The Trainer Page 7

  But here was nothing but dark gloominess. Michael knew he was being sulky and didn’t care. It was Parker who broke the silence first.

  “Did you enjoy the city today?”

  “Yeah.” Michael leaned back, giving up the pretense of eating. “Yeah, it was nice to get out. I’d like to see some of the sights, I guess. You born here?”

  “A New Yorker by the breed.”

  “Great. Maybe you can tell me where the scene is around here.”

  “The scene? Do you mean the local sado-dabblers?”

  Michael smirked in spite of himself. “Cute, I like that. Yeah, the clubs and stuff. I’d like to touch base with the community out here.”

  “Perhaps we’re crossing lines, then. Do you mean the leather clubs? The bars for men, the organizations for D-and-S’ers? Or the local Marketplace people?”

  “The amateurs,” Michael acknowledged. “Like Gates of Pleasure. Or the International SM Activist Organization. They got a local Chapter?”

  Parker looked a little amused. “I suppose they do,” he admitted. “In the office, you’ll find a few local sex papers—at least one of them will have a listing of the various organizations. There is a community of sorts, in the broader, non-political definition of the term. Some clubs, public and not so. Do you like to slum?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Michael brightened a little. This was the most he’d gotten from Chris in days.

  “Really? Even after what happened?”

  Michael sat back, a little surprised. “Oh. You heard.”

  “Anderson has shared all of your history with me.”

  The weight of that settled in, and Michael bit his lip. “Well, you know, everyone makes mistakes. That doesn’t mean I should deny myself the pleasure of playing in the uncultivated fields.” That had been a favorite phrase of Geoff’s.

  “I suppose not. I do a little leather bar hopping myself.” Chris tossed his napkin on the table, and within seconds, Tara was at his side, clearing the dishes away. “I think Mike is finished, Tara, you may clear his as well. And we’ll take coffee in the front room.”

  “Yes, Chris,” she said brightly, dropping a smile toward Mike as she gathered up his plate and utensils. Well, well, Michael thought, watching the woman work. Leather bars, huh? The little guy’s a fag—and that explains why he’s so cool about not slipping the old sausage to the girls. What a fucking waste, man—to be surrounded by pussy and want only dick. He turned to follow Tara with his eyes, and then switched back to Chris when she left the room.

  “God, she’s good.”

  “Yes, she’s a good girl. She’ll do very well.” Chris stood up and headed toward the front room, and Michael followed him. This was also a first—usually, they had a cup of coffee at the table, and Vicente kept more on hand if they wanted dessert later.

  It was a cold evening—you could hear the wind whistle around the bay window, and watch the tree branches sway back and forth. And it was so very dark, so early in the day. Michael fought back a shiver and dropped into a wingbacked chair, grateful that it didn’t face the window. One benefit of the cold, though—you could light a fire and enjoy the benefits of the heat. He watched as Chris laid kindling and positioned a few thicker branches around a log.

  “Why doesn’t she call you ‘sir?’” Michael asked.

  “I don’t like it,” Chris answered, never taking an eye away from what he was doing. “It also becomes a form of discipline for the clients—they must remember to call me by my name. I find it a useful exercise.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong by having them call me ‘sir,’ am I?”

  “No. It’s a good thing for clients to have differing expectations during training. They will certainly have them while in service.” Chris struck a long match and lit the twisted paper at the bottom and sides of his neat stack of wood. He tossed the match into the fireplace and stood, closing the metal grate. Then, he took the seat opposite Michael, just in time to receive a cup from Tara. “After serving, you may have a half hour of free time, Tara.”

  “Thank you, Chris.”

  She handed a cup to Michael with another smile, and he felt as warmed by her as he did by the steadily curling flames. Yes, you could tell she was an Anderson slave. Never a moment of hesitation, always a pleasant expression, and that indefinable aura of... confidence?

  As he watched her place a silver coffee pot on the sideboard, Michael pondered the sudden revelation. Was it confidence that he was watching? Yes—a certain sureness of step, as though she knew that what she was doing was proper, a kind of well practiced dance, subtle and deliberate at the same time.

  When she was gone, he slumped into his chair, reassuming his morose mood as quickly as he had lost it. How the hell am I ever going to learn that? he asked himself. How the hell can you teach it?

  “You have to let go of the past,” said Chris, almost making Michael spill his coffee.

  “What?”

  “You’re wondering what is going on—and how you’re going to get over your current difficulties—or am I incorrect?” He looked so cool, calmly sitting there, his legs crossed and his tie so straight. He spoke gently, and looked Michael directly in the eyes waiting for an answer.

  “Jesus, does Anderson teach you how to read minds as well as see through walls?”

  Chris smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes, she does. Or, you pick it up after years of working with people who must reveal all of their secrets to you.”

  “But how am I supposed to learn if she doesn’t give me a chance?” Michael stood up and began to pace. “I’ve been here for days, and it seems like I’ve done nothing! Yeah, I fucked up my first interview, but people make mistakes—how else can you learn? Isn’t it wasting her time if she’s not going to bother to actually teach me?”

  “It might be, if that was what she was doing.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Perhaps you are being taught something.”

  “What? Where the supermarket is? What music she likes?”

  “The modern equivalent, perhaps, of chopping wood and carrying water.”

  Michael looked back at Chris, who now avoided eye contact. He stared out of the window and gathered his thoughts. Chopping wood and carrying water? Wasn’t that a line in a Van Morrison song, something about enlightenment...

  Oh yeah! Michael remembered seeing a movie once, about some kind of samurai. He had rented it by accident with a load of chop-socky films, something to waste a Saturday afternoon with. Late at night, he had popped the tape in, and found himself fascinated by the tale, despite it not being dubbed and not containing too many fight scenes until the end of the movie.

  It was the story of a young man who went to learn from an old guy living alone in the forest, a guy who was supposed to be this great warrior. The young guy thought he was going to learn all about swordplay, but for months, all he did was chop and gather wood, hunt small animals, and carry endless buckets of water. The old guy beat on him a lot, too—smacking him with sticks, hitting him when he least expected it—until the kid finally wised up and began to defend himself. Slowly, he was being trained—but very slowly. By the end of the movie, he was invincible, wiping out huge armored bad guys left and right.

  Michael turned back to Chris and sighed. “When does she start smacking me with a big stick?”

  Something that might have been a snicker escaped Chris’s lips. “Perhaps when you ask nicely.”

  Michael sank back down into the chair. “Man, I’ve been an idiot.”

  “Yes.”

  Michael shot Chris a glare. “Gee, thanks.” The snotty little bastard.

  “I only agreed with your honest assessment. The question now is: what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Then you have a problem.”

  “You’re a lot of help!”

  “Yes, I know.” Again, that little smirk. “Perhaps we should continue with a safer topic? You were asking about the local scen
e—you know, Ken Mandarin lives in Manhattan at least part of the year, and she is very familiar with it. Perhaps you should pay her a courtesy call. I’m sure she’d love to show you around. You’re young, healthy—just her type.”

  Mandarin—oh yeah, the very successful Asian spotter. She didn’t send clients to Geoff, but she was known in the West Coast circles. Michael smiled. “She’s hot! I saw her in LA with these two slaves—they looked like a married couple, you know the type. They were the hit of a party I went to. Everyone wanted a piece of them. I thought she handled them well... and let me tell you, I wouldn’t have minded a piece of the slaves or the owner.”

  “She claims those two are siblings, actually. Yes, they were a good buy for her.” Chris nodded, a momentary look of pleasure crossing his face. “One of my favorite projects. They responded very well to training.”

  “Brother and sister? Now that’s kinky. You trained them?”

  “Well, they were trained at my... my former house.” Michael looked up at that little hesitation and opened his mouth, a question all ready to go. But Chris was deliberately looking away again, and he held it back.

  So, you’ve got some difficulties of your own, you cocky shit, he thought, sipping his now lukewarm coffee. I wonder what happened that you’re not there any more. Fired? Left on your own? Why haven’t you gone someplace else yet? How come you haven’t opened a house of your own? Bigshot-pal-of-Anderson-who’s-not-really-on-vacation, what the hell are you doing here?

  “So, what are you guys doing with Tara tonight?” Michael asked casually, breaking the momentary silence.

  “Tonight, we’re going over some of the very skills you mentioned earlier. Tara has shaped up considerably in the time she’s been here, finding ways to anticipate the wishes and expectations of her service. Tonight we’re going to do a little testing. She’s almost ready to leave, you know.”

  “Yeah, I heard.” And meanwhile, Joan’s not getting the benefit of my training, he thought. He kept his face composed, trying not to show his annoyance. “Do you think—could I watch you guys while you do Tara? Test her, I mean?”

  “No.” Chris topped off his own coffee and raised his eyebrow to ask Mike if he wanted more. Mike, feeling a flush of humiliation and anger growing, compressed his lips and shook his head.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because you’re not ready.”

  “Well, how the hell can I ever be ready if I can’t do my fucking job!”

  Chris carefully put the coffee pot back down and settled into his chair. “Perhaps you can begin by listening carefully to what you’re told and obeying Anderson’s instructions to the letter. For example, you could clean up your language.” He smiled slightly and curiously began to rise back out of his chair.

  “Yeah? Well, fuck you, asshole! How the fuck do you like that fucking language!”

  “Oh, I’m sure he likes it just fine,” came the Trainer’s voice from the doorway. “Why, Chris is a big fan of trash talk, aren’t you, Chris?”

  “Occasionally, Trainer. In small amounts, at the appropriate occasion.”

  Oh Jesus, Michael thought. How did I know that was going to happen? I even saw Chris starting to get up, but I didn’t think about why! He wearily got to his feet and turned to see Anderson leaning against the door jamb, her arms folded. The light from the fire caught the silver bracelets on one arm and shot beams of reflected light across the room.

  “I’m sorry, Anderson, I shouldn’t have said all that,” Michael sighed.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And—and I won’t do it again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, well, I’m really sorry.”

  Anderson sighed and nodded. “Okay, Mike. I think you’ve had enough time with that particular shovel. Let’s switch to another one—tell me why you’re here.”

  He didn’t understand the shovel remark, but ignored it. “To learn how to train slaves.”

  “And what have you been doing?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Now, whose fault is that?” She walked into the room and Parker moved out of the way so she could take the chair he had just vacated. She sat down without even a nod of acknowledgment, and Mike ached with stronger curiosity about their relationship. But he remained standing, and focused on her, trying to find words to answer her question.

  “Well—I came here to learn. I told you that—”

  “The question, Mike, the question! Who’s fault it is that you think you’re not learning?”

  “What do you mean I think I’m not learning? What have I learned so far? How not to piss you off?”

  “Apparently not,” she snapped.

  Michael groaned and hit the back of his chair with a tightly clenched fist.

  “If you’re frustrated, that’s too bad, Mike. No one does anything in this house until I know that they’re ready—and you’ve done everything in your power to make me wonder why you’re here. Chris is right—if you want to impress me, cursing only behind my back won’t help. Whining about fairness and lost opportunity won’t help.”

  “But I’ve made myself available to you! I’m up on time, I cleaned up my act, I even went shopping for you! What else do I have to do? Sleep at the foot of your bed and kiss your feet in the morning?”

  “Let’s try something less drastic. Show me your journal.”

  He stared at her, that cold nausea returning. “There’s nothing in it,” he said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Anderson—Trainer—what was I supposed to put in it? ‘Today I went to a record store?’” He threw himself down into his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s supposed to be a record of my training, isn’t it? So what could I say about the last three days that wasn’t ‘I did nothing today?’”

  “You read nothing? Your hours with my papers and the books—they were nothing? You have a library in there—a priceless library full of more than a hundred years of slave records, the training methods of a hundred trainers, and you didn’t even pull a single book off the shelf. Parker had to hand them to you. And you observed nothing? The rhythm of the house, the way the work is scheduled, the way the clients act and react—all this is nothing? Your own frustration and questions about what is happening to you—nothing?” Anderson smiled and shook her head. “You’ve got a lot of nothin’ in your life, young man.”

  Michael felt like exploding again, but remained quiet. What was the point? She had her own little points to make, and he was going to be wrong no matter what he said. He tugged at the tie that felt like it was strangling him. “So, when do you want me to leave?” he asked.

  “When I’m finished with you,” Anderson replied. “Now, why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest before you start that journal? Chris and I have a little work to do tonight, and you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Michael looked into her dark eyes for a hint as to what the hell was going on, but saw nothing but faint amusement. Chris’s eyes were also a little hooded by that aura of patient irony—sly and piercing at the same time. He stood up and walked toward the hallway, turning before he left to make that shoulder incline gesture that Chris used before he left a room. Anderson wasn’t looking—but Chris was. And he was obviously amused.

  Upstairs, Michael flipped his book open, smoothed out the page, and began to write. His pen cut through the first two pages and he cursed loudly when he ripped them out to begin again.

  * * * *

  “You are the very personage of patience, O Trainer,” Chris said when he returned from the kitchen. He presented Anderson with a cup of coffee and placed the small plate of Vicente’s ginger cookies on the table by her right hand.

  “And you are one of the smoothest bullshitters I know, Mr. Parker.” She laughed at her own profanity and looked up at him with an almost vulpine expression. “Now, why do you hate that boy so much?”

  “I don’t hate him at all. I envy him. He’s beautiful and has access to the life of his drea
ms. I wish I had what he had. Yet, despite some rather interesting past failures, you still pick him out—taking him before at least six other candidates I could now name for you off the top of my head. And, he hasn’t got the faintest idea why you’re not in love with him. His arrogance is so monumental that it’s poetic.” Chris cleared his throat as he stood before her, arms folded over his chest.

  “My, my. We’ve been doing a little homework.”

  “It’s all part of my research, which you’ve been encouraging me to continue, I might point out.”

  Anderson acknowledged that with a nod and dunked a cookie into her cup. “These are good,” she said, eyes bright in the firelight. “You should have some.”

  “Thank you, no. Are you sure you still want me here? He sees me as interference, a rival for your attention. And in this case, with all respect, I do not believe it will be helpful.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is not a striver. When faced with competition, he fights only so much, and then gives up in frustration. He probably swears he will try harder every time you rebuke him, but then he dwells on his insecurities and lays blame instead of honestly working toward understanding.” Chris delivered this assessment coldly, his arms coming down to join behind his back. Anderson watched him with pleasure.

  “Perhaps he has not been given enough of an opportunity for honest competition,” she suggested.

  “Then by all means, give him one. Deva Graham, from Bloom in Chicago, is an excellently trained novice. She’s done a year as an apprentice, and although Bloom is a bit over-generous in some of his assessments for my tastes, he’s a good judge of character. She’s exactly the same age as Michael, with about the same amount of time in the system. She’d be an appropriate co-trainee for him, proper competition. But for him to imagine—to even imagine!—that he’s competing with me? It is indeed not fair, although not for the reasons he might suspect.”

  “Then he should learn when he’s not in competition,” Anderson said with a slight shrug. “Or, how to choose his contests. Both are good lessons. If it’s that unbearable for you, then you are free to come and go whenever you want.” She brushed some crumbs off her lap. “I know you’ll continue to work on your project. But—I could actually use more of your help. I’m going to change tactics with him, so I’ll need you to work Joan for a while.”