractive of postures, but it looked good with the
maid’s uniform—very formal.

“Correct the position,” Chris said. It was
the order Michael dreaded.

It was one thing to know how something was
done, another thing to do it. Michael had also discovered that
seeing something done and knowing how it should be done was also
quite different than correcting minor errors when it had been done!
All the necessary points were there—toes pointed, back straight,
head down, fingers down—what else was there?

Several times, he had tried to do something,
anything. He would push her shoulders back a little more, and then
see that he had pushed her out of line. Or, in another move, he
would walk around her, studying her for a long time until she
actually moved out of position. That’s when he would criticize.
Both tactics failed. He also tried just saying that he thought she
had executed a task or movement perfectly—and then watched as Chris
made some correction or another. It seemed that whatever he did—or
didn’t do—was wrong. If Anderson had been an indirect instructor
who rarely made a point of saying “this is how it’s done,” Chris
Parker was the teacher from hell, knowing every possible answer and
making sure that Michael was aware of every mistake he made. Chris
also maintained that slightly snide attitude about it all—he never
called Michael stupid, but Michael heard it anyway.

He looked Joan over with a sigh, checking
items off a mental list. They were all there this time—or maybe her
head was a little too tucked? Her chin shouldn’t be touching her
chest—was it? No, it wasn’t. He was tired; a steady thumping pain
right behind one eyeball was making him feel more impatient than
usual. In one week, Parker had upset Michael’s latest resolve and
brought back all the anxiety and the feeling that nothing was
happening. He shook his head. “I have no idea, Chris. I have
absolutely no idea.”

Chris started to say something, but then
switched his attention to Joan. “Bring your chin up just a bit,
girl, right there. Yes. The remainder was satisfactory. Go and see
if Vicente needs any help.”

“Yes, Chris,” she said rising. She was a
little stiff—the position wasn’t made for lengthy periods of time.
But like the good slave she was, she waited until she was out of
sight to stretch out properly. When her footsteps receded, Chris
turned to Michael.

“The knowledge of ignorance is a person’s
first step toward education, Mike. Isn’t it about time you got off
that first step?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s too late in your training for you to
keep relying on not knowing what to do. A slave gets to ask twice—a
trainer should be able to ask once and then be able to do it. If
there’s a special problem here, I would appreciate knowing it.”

Michael fumed. “First of all, I am not a
slave, and I can ask however many time I need to, until you explain
it right. I don’t understand why everything has to be so absolutely
perfect! The position was plain—all the elements were there, she
had the right attitude—any owner would be thrilled to have a slave
that could pull that off every time!”