Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (17 page)

I remember what
André said:
This could mean many, many sessions you must have with him.

Yes! A delicious
sense of anticipation runs through me. I cross my fingers and pray that Grant
and I hit it off.   

“Selfish—a
judgment readily passed by those who have never tested their own power of
sacrifice.”

― George
Eliot

~~~

Stan Huber

One more day
and I’ll be out of jail.

It couldn’t come
soon enough for Stan.

On Sunday
morning, after breakfast, he was let out into the general population for
exercise. Reluctant to go, Stan had no choice. He’d already seen one guy
limping and sporting a black eye. What would they do to him?

The moment he
walked into the yard, a huge Latino man looked right into his eyes and
purposefully started walking straight toward him.

The massive thug
was flanked by two other big men.

Stan stopped
short and pulled back, but the immense man and his associates kept coming
towards him. After watching Stan cower, an evil grin spread broadly upon his
scary face.

So soon?
Stan thought, his eyes wildly seeking a correctional officer.
Not even two
days in jail, and this guy is going to beat me to death? Shit!

“Hey,
gringo
,”
the big man said.

“Yes, sir?” Stan
managed to choke out a reply, while experiencing a sudden and fierce desire to
pee.

The large Latino
laughed loudly and slapped Stan’s back in a manner that almost knocked him
over.

“¿Qué haces?”
he
asked.

 Stan blinked.
“What?”

“I am
Martillo.”
The giant laughed in a booming voice. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to
protect you.”

“You are?”

“Sure. You have
powerful friends, my man. People with cash who aren’t afraid to share—know what
I mean?” He bumped a shoulder against Stan’s in a conspiratorial manner.

With the big man’s
size and weight, even a small tap felt something like a Mack Truck knocking
into a VW. This time, Stan
did
almost fall over.

“No worries,” he
said. “We’ve got your back.”

Stan gave him a
tentative smile but found he was still so scared he was unable to speak.
Instead, he just nodded and began shakily walking around the yard.

Important
people want to keep me safe. And they want me to keep out of jail. Thanks dad.
Amen to that.

His attorney was
brokering a deal about the Chester Wilkinson murder. Stan knew about the common
hypnotic that had been slipped in his drink. It was a drug that would prevent
Wilkinson from stopping someone, intent on pushing him to his death.

A coroner
wouldn’t routinely test for that drug. The killer only knew about it because
he’d watched a murder mystery on TV where it had been used.

Stan was lucky
he’d recalled the drug’s name: scopolamine. It was used for motion sickness.
The side effects were a slightly dry mouth, mildly dilated pupils and
drowsiness. It also had a hypnotic effect, so a person tended to become
suggestible. They wouldn’t resist, regardless of consequences.

Once they found
scopolamine in Wilkinson’s body and Stan told them what else he knew, the
police would have a reason to prosecute. In that case, the DA agreed they’d let
him off with minor conditions—a mere slap of the wrist.

The police had started
proceedings to get an order to exhume the body for testing. They also agreed to
release Stan on bail with house arrest and an ankle monitor until his trial.

Hopefully, there
would be no trial.

As Stan’s grandma
used to say,
Keep a few pokers in the fire… one will heat up.

The DA had demanded
to know the name of the murderer, but Stan knew how to keep his mouth shut. He
wouldn’t give up a name until the deal was sealed. There was a time and a place
for everything.

Negotiating was a
little like fishing. You had to be patient. Make them hungry for it and hook
them. Then reel them in and save yourself.

First let them
exhume a drugged corpse. Once the D.A. knew a murder had been committed, then
Stan would have leverage. They would beg for details

He never doubted
Chester Wilkinson had been murdered.

Stan would have
to pay for the cocaine the police had taken from him—Skinny wouldn’t forgive
the debt. But first, he needed to get out of here. Then he’d discuss his
outstanding financial issues with his father. Dad would be pissed, but he’d
come through.

His mother had
died two years ago and that’s when all his problems had started. The judge
should cut him some slack. After all, there’d been a death in the family. Stan did
miss his mom.

This was an
election year for the sheriff. His father had pledged funds for his campaign...
provided his son was set free. Dad also had connections with a wealthy oil
baron in Odessa, Texas, who owed him a favor.

The murder, his
mother’s death, the sheriff’s campaign, the wealthy oil baron. There may even
be other people his dad would be negotiating with. So many possibilities.

Stan could almost
hear his grandma speaking:
Put lots of pokers in the fire, honey child.
That’s the way. Don’t rely on just one. Something’ll get hot.

Stan sure hoped
so.

His best friend,
Alex was going to hate him, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no way he was
going to go to jail. He came from a wealthy family with connections. Surely, he
could buy his way out of this… somehow.

Stan never once
considered that others—people who didn’t have money or connections—perhaps
they, too might deserve a second chance. This idea never crossed his mind.

Frowning, he
shook his head. Sweet baby Jesus, he’d sure screwed up. Still, it seemed as
though he’d get through this. He’d be out on bail come Monday.

With a bit of
luck, and by using the leverage of a murdered man, he’d stay out of jail, too.

An image of Mindy
came into Stan’s mind then. If he asked her, would she come visit him at home
this week?

There were a few
positions they hadn’t tried yet—like reverse cowgirl. Stan liked the idea of staring
at Mindy’s firm, round ass as she rode him hard. He could imagine how hot she’d
look and feel, those sexy buttocks of hers moving up and down on his cock while
he watched the muscles of her back, butt and thighs work.

He could almost
hear
her gasps of arousal; he could almost
smell
her; he could almost
feel
her scorching pussy tighten and pulse around him, milking his cock. The
thought of it made him instantly hard.

Stan shook his
head.

What I
wouldn't give for some alone time with Mindy… and just a few small lines of
cocaine.

“Many times
karma comes from inside—with each individual creating their own Heaven or
Hell.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Even after taking
a sleeping pill, I didn’t manage to sleep a wink last night.

I’m so worked up,
I didn’t eat breakfast and can’t eat much lunch. I promised André I’d have a
session with a sexual therapist he recommended. Just the idea of it has me on
edge.

I’ve gone back
and forth from, “No way can I do this,” to, “OK, maybe just this once.”

I’m supposed to
meet them both at 2 p.m. at André’s place but, unable to deal with waiting, I
arrive an hour early. Gustav escorts me into André’s study. Every muscle in my
body is strung tight.

“
Bonjour!”
André greets me cheerfully, standing up from his desk and holding out his hand.
I take my right hand from where it sits, jammed deep in my jeans pocket, and
give him a perfunctory shake. My nerves are shot to hell and gone.

“My friend, you
are very early. Are you well?”

“No, I’m not
well,” I say. I probably look fine on the outside, but inside I’m bordering on
panic. “I didn’t sleep for shit. I don’t want to do this thing with the
surrogate, André. It’s too soon. Can we do something else today? I swear to
God, I’m just not up for this.”

“Very well. It
shall be as you wish.”

“Oh.”

I’m stunned by
his reply. I don't believe it. I was all worked up and prepared for a fight.
How easy was that? Is that all it takes? If so I should’ve told him this last
night. I could have gotten a decent night’s sleep.

“It would please
me if you would at least meet Renata.”

“OK,” I say.

What harm
could there be in that?

He opens the
backdoor to his study and I follow behind him as he moves down the hall,
through another living area, a dining room and another lounge. When he arrives
at a closed door, he knocks.

“Renata? You are
there?”

There’s no reply,
so André opens the door and walks inside. I follow him. We’re in a massive
bedroom with high ceilings, decorated in different shades of blue and white.
The bed’s king-size and the covers are pulled back.

I hear the
distinct sound of a shower running. André calls out a string of words in
French, but I have no idea what he said.

A feminine and
somewhat musical voice shoots something back, also in French. The language is
beautiful. Spoken by a woman, it’s even more appealing.

“She has been
hard at work this morning, you understand,” he explains.

What?

I frown. For all
I know, the woman’s had sex with three other people before noon—not that it
bothers me. I suppose she has to make a living.

I look around. Like
everything else in André’s home, the room is filled with expensive European
furnishings. It’s light and airy, too. My previous sexual liaisons always took
place at night in dark alleys.

Sex in a room
like this is would certainly be a step up for me.

The shower
switches off. I expect to hear her speak again, but instead the bathroom door
opens. A curvaceous young woman walks out in a confident stride, bringing with
her a subtle hint of vanilla.

She’s
spectacular!

I must be
imagining this.

I blink—more than
once—but nope, she’s still there.

She isn’t shy or
in any way disconcerted at finding two men in her bedroom. Her long blonde
hair’s wet from the shower and she’s toweling it dry. Wearing a luxury bathrobe
of some sort, the plush blue material matches her eyes.

Her eyes are what
attract me first, drawing me in. They’re crystal blue with a vivid dark rim
around the iris. Huge and hypnotic, they’re extraordinary.

I stare at her,
stunned.

SHE is my
sexual therapist?

I feel as if I’ve
just taken a bare knuckle sucker punch to the chest.

This is
not
an older woman, a mature and homely therapist with years of experience. This is
a young and beautiful girl standing here in front of me. With wet hair and no
makeup, the woman barely looks old enough to be
having
sex—much less to
be skilled and knowledgeable on the subject.

In disbelief, my
gaze takes her in. She’s slim and tall, at least 5’9” or even 5’10” with a warm
golden tan. She has full lips, high cheekbones and delicate, feminine features
all set in a heart-shaped face. There’s a slight dusting of freckles over her
straight thin nose and not a wrinkle in sight.

She’s perfect.

This is a
healthy, wholesome woman who no doubt sleeps well and is not burdened by demons
of conscience like I am. She’s everything I’m not.

Me
with
her?
It’s wrong, so wrong on so many levels.

But I want
her, oh how I want her.

To my
astonishment, she looks at me and doesn’t even appear to notice my scars.
Instead, there’s nothing but welcoming pleasure in her expression. Her
friendly, open smile takes my breath away.

Sweet Jesus.
Even her fucking teeth are perfect.

The woman peers
up at André and grins. He grins back and they exchange knowing glances in some
form of silent communication.

“What did I tell
you?” he says, and they both laugh joyously, like a couple of children eating
cake and ice cream at a birthday party.

Confusion dulls
my ongoing anxiety—closely followed by annoyance that these two are so damn
happy. I’ve just had an agonizing twenty-four hours of near panic, and here
they are, laughing? At
me
?

“What’s going
on?” I say, and the words come out unnaturally harsh.

“I beg your
pardon,” the woman says holding an outstretched hand toward me. “My name is
Renata Koreman.” Soft and feminine, her voice flows over me like a caress.
There’s a sweetness in the sound that anyone would fall in love with. It’s
incredibly appealing—just as she is.

“Renata,” André
says, “This is Grant Wilkinson. Grant, meet your sexual therapist, Renata
Koreman.”

It’s rude, but
I’m too frozen by shock to respond. I take her hand automatically, but quickly
let it go. Fresh out of the shower, she has clear, healthy skin. No perfume, no
jewelry, no makeup… no clothes?

Stark naked
underneath that bathrobe, I bet.

My body heats and
my throat is dry as I swallow. What would it be like to take her? I imagine how
her skin would feel, smell and taste under my hands. An image of covering her
with my body and burying myself inside of her makes me instantly hard.

Damn it to
hell.

Aroused, confused
and completely off-balance, I drill André with an angry glare. “You told her
about my scars,” I say roughly, my jaw set and fists clenched. “What else did
you tell her?” I can barely see through the instant rage and betrayal I’m
feeling right now.

“I did not tell
her,” he says calmly. “You place too much importance on the scars. I spoke to
Renata of your history, exactly as we both agreed. She knows nothing more.”

If I’m sure of
one thing in this world, it’s that André is not a liar.

My blazing anger
is irrational and misplaced but the passionate, heated energy of it won’t go
away. I’m embarrassed by my ill-mannered accusation. To discover I was so
completely wrong only fuels the flames. I’m in a fury, but now I’m angry with
myself.

Added to that, I
also have a raging hard-on that’s throbbing and demanding attention.

Why am I being
such a jackass?

What the hell is
wrong with me?

Tense from
stifling a fresh flow of rage, I can barely speak or move. I’m acting like a
child—or a Neanderthal, but I can’t seem to help it. My natural Southern
courtesy towards women is eclipsed by my defensiveness.

I stare down at
her. Renata. Such a perfect name. Man, she’s a stunner. I can hardly take in a
breath with her in the room—and look at me! I’m acting like the monster that I
feel I am.

I turn my gaze to
André, a much safer target. “Then what were you both grinning about?” I ask.

“André told me I
would like you,” Renata says, answering the question. “As usual, the extremely
annoying man is always right. Don’t you just hate that about him?”

“You don’t even
know me!” I protest.

“You have a nice
face,” she says confidently.

This kind of
bald-faced lie is not only hard to take; it's insulting to my intelligence. Of
all the things she could say... Frowning, l give her a dirty look.

“No, really!” she
adds. “I know people and I know faces. Yours is a good one.”

I can’t help my
snort of disbelief.

“Seriously. Those
scars don’t bother me. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

It’s what’s
inside that counts? Really? Did she just say that?

The woman’s such
an innocent. What is this? The Disney Channel? I’ll add Snow White’s comment to
my list of other useless platitudes like, ‘That’s life,’ ‘You’ll be fine,’
‘It’s God’s will,’ ‘Look on the bright side,’ and, ‘What’s done is done.’

It must be my
lack of sleep because I’m having trouble taking all of this in. I feel so
irritable, awkward and out of place. What am I doing here anyway? I told Andre
I didn't want to see her today.

“Renata,” André
says, “Grant has arrived early.”

“So I see.” She
laughs and the sound of her laughter does something to my heart… and my fully
aroused cock. The woman’s presence seeps into me like some kind of magic. So
beautiful, so naive, so cheerful and kind.

And her and
me? So, so, wrong.

“Mon ami
,”
André says to me, “I will leave you now to make arrangements as you wish with
your new therapist.
Au revoir, mes enfants.”

The sneaky bastard’s
gone before I can stop him or even think of a single thing to say.