The Trainer Read online

  Smiled at me. Removed a few drops of the goop from his right nipple and licked it off two fingertips.

  Spent.

  * * * *

  River Murder

  Scene 28

  EXT. RIVER BANK—IVA—EVENING

  She moves to a man’s naked body by the river, hunches and takes pictures. Flashes.

  IVA: There’s something in his mouth. It’s green. It looks like plastic. A cap to something.

  DREW: Don’t touch the body. You’ll be in a shitload of trouble if you do.

  IVA: I don’t intend to touch the body. Do you think I’m stupid? Why are you always underestimating me? No wonder we’re not a couple anymore. Things like that drove me crazy.

  DREW: I’ll get Chopper over here. He can look at the body and see whatever’s in the victim’s mouth.

  IVA: Do whatever you want. You’re a big boy. I’m just the crime photographer.

  * * * *

  Dreaming…

  Under Squire. Pressed against my queen-size bed in Mick and my sister’s apartment. Ten inches of cock were snug in my bottom. Unprotected sex. Lube covered his shaft. He hung on to my hips. He spanked me once…twice…three times. Pushed inside me. Pulled out. Pushed inside me. Again and again that happened. Harder and faster. Pinned my frame (stomach, knees, face) to the bed. Banged me. Told me:

  “You’re not going anywhere, Alex.”

  “You like it rough, don’t you?”

  “When I come…I’m going to blow my load inside you. I’ll cream your insides.”

  “You’ve always wanted me to fuck you. Ever since we were in high school. This is what you wanted. Squire Land’s cock inside you. All of me fucking you. And now you’re going to get it all…”

  I woke up after noontime to a wet and gummy explosion between my legs. My balls and dick and stomach were sticky. The gunk was already starting to dry near my navel. I had a light headache and heard Malin’s lawnmower across the alley. The kid was always mowing. Always. He needed another hobby or obsession. Something.

  I showered and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Thereafter, Sis brought me a tray of food: half an Italian hoagie, plastic bottle of iced tea, a fresh slice of apple pie.

  She stayed for a short visit, sitting across from me at a two-person table in the very tiny kitchen area. We had iced teas together.

  Sis said, “You came in late last night.”

  “We had to shoot and reshoot Scene 28. The leading actress usually gets her job done in one shot, but not last night. She acted like shit. I can’t count how many takes we did.”

  “The movie keeps you busy. You have white spots under your eyes. That indicates you’re not getting enough sleep and you’re working too hard.”

  “We all have to make a living.”

  “Your hours are crazy. Late afternoon to early hours of the morning. I couldn’t do it.”

  “It’s not always like this. The director wants shots of the river at night. The movie is very dark. It’s about murder. Hence the title. A few daylight scenes are coming up.”

  She takes a long sip of the iced tea and eventually changes the subject, “Have you made contact with that twin, Squire Land?”

  I shake my head. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “He was here last evening while you were at work. He was looking for you again.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To talk to you. Something. I’m not sure. Once he found out you weren’t here, he left. He told me to tell you he came to visit.”

  “Interesting.”

  She took another long drink of her beverage. “Reach out to him. He obviously wants to talk to you. It must be important.”

  “Obviously.”

  Enough said. On her way out she took the copy of Men Overboard. “I’ll bring this trash back when I’m done. I want to read how gay guys fuck. Two dicks turn me on.”

  “Have at it,” I told her. “Just don’t hold me responsible if you’re disappointed.”

  I wanted to take advantage of my hours off from the movie set, so I drove to West Harlon Street in Southington. Squire’s place resembled a dollhouse. I expected the personal trainer to live in something bigger. It looked more like a mouse’s house: postage stamp front yard, tiny windows and door, white picket fence, miniature wrought-iron table and chairs in a small garden to the left of the front door.

  I pulled my rented Fiat in the asphalt drive, climbed out, and went to the front door. Knocked twice. No answer. Rang the doorbell. Still no answer.

  Skirted the dwarf-sized house and went around back. I saw a wading pool, growing vegetable garden, and tiny patio with a Blackstone grill, two all-weather, Pollywood chairs and a matching table.

  Found the back door and knocked twice. No answer. Thought about trying the door and sneaking around inside. Didn’t want to break the law. At least not that day. Decided to leave.

  Better luck next time.

  “Stop, Alex. Stop and think,” I told myself behind the Fiat’s wheel.

  I didn’t drive away. Maybe I should have. Something unethical caused me to stay in the asphalt drive. Thought: To invade his privacy, or to not invade his privacy.

  “Fuck it,” I told myself, and climbed out of the vehicle, walked around the Tudor again, and tried the back door off the patio.

  It won’t be unlocked. It can’t be.

  The door was unlocked, which shocked the hell out of me. Who leaves a door unlocked these days? What was Squire thinking? Shame on him. He should have known better.

  So I found my way into his world, entered his kitchen, and had his entire abode to myself.

  His kitchen: tidy, no dirty dishes in the sink, spotless tiled floor, wall calendar on June, paperback thriller called Ice Dime on the center of a three-person table, short stack of bills next to the novel.

  His living room: Swedish furniture that looked uncomfortable, vacuumed carpet, dusted end tables, three remotes, stack of hardback thrillers on one of the end tables, no family pictures on the walls.

  Upstairs bathroom: very clean, spotless, fresh towels, honey-scented soap in the shower, straight razor, Tylenol, no prescription drugs, three bottles of expensive and opened shampoo, two sticks of deodorant.

  The only bedroom inside the Tudor: unmade queen-size bed, socks, and white boxer-briefs on the floor near a hamper, one drawer pulled open to reveal shorts and tanks, barbells on the floor, three pairs of running shoes, closet filled with jeans and a shelf of folded T-shirts of rainbow hues.

  It was quite a boring invasion. Nothing exciting. He had to be more interesting than the humdrum I found inside his home. Had to be. Damn, what a fucking waste of my time.

  Thereafter I ended up at Hillside Cemetery to visit my brother’s grave. Sis must have removed the weeds around Kent’s granite tombstone and added a fresh arrangement of daisies to its base. I don’t know how many times she visited Hillside Cemetery a week, two times, maybe three times; something uncanny told me it was more than four times.

  The grave’s sloped grass looked plush and trimmed. Kent had a view of the brown Allegheny River, Spayne Eatery, and Hays Park. Two oaks shaded his new home, offering a comfortable feel.

  Summer wind licked my face and the back of my hands and arms. The day looked a welcoming and soothing blue, somewhat innocent and harmless. I stood over the grave and whispered, “Visiting this summer. Will stop by when I can. Miss you, little brother. You left too soon.”

  I sat thinking of Memorial Day:

  I wasn’t at the party two years before. Had I attended Kent might have lived. I obtained details of his drowning from party guests:

  Jacob Sanders, Camp Millitow’s owner: “He drank too much. One bottle of beer after the next. A dozen or more. He was inebriated.”

  His girlfriend at the time, Melissa Choo: “I saw him take a little blue pill. He liked his pills when he partied. I told him not to do that. I told him he could hurt himself.”

  Jake Honeycut, a close friend: “He kept ignoring Melissa and shouldn
’t have gone swimming with those girls. He was such a smart guy. Always on his game. Except for that day. I told him he was doing the wrong thing.”

  Kate Milldone, another close friend: “Swimming one second and gone the next. We all looked for him. An hour or more. Diving. Diving. And diving. None of us could find him in the river.”

  Drinking. The little blue pill. Swimming. A river death. He didn’t stand a chance. No one saved him. No one could find him.

  River Death.

  * * * *

  After driving out of Hillside Cemetery I saw Safford Land in a bright-white Porsche Taycan. Beautiful Cassie sat at his side. They were the perfect couple in high school. They were the perfect couple in their adulthoods…now. Out for a spin on a June afternoon. Enjoying each other’s company. Madly in love.

  They didn’t see me. I didn’t want them to. They headed into downtown, probably to meet up with close friends for a late lunch and strong cocktails. Enjoying their Gatsby lives.

  Part of me was jealous of their couplehood. Would I find someone to fall in love with, marry, and spend the rest of my life with? Did fairy tales like that happen to guys like me? I didn’t think so. No way. A guy like me didn’t deserve such happiness. There wasn’t a chance of that shit happening.

  I headed to Sis and Mick’s garage, needing a nap before work. We were filming behind Talmore High School at eight. A fight scene between two characters. Suspects in a murder case. I didn’t expect to be home until dawn or midmorning the following day. I was too busy making a living to meet the man of my dreams and falling in love with him.

  I climbed the set of white and narrow stairs to the apartment over the garage. Saw Mick’s GMC truck parked in the driveway. Home from work early. Sis was probably out visiting one of her girlfriends: shopping, enjoying coffee, gambling.

  Outside the wooden door, on the top step of the flight of stairs, sat an oversized paperback book. I picked it up and read its title and author: Candyboy by Gregory Dicks. A Post-it note covered two semi-naked dudes in a candy factory. The note read: Loved Men Overboard. Read this one in a few hours. It’s even better. Dicks is awesome. Love Sis.

  Apartment time. Napped. Ate. Showered. I was slipping into a pair of jeans when I heard my name being called out across the alley. Once. Twice. Three times. I moved to the rear window and…

  Malin stood at the mouth of his grandmother’s garage with his shorts pushed down to his ankles. He was bare-chested and nipple-hard. Sweat beaded on every inch of his chest. He had a fat erection between his legs.

  I wasn’t seeing things.

  No way.

  My eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.

  He waved.

  I didn’t wave back, shocked by his nakedness.

  He became a performing artist as he grabbed his dick with both hands and thrust his hips forward, backward, forward again. His chest puffed, fell, and puffed. He worked his knob for the next few minutes, jacking off. He smiled from ear to ear in the evening’s blue-golden light, being a garage shadow, working himself over for the next three…five…seven minutes. And when he shot his load all over the garage floor, a burst of white glue that pooled on the cement, he waved his dick at me. Waved. Waved. Waved. Waved. And he smiled. White teeth gleamed from his handsome and boyish face.

  Hard, ready to blow a load in my fresh boxer-briefs, and unable to calm my breathing and pulsing heartbeat, I swallowed saliva and shook my head.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had a man in my life. Six months? Eight months? A year? Longer than that, I was sure. Too long. It burned to think about.

  I imagined:

  One of his palms pressed against my stomach. His tongue licked my neck. His erection lay hard by one of my bare thighs. Fingertips touched my dented navel. Heated breath huffed against my stomach and dick.

  I heard inside my head:

  Alex Lee, can I slip inside you? Do you want it to hurt? Can I make it hurt? I want to unload inside you. No condom this time. All bareback. Let me fuck you. Please. Please. Please. I want to fuck you. Let me.

  * * * *

  I recalled one of my ex-lovers:

  His name…his name was Jordon. Jordon Qorro. Half-Mexican. Half-Italian. A geologist from Las Vegas; the place where we met. Three years younger than me. We spent the weekends together, traveling between West Hollywood and Las Vegas. We rented cheap hotel rooms in the desert and fucked our brains out. He had a two-inch wide cock that was eight inches long. I knew the man was married, but he never told me that. Her name was Felicia. They had two daughters: Cynthia and Mecina.

  We weren’t in love.

  We only had sex in common.

  We never talked about our lives.

  Our relationship lasted for four months…until he found someone new to fuck.

  * * * *

  Another Ex-Lover:

  Hayden…Hayden Floxx. My most recent ex-lover. He picked me up at Pages on Penn Avenue. Found me in the Mystery/Thriller section and discretely rubbed his right arm against my left arm. Told me, “I like Ruth Ware. You’ll enjoy that book.”

  “I read all her books. She’s one my favorites.”

  “I like guys who read. It’s a turn-on for me.” He moved closer to me, touched my stomach with a few fingertips, flirting and invading my privacy; I didn’t seem to mind.

  “What are you looking at to read?” I pointed to the hardback in his hands.

  “You. But I don’t know your name.” He winked at me, smiled.

  I told him.

  He told me his name.

  A mystery of our own happened. We ended up kissing next to the stacks and he pressed me against the wall of Patterson hardbacks and paperbacks. He slid his hands inside my khakis, discovered a clue that I found him attractive, and caused me to grow hard. Following the melting kiss he told me, “I want to take you home.”

  “Not yet. I need to know more about you.”

  “If you insist.”

  I learned that he wrote for a local newspaper, he was an only child, he was one year younger than me, he’d been married for a year to a construction guy named Scott but it didn’t work out, and he didn’t drink.

  Thereafter, I went home with him and we fucked liked animals for the next two months until he found someone new who liked books.

  * * * *

  Now. Malin again.

  It didn’t happen. No! It couldn’t have happened. It didn’t! I just imagined the next event. All of it. Every second of it. It wasn’t real. Honestly, it wasn’t…

  Following Malin’s burst, he gingerly fell on his knees, leaned over like an animal, and extended his tongue. While making eye contact with me, he started licking up his goop from the cement floor of his grandmother’s garage. One lick. Two licks. Three licks. Slow licking. Licks while constantly staring at me. Heavy staring. Unblinking staring. Four licks. Five licks. Until his jizz-pool was all gone. Until he ate it all up. A mere gray spot on the garage floor left behind, darker than the cement. His spent gone. His ejaculation consumed…eaten.

  He really did that.

  Honestly, he did.

  * * * *

  Work…again.

  Scene 32

  EXT. ESPAR HIGH SCHOOL—PHILIP—EVENING

  Philip moves up to and leans over TEN’S bloody body. Pants. Shakes TEN.

  PHILIP: Ten…ten. Come on, get up. Stop fucking around. Get up.

  DREW: (stands behind PHILIP) His chest isn’t moving. I don’t think he’s breathing. Check his pulse.

  PHILIP: (checks his neck for a pulse) He has to be breathing. I just punched him a few times in the face. You saw it. He’s…he’s not breathing.

  DREW: You fucked him up. He blacked out. He’s still not moving. I think you killed him.

  PHILIP: I didn’t. It was just a few hits. A few pops. It was just…

  * * * *

  Hays Park. June 14.

  A beautiful day. Sunny and warm. Breathtaking. Low humidity. Fathers chased after their toddlers. Lovers smooched on benches. Bi
rdwatchers used Bosch binoculars, studying colorful and feathered finds. Mothers walked with adult daughters, holding hands, and discussed family issues.

  I saw Squire running in the park, obviously working. He sported a pair of red shorts, matching Nikes, and a white T-shirt. His pecs resembled mountains in the cotton shirt. And his thighs looked edible in the shorts. I couldn’t keep my eyes off his bottom as it twitched left and right as he ran. Steamy-hot came to mind as I slowly passed the park in my Fiat, following the ten-mile per hour speed limit.

  Some overweight, middle-aged, and sweaty man ran beside him; no doubt Squire’s client. Out of breath, the fatty client reduced his pace and fell behind him. Squire had to slow down so the fatty could catch up. The pair headed from east to west and vanished on Filb Trail, lost among the summertime oaks and maples and elms and birches. Gone. Vanished among the trees.

  I drove forward thinking: He’s a busy guy, a sexy guy, and I want him. Can I have him? Probably not. He’s beyond my reach. Above me. Untouchable. Get him out of your head, and heart. Stay busy. Occupy yourself. Keep your distance from him and then you won’t think about him.

  I didn’t relax much in Pittsburgh during June. It wasn’t a vacation for me. On the contrary, it was labor-intensive. River Death consumed a lot of my time and I spent hours next to the three bug-infested rivers. Not that I minded since it was my job and paid well. Never had I complained about the money the production company automatically sent to my checking account. Not once. How could I bitch about something I enjoyed doing?

  Truth said, we were behind schedule by four days and tried to catch up. The production team was losing money by the day. The director, Felice Madrose, pushed us forward. Never had I felt so exhausted, but enriched by the work. I loved my job, every minute of it.

  More truth said, I was working days and nights. All the time. Sporadic hours. Even Sis noticed my rare comings and goings, and told me, “Sometimes you’re around. Most of the time you’re not.”

  “The movie keeps me busy.”

  “As well as it should. We all have to make a living. I’m just lucky I have my summers off from teaching.”

  “You’re bragging,” I told her.

  She chuckled. “I am.”