The Trainer (20 page)

“Yes, Trainer,” Chris said. They both
watched her leave, and Michael sat back down with a string of
forbidden words all balled up in his throat. He knew his face was
red, and he didn’t care.

Chris vanished into the kitchen for a
moment, and when he came back, Michael looked up at him and said,
“That wasn’t fair.”

Chris nodded, his lips compressed. “You’re
right,” he said simply. “Please excuse me, Michael, I have some
work of my own to do.”

Michael sat there in silence for a moment,
stricken with the shock those two words impressed upon him. Not,
“you’re right, and tough shit,” not “you’re right, but who cares?”
Just “you’re right.”

But he got up quickly and left before Tara
came through with her dessert tray for the Trainer. Whether the
door was opened or not, he knew they had heard everything. And he
had had quite enough of acting dumb in front of slaves for one
day.

How was this supposed to make a trainer out
of him anyway? He looked at his journal again and in one motion,
scooped it up and pitched it across the room. It made a satisfying
thump as it hit the wall, and made him feel even more foolish than
before.

It was very late, but the light was still on
under her door. Years of experience taught him that she generally
slept no more than he did. He knocked gently.

“Come in, Chris.”

Her room was in the back of the house, the
windows shrouded with the heavy branches of the trees she loved so
much in the spring. Right now, between their bare branches, you
could barely make out the dim lights of the buildings which shared
the long yards behind them. He put the latest pages down on her
dresser and drew her curtains for her.

She was in a long, soft dressing gown,
decorated with gray pussy willow branches, gently faded with age.
She had been at her delicate rosewood writing desk when he came in,
but as he busied himself, she crossed the room to examine his
papers.

“You could have left this in my office,” she
said, putting them down. “I won’t review them tonight anyway.”

“Yes,” he said. He turned to her and put his
hands behind his back, and she smiled. Silently, she walked toward
him, and he stood still until it became clear that she intended to
pass him, and he stepped neatly out of her way.

She sat down at the vanity mirror and looked
at herself thoughtfully. “You didn’t even ask what Greta wanted to
talk about,” she said, running her hands through her hair and
pushing it back over her shoulders.

“It’s not my business,” he said. He had
turned to stand to one side of her, so he wouldn’t be addressing
her back. “I know you’ll tell me if I need to know, or if you want
my opinion on anything. It was just surprising to find that they
had come here when I was... occupied.”

“I couldn’t very well have Emil interview
Mike with you hovering about,” she said. “And besides, Tara needed
a good day outside the house. But go ahead. Let me hear it.”

“Trainer... with all my respect... engaging
Emil to conduct an interview without Michael’s consent was... not
ethical.” The effort it took him to say this was considerable. She
could feel the tension in his body as he forced the words out, and
hear his carefully modulated tone as he kept the strong emotions
away from what he was saying.

“Emil thought so, too,” she said. She picked
up her hairbrush and held it out. “Come on, make yourself
useful.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. She closed her
eyes as he began to brush her hair in long, measured strokes,
lifting it gently to avoid tugging on a knot here or wave
there.

“But, Emil trusts me,” she said as she felt
the confidence in his hands increase. “And so should you.”

“I do,” he said. “But my trust in you and my
respect for you didn’t outweigh the need for me to say it.”

“Good,” she said. The brush strokes never
paused as he spoke—he was perfectly able to do one thing with his
hands while having a discussion, or answering questions. Even under
duress, she thought, a fond memory flitting by. After a little more
of the comforting silence, she continued, “I explained to Emil that
I needed some new perspective on the boy, and that to the best of
my knowledge he wouldn’t even recognize an interview when it was
conducted, and that was the point of this exercise. And, as long as
I didn’t ask that Emil reveal anything he learned beyond a very
basic profile, he agreed to do it. And,” she said, opening her
eyes, “he told me nothing I didn’t already know.”

“I beg your pardon,” Chris said gently, “but
what you learned is not the point. I believe that Michael’s consent
should have been sought before subjecting him to a professional
examination.”

“What about teaching him a lesson on
interviewing?” she asked.

“He needs to start from the beginning on
interviewing skills,” Chris said firmly. “In my opinion, he should
not be allowed to continue these farcical interviews with Tara.
They have been far more useful to her than to him, and frankly, she
doesn’t need that much time spent practicing something she already
knows how to do. He, on the other hand, should study more
technique. From the beginning, with question construction and
multi-layer styles. And frankly, Trainer—I must ask why you have
not been interviewing him yourself.”

Anderson closed her eyes again—was that the
slightest bit of hesitation before he asked? No—only a shift as he
let some of her hair fall and picked up another bundle in his
hand.

“He’s not ready for me,” she said. “Perhaps
I should have you start him.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said. “But I
do not think I’m the best person to get honest and complete answers
from him. And if you do give me this task, I would have to ask that
I be permitted to take him in hand.”

Anderson chuckled. “Well, that does seem to
work for you,” she admitted. “But you’re right, it wouldn’t be very
helpful for him right now. I will probably have you set up an
interview or two eventually. In the meantime, he stays on Tara. And
I don’t want to hear anything more about Emil’s little charade
after tonight. It’s done, and I did it, and you’ve had your
say.”

He sighed, just a little bit, and nodded.
“Yes, Trainer,” he said. “Thank you for hearing me.”

“I’ll be ready for you to stop that in
another fifty or so strokes,” she said, leaning back. In silence,
he kept working on her hair, lifting it in one hand to brush out
the tangles at the ends, gently bringing it from where it fell
around her face and ears. He never pulled against her scalp, but
saved firmness for the ends, his hand braced to hold the hair free
of her body while he worked it into luxurious softness. The gentle
movements of the brush against her head were as hypnotic and
pleasurable as massage. Then, in about fifty strokes, give or take
a few, he braided it for her, and she gave his hand a firm squeeze
when he was through. Still silent, he left her to her thoughts, and
the new pages he had delivered. The silence was delicious,
relaxing, and comfortable. With a sigh of her own, she picked the
new pages up and started to read. She always meant to leave them
for daylight, but curiosity always got the better of her, too.

Chris went back downstairs instead of to his
room. He smiled when he saw the figure rising from the chair by the
fireplace in the front room.

“You should get some more sleep,” he said,
jerking his head toward the hooks by the front door. Tara smiled
back as she got his jacket for him and held it. She slipped into
her own coat and the two of them went out to the front of the
building together. Chris slipped a red box out of the breast pocket
of his jacket and allowed Tara to light a cigarette for him, and
they stood together on the stoop.

“I’ll miss you,” Tara said softly. Down the
street from them a truck rumbled by, and Chris waited until it
passed to pat her on the shoulder.

“You’ll be too busy to think of us here,” he
said. “You have an excellent contract to fulfill, and the Judge is
a demanding man.”

“Even so,” she insisted. “I didn’t want to
leave without telling you... “ she blushed, and laughed, and looked
down. “You know, I thought I knew what I was going to say.”

“Don’t say it, then,” Chris said. “Just go
and be a good slave.” He smiled at her. “As I know you will
be.”

Tara wrapped her arms around her body and
sighed. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot to me. But I’m
still worried. Will it be enough? Do you think he’ll be able to
tell... “She paused and looked at Chris sideways. “Do you think I
might not be perfect for him?”

“You have exceeded any reasonable
expectation in your training,” Chris said. “Perfection can only be
striven for, never attained. But you are an Anderson slave. He will
enjoy and appreciate your service and your... newfound enthusiasm?”
They both smiled through the smoke and he waved it away. “Your
enthusiasm,” he repeated. “I’m sure of that.”

She sighed a little and nodded. “Thank you.
I needed to hear that. I’m so nervous about going back, even though
life there is much easier than it is here.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I hope so!”

Chris took her chin in his hand and
repeated, “You will be just fine. And, you will enjoy this
contract, knowing that your master has the best trained, most
responsive and intuitive slave he could ever hope for.”

Tara turned her head and dropped a kiss into
Chris’s palm, and he laughed as he withdrew the hand. “Save it for
your master,” he said.

“May I call you?” Tara asked, suddenly shy
again. “If—when I get a chance?”

“If I’m here I will be pleased to catch up
with you. And if, for some reason, Anderson is not available, I
will always be happy to be a contact for you. But you know it’s
best not to contact me for social reasons.” He said this gently,
and his eyes were direct with hers, and she dipped her head in
assent. “Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “You have everything you
need to make this contract a stupendous success. Both the Trainer
and I believe in you. Now, go inside and go to bed, Tara. Don’t
lead Joan into thinking she can get away with this sort of thing as
well.”

She laughed, and bowed her head in gentle
submission, leaving him there to finish his smoke. She heard him
come in a short while later, just as she heard him walk through the
house one last time, checking doors and turning off lights.

Michael debated confronting Anderson over
his ambush interview for several days. Every time he got up enough
anger to feel the rush of excitement, that drive that told him,
“Yes, now! Make her tell you why she did that! Make her understand
what a shitty thing that was to do!” —he’d stop himself with the
simple question, “What then?”

What if she didn’t answer? What was he
supposed to do then, just pack and leave? And really, what kind of
threat was that, when she could have a dozen people out here the
next day aching to take this on?

Or, what if she did answer? Did he expect
her to say that he was right and she was wrong, and ask for his
forgiveness?

At first, he tried to even imagine that—and
after trying for a few minutes, realized that no, that wasn’t going
to happen on this planet.

The next step was to try to figure out the
“why” all by himself. Interviewing a slave was one thing—they were
set up for it, told they had to tell the truth, and they had a
reason to be interviewed. Their answers might form parts of their
contracts, or establish their suitability for service, let alone
for a sale.

Geoff had interviewed him, before he went to
live in Santa Cruz. It had been informal, more like a media
interview than a job interview, with Geoff sitting on the terrace
outside his Los Angeles hotel room, with a pitcher of iced tea
which he insisted on pouring for them both. It had been a beautiful
day, powder-blue skies fairly clear all the way to the ocean.
Michael had approved of both the setting and the man. He’d been
eager to impress, relaxed and excited all at the same time. And the
more questions Geoff asked him, the more he wanted to be a part of
this whole mythical world, somehow.

Michael ended up telling Geoff more about
his life and his feelings than he had ever told anyone. About men
and women, and what he did with them, and what he wanted to do,
dreamed of doing. About how he saw his future in the Marketplace.
He told long stories about his experiences in school and with his
friends, growing up, and Geoff never looked impatient or bored.
They only paused to break for lunch, and even then, Geoff let
Michael talk and talk and talk. But then, Geoff did have a
background in...

Psychology. Of course.

I’m so stupid! Michael thought as he
realized how easily he had been manipulated. I fell for it. It did
feel strange, at one point almost like a job interview, but I was
so eager to have this guy like me!

But let’s be honest, he immediately
reconsidered. I was desperate for someone to listen to me, and I
wasn’t paying attention to how weird it was. Anderson never left me
alone with anyone before—and no one ever seemed interested in me
the way he was. Something should have clicked, something should
have made me wonder what was going on.

But I told him so much! Hell, another hour,
and I would have told him about Karen!

Emil was good, Michael thought. He never
showed the slightest boredom, or shifted the conversation to
himself—hell, that alone should be a clue, he thought with a wry
smile. I must have talked at least eighty percent of the time, but
I never even felt like I was being grilled or anything. Is that a
good way to interview a slave, too? Or was it a special interview
for trainers?