Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (28 page)

Now that I’ve
made up my mind, I’m at peace. I take another drink of coffee. It’s cooled down
so I can swallow easily. The taste is amazing. Everything looks different now
that the roiling tension inside of me is gone. The world is brighter.

It’ll be OK.

Maybe this is
what was meant to be anyway.

Yesterday, I
felt happiness, love and hope. Hell, for a very long moment, I felt as if I
loved
everyone
, even myself
.

How did I get to
that point in the first place?  I shut my eyes, searching for that elusive
optimism. I went from knowing I didn’t deserve anything good, to struggling and
fighting for a chance to heal. Somewhere after that, I could only be grateful.

Yes!

A surge of
pleasure flows through me as I realize
exactly
what first set me free.
From my earliest memories, I thought
I
was evil. I thought
I
was
a monster.

As a child, I
learned what I was taught by my abuser— that love is a twisted, shameful
pretense that can’t be trusted.

Yesterday, I
accepted myself. I recognized and accepted the
beautiful perfection
of
my
own imperfections
and I wanted to weep from the joy of it.

I am NOT a
monster. I am NOT a pervert.

I
know
this with crisp clarity. I’m glad to be
alive.

My gaze turns
toward Renata, soaking up the sight of her as she sits beside me. Her long,
golden-blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail; her white, short-sleeved blouse
is tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Her face is heart-shaped, she wears very
little make-up.

Even without her
good looks, she’d still be the most attractive woman I’ve ever known.

I catch myself
staring at her soft lips. A sense of awe and pleasure shoots through me as I
remember exactly how it felt to kiss them. To kiss
her.
My pulse kicks
up and my breathing increases. In a heartbeat, I become as hard as stone.

I long to bury
myself deep into her soft, wet heat again.

She looks up at
me, studying my face. Crystal blue with a vivid dark rim around her irises—her
vibrant eyes captivate me. So, so lovely. She sees things I’m only just
beginning to understand.

A man could fall
into those eyes—get lost in those eyes—be
found
by those eyes.

Renata’s lips
part, her back straightens.

I’ve gone from
the misery of indecision, back to the buoyant high I experienced yesterday. I see
surprise in her expression as she registers the obvious transformation of my
mood.

My pulse races
as our eyes lock. We’re like two broken pieces of a complex puzzle that fit
perfectly together.

Yes! There it
is again.

Our incredible
connection practically sizzles between us.

We’re bonded.

Linked.

Renata’s breath
hitches, an audible confirmation that she feels it too.

I luxuriate in
that intimate, almost palpable joining once more. I lost sight of it when I was
stuck inside my head—but this mysterious bond we share never really went away.

In all the
confusion and madness in the world, two people with difficult and disturbing
childhoods have found each other. Neither of us is perfect, but that doesn’t
matter. Through Renata’s eyes, I’ve been able to see myself. Deep in my gut, I
know this caring woman can teach me how to find peace.

I don’t know the
details, but I do know her childhood was shitty. Father in prison. Mother and
brother both dead. How did she end up living on the street? Whatever happened,
it couldn’t have been good.

Renata is a
miracle. She’s the perfect example of someone who refused to let a crappy
childhood ruin her life.
With
her help, I can change.

I can get
better.

I can
be
better.

I can even be
happy.

I remember the
time when Renata became upset yesterday, and how she told me a little about her
past. Clearly, the woman still has her own demons. I wonder, can I help her,
too? Can two damaged people work together to mend the betrayals of the past?

“Forgive me for
being a horse’s ass,” I say. “I’m OK now. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you,” she
says, but that’s all she says.

Eyes bright, her
face is alive with questions she’s deciding whether or not to ask. Now that I’m
talking again, she’s probably afraid of upsetting me by accidentally saying the
wrong thing. I doubt that Renata could upset me.

I give her an
easy smile, uncaring of my scars. In the scheme of things, the scars I wear on
the outside are nothing.

It’s the wounds
inside I need to heal.

“You’re right,
Renata,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

“Murder: the
intentional and unlawful taking of another person's life.”

— Webster’s
Dictionary

~~~

Detective
Bronowski

Detective Roman
Bronowski briefly wondered, would he have made Sergeant by now, if his parent’s
grandparents had changed their last name to something less ethnic when they
immigrated to America? Not that it really mattered. Mostly, he liked being a
senior detective just fine.

Holy Mother
of God, I fucking hate these high-profile murder cases,
Roman thought, as
he steadily wandered up the stairs to the DA’s office.

At thirty-eight
years old, he’d put on a few pounds—OK,
quite a few pounds
, all in his
rapidly expanding gut. He recently decided to take the stairs as often as
possible, in order to avoid being mistaken for a younger Santa Claus by
Christmas.

He was still
fairly lean and athletic, except for his newly acquired belly. He figured a few
weeks of additional exercise would be all he needed to do to regain control of
his paunch. Well, that and avoiding beer and donuts.

Ann, an
attractive brunette, walked down the stairs, passing him with a sunny grin
curving her lips. Ann Whipple didn’t need to use the stairs—not with her
figure.

“How ‘bout those
Cowboys?” she quipped.

Roman nodded at
her, returning her smile. “Early days, but it’s looking good for the Superbowl
so far,” he replied. They’d won last night, which seemed to make everyone in
Dallas that much more cheerful this morning. Maybe it would help the judge make
up his mind about issuing the search warrant he had been waiting for.

Reaching into
his pocket, Roman rubbed the garish, multi-colored, beaded bracelet his
seven-year-old daughter made and had given him out of the blue. ‘For luck,
daddy,’ she’d said with a sweet smile.

Lord in Heaven,
she was the cutest little girl alive. He loved her to bits. He adored all three
of his children, but Janice, the youngest, was still at the cuddling stage.
Roman couldn't get enough of it. Sadly, youth was so fleeting. His kids were all
growing up way too fast.

Only slightly
winded at the top of the staircase, he walked into the outer office.

“He’s expecting
you, Detective. Y’all go right in,” Janet, Brewer’s efficient, middle-aged
secretary said.

“Thank you.”

“How ‘bout those
Cowboys?” she said, with a bright smile.

“Yeah, how ‘bout
‘em?” Roman said back, as he gave a perfunctory knock on the office door and
walked in.

Lee Brewer, the
Dallas District Attorney, had short, dark brown hair and bushy eyebrows. His
tall, muscular frame had turned to fat over the years. Roman wondered if his
own physique might begin to mirror Brewer's unless he exercised more and ate
less.

Sitting behind a
big wooden desk with a computer on it, the DA smiled when Roman entered.

Detective
Bronowski smiled back at him. “Cowboys won.”

“They sure did.”

The DA’s office
had one big window, tinted to block out the intense summer sun. His personal
space was homey to a large degree, as Brewer had been in office for the past
five years. Pictures of his wife and kids adorned his desk, and a large oil
painting of actual cowboys breaking in a wild horse hung on the wall behind
him.

“Have you heard
from the judge, Lee?” Roman asked.

“I’ve talked to
him.”

“What did he
say?”

His leather
chair squeaked as the DA leaned back in it. “Well, as you can imagine, he’s not
happy with the situation.”

Detective
Bronowski bit his tongue and waited for the DA to continue. When Brewer said
nothing more, Roman couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Did he say what the
problem is?”

Brewer tented his
hands. “As you can appreciate, we’re not just prosecutors, we’re also
politicians. Chester Wilkinson has been dead for over three years. Other than
finding proof the victim had a common, over-the-counter motion sickness drug in
his system, we only have the word of one man—and he's playing his
‘get out
of jail free’
card.”

“Is the judge
worried about third-party evidence?”

“He’s more
concerned about whether or not a Grand Jury would consider Stan Huber, a known
cocaine user and possible dealer, a reliable witness.”

“Tell me about
it,” Detective Bronowski said. “I recently interviewed Huber again, you know.”

“Oh?” the DA
said.

“Yeah,”
Bronowski said. “His story hasn’t changed. Huber knew about the scopolamine and
affirms Grant Wilkinson told him he intended to murder his father. Grant is the
oldest child, and for all appearances, he’s the beloved son of an all-American
family.”

The DA rubbed
his face with both hands. “Why did it have to be
him?
”

“Tell me about
it,” Bronowski said. “This case sucks. Our prime suspect is a decorated war
hero with a purple heart. Grant Wilkinson was a respected sniper with a record
number of kills who served four tours of duty overseas. He’s financially
well-off in his own right. I can’t figure out any possible motive. We need that
warrant. Without more information, we can't go any further. What else can we
do?”

“We wait, but I
don’t think we’ll have to wait too long,” the DA said in a consoling tone. “Let
Judge Morrison think on it a bit and make sure you’re prepared to go forward.”

“I’m prepared,
all right.” Bronowski said. “I'm on the edge of my seat, just waiting for the
go ahead. We’ll arrest him at the same time we move forward with the warrant.
Give him a scare without tipping our hand. Maybe we'll get something from it.
Whether or not we can hold him? Well, that’s another story.”

“Fine,” the DA
said. “When the judge signs off, execute search warrants for Grant Wilkinson’s
home and place of business. Mirandize him and make the arrest. I sure as hell
hope we can make it stick.”

“Be who you
are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who
matter don't mind.”

―
Bernard M. Baruch

~~~

Renata
Koreman

The stranger
beside me is gone, as is the aura of oppressive tension. The Grant I felt so
close to yesterday has returned. Thank God!

My relief is
comparable to sweltering in excessive temperatures, then diving into a cool
mountain lake.

He isn’t
chatty—that’s not who he is—but neither is he a ball of unspent angst. I don’t
know what’s changed, but for whatever reason, he’s himself once more. I exhale
a thankful sigh, delighted beyond measure to have him back.

Grant is moody,
complicated and he’s been through hell—but I still find him to be the most
attractive guy I’ve ever known. Why is that? Sure, he’s got a nice face and a
smoking hot body. Strong and muscular with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a
tight, sexy ass—Grant flips every ‘on’ switch I have.

Yet, his pull is
powered by more than his appearance. It felt so right when we were together
yesterday and the day before. The look of reverence in his gaze when I first
touched his scars—the hunger and intensity in his eyes. The expression on his
face when he took me so hard…

Sex with him
wasn’t simply erotic pleasure. It felt nearly sacred.

I’ve never met a
more lost and lonely man.

Grant
needs
me.

His need is the
fuel that fires the molten desire within me. It feeds my heart, my mind and my
soul. I
need
to be needed.

When we arrive
in Dallas, we pick up Grant’s car from long-term airport parking and stop at a
baby store on the way to his home. I don’t want to leave Mitten alone in the
car. Grant assures me no one will mind, so I put him on my shoulder and take
him inside with us.

They say men
buy, but women shop.

Men are supposed
to be goal-oriented. They go in, locate their targeted purchases, pay for them
and then go home.

There’s a theory
that back in caveman days, women were interested in everything. That way they
learned how to find and gather a variety of food. Men, on the other hand,
learned to hunt one animal at a time—thus, their tendency to have one-track
minds.

André is an
exception, of course. He loves to shop. Maybe he was a woman in a past life.
Sexually, he's all man, but in every other way, André transcends gender.

But Grant? He’s
a clear example of the hunter-caveman mentality. He shops like a hunter,
zeroing in on his purchases with efficiency. His confident, direct personality
is a compelling aspect of his character that’s a revelation to me.

He stands at the
front desk of ‘
Buy, Buy Baby,’
expecting VIP service.
“
I’m going
to need your manager here—right now. Thank you, ma’am,” Grant says loudly.
“I’ve got a lot to buy and very limited time.”

They say that in
life, people get what they
expect
to get. Grant expects good service,
and that’s exactly what he gets.

The sales people
initially flinch upon seeing his scars, but they’re respectful and quick to
assist him. The store manager and two staff members serve us, but they have a
difficult time keeping up with Grant.

Rose, the store
manager, is a capable, middle-aged woman. She shadows Grant—following in his
wake, as he strides through the store, pointing to the things he wants. Even
while shopping in an area in which he has little or no experience, such as baby
strollers and baby car seats, he gets comparison details from the staff and
quickly makes decisions.

He looks at me
when encountering tricky items, seeking my approval, I guess. At first, in a
soft deep voice, he actually asks. “Is this OK, Renata?”

“Oh. Sure,” I
reply.

I get a thrill
of pleasure every time he says my name, but I don’t know anything more about
buying baby stuff than he does.

As commanding
and focused as he is, he’s always aware of my presence. His eyes pause on my
face or track along my body a few beats at a time, watching me often. Once he’s
assured himself I’m close, safe, or whatever it is he’s checking for… he
continues on his mission.

It’s as if he
needs
to know where I am.

Each time our
eyes meet, his gaze slams into me, sending shivers down my spine and stopping
me in my tracks. It's powerful.
He's
powerful, as is our connection.

Wow! I haven't
seen this side of Grant before. No constraints. Driven. Focused. He's a man in
pursuit of his objectives in an uncompromising, “take no prisoners” manner.

It reminds me of
what he was like when we first met, the moment he quit thinking about it and
decided to fuck me. I’d never been fucked so hard or so thoroughly in my life.

Leveled by his
sheer authority and super-hot alpha maleness, Mitten and I meekly trail after
him as he gives orders. I put on a good show, but I can’t help but feel
intimidated and mousy in front of so many strangers.

Grant is the
exact opposite.

He storms the
place with the strength, confidence and command of a five-star general ordering
his troops around without doubt or hesitation. Hell-bent, he’s a “man on a
mission,” however, he doesn’t talk down to anyone, nor is he being an entitled
asshole.

Kind and
courteous, Grant never once loses his respectful, well-mannered Southern charm.
The staff who assist him are enthusiastic, smiling as they follow him around
the store. They
want
to help him, and not only because he’s spending a
ton of money.

“Everyone likes
him, don’t they?” I say to my cat, while stroking him. Mitten, content to sit
on my shoulder, purrs loudly in my ear.

I like Grant
too, even though my head is spinning; even though I’m dragged along while he
makes snap decisions at a mind-boggling pace.

His assertive
male energy is a pleasure to watch. I can’t help but enjoy seeing this side of
Grant. Is this the trained military man in action? The no bullshit ‘get it
done’ guy?

Strong and
determined, he radiates a powerful, potent force.

My breath
quickens, my knees feel weak and my body heats, inside and out. Hot damn, his
dominance is incredibly sexy. My breasts ache to be touched and my panties are
soaked with my arousal. Lust and affection rush through me. I have an
overwhelming urge to climb him as though he were a telephone pole.

When can I get
him to share my bed again?

I hope it’s
soon. If not, I might need a 12-step program to deal with my new addiction.

Watching Grant
in action gives me a chance to study him from this fresh perspective. What
would it be like if he behaved like this during sex? What if he spent ages
enjoying himself throughout foreplay, knowing exactly what he wanted? Taking
what he needed?

Licking my lips,
I’m filled with desire at the thought of it.

I shut my eyes
momentarily with the strong, visceral memory. He took what he needed the day
before yesterday, his hard body on top of mine, mindlessly pounding himself
inside of me.

Simple and
basic, it had been the hottest sex
ever.

“We’ll take that
one,” Grant says confidently to the manager, pointing to a stroller.

“Yes sir, good
choice,” she says, hanging on his every word.

Dark brown hair
frames his beautiful face, while his long locks hide some of his scars. Man,
how I’d love to run my hands through his glossy hair again. I’m in a constant
state of arousal just watching him.

What is this
crazy pull, this strong attraction to him?

It’s not simply
lust.

In this moment,
Grant is in complete control, yet I’ve seen him shattered by guilt and despair.
I’ve
felt
the anguish in his blue-grey eyes. He hides it from the world,
but inside he’s vulnerable, lost and uncertain.

Maybe I’m drawn
to him
because
he’s broken.

Grant
needs
me. I long to help him.

Always
courteous, Grant easily gets his way. I adore the way he strides down the
aisles with grace and purpose, as if he owns the place.

What if he
treated
me
that way?

What if he
behaved as though he owned and possessed
me
?

Visions of our
passionate time together flood my mind. My nipples harden and my chest, neck and
face heat. I close my eyes for a moment, remembering how he filled and
stretched me. How satisfying it was to feel the solid length of his
erection—every rigid inch of him deep inside of me—his powerful body pressing
against mine.

“Can I help
you?”

Caught in my
erotic reverie, I spin around to face the young saleswoman, feeling my cheeks
heat. “Um… No thank you. I’m with him,” I say, pointing to Grant.

“OK, then,” she
says with a bright smile, a nod, and an assessing stare at Grant. I can tell,
scars or not, she thinks he’s a hottie too.

Grant strides
toward me with a pleased grin. “I think we’re done here,” he says. To my
complete surprise, he places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me to
the checkout area.

Jesus,
I
feel his heated palm like a brand. I shut my eyes for a moment, instantly
imagining that big hand of his between my legs.

I’m so bad!

My face flushes,
not with embarrassment—with desire. Thankfully, it takes a couple of minutes to
walk there and I get my control back before I arrive.

“Well I’ll be! I
just can’t get over that cat of yours,” the cheerful, auburn-haired cashier
says in her broad Texas accent, as she rings up Grant’s tab. “He’s happy to sit
right there on your shoulder. Who’d have thought?”

“He’s pretty
special,” I force myself to say, while scratching Mitten under his chin. A buzz
of anxiety is always with me whenever I’m around strangers. Even though some
people can’t hide their shock over seeing a cat in the store, no one seems to
mind that I’ve brought Mitten shopping.

I think this is
an example of Texas manners. Either that or they were all so blown away by
Grant’s tornado-like rush through their store they never thought to question
Mitten’s presence.

“Don’t you
worry, now,” the woman assures us. “We’ll have our people deliver these things
right on down to y’all today.”

“We’ll expect
them by three, ma’am,” Grant says, his polite comment a command.

“Yes, sir. They
won’t be late.”

Grant speaks
with economy, saying little, but every word he says is important.

I imagine other
things he might say in private, such as “Spread your legs,” or “Let me watch
you come, Renata.” Immediately, my pussy clenches, as a spike of sensual
awareness shoots straight to my heated core.

Holy shit,
girl! Cool down.