Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (29 page)

“I'm not
telling you it's going to be easy—I'm telling you it's going to be worth it.”

― Art
Williams

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant and I
leave the store, pleased with our purchases for Briley. Crib, blankets,
formula, bottles, clothes, toys, bibs—we really have everything we need. Ever
the perfect gentleman, he opens the car door for me, as usual.

“Thanks,” I say.

“It’s my
pleasure.”

As I take my
seat and buckle my seatbelt, I inhale a lungful of new car smell. Grant steps
away to talk to someone a few cars down. What’s going on?

Peeking over and
listening carefully, I hear him explaining something to an elderly woman in his
low, slow drawl. It sounds as though he’s giving her directions.

White-haired and
heavily wrinkled, wearing dark, horn-rimmed glasses, the woman he’s talking to
appears to be about a hundred and fifty years old, if I counted her rings
correctly. I shouldn’t make jokes like that, not even in my mind. Sweet thing,
once she was young and attractive. Now even her wrinkles have wrinkles.

Whatever he’s
saying, it’s obvious she isn’t getting it. I lean closer, straining to hear
what they’re discussing. As far as I can tell, the woman keeps repeating the
same questions again and again. From time to time, she seems to drift off,
rambling on about…
her children?

She’s nodding
and smiling up at Grant like crazy. Grant’s voice is easy-going and kind—he’s
doesn’t try to brush her off or rush her in the least. I squint my eyes and see
him with a pen and paper. A broad grin instantly splits my face.

Really?
Is he drawing a map for her?

People often are
so frantically absorbed by their own crap that they come across as uncaring. In
a rush, they rarely take time to notice others, let alone help them. All too
often the elderly become invisible.

Grant’s so extraordinarily
patient! Seeing his respect and consideration for this older woman makes my
heart warm.

“Thank you so
much, young man,” I hear her call, as Grant climbs into the driver’s seat next
to me. He probably made her day. I know he's made mine.

Grant offers no
information about what he’s just done—I practically have to pry it out of him.
Upon questioning, he confirms my observations.

Yes, the woman
was lost. Yes, she needed directions. Yes, she had trouble understanding when
he tried to explain the route. No, of course she didn’t annoy him.

I can’t stop
grinning. Apparently, Grant is kind to old women, children, his brother, his
brother’s wife and me. André’s rather fond of him and Mitten likes him too.

What is this
guy, a boy scout?

“Her name is Mary,”
he says about the elderly woman he just helped. “She and her husband have been
married for fifty-five years. They have twelve grandchildren and two
great-grandchildren. Isn’t that something?”

“It sure is.”

Grant puts on
his seatbelt and presses the ‘engine start’ button on his car. The engine
thrums to life with a low, sexy growl. You gotta love these new cars!

“I think Mary
needs to have her eyes checked,” he muses in a slow, pensive drawl. “She didn’t
even flinch when she saw my scars.”

“A woman her age
knows what
really
matters, Grant,” I tell him. “She looks old enough to
have gone through the Great Depression and both World Wars!”

Grant smiles and
I laugh.

“Besides,” I
add, “with the long life she’s lived, I’m sure she has plenty of scars of her own.
You place too much importance on those scars.”

Grant says
nothing. Is he thinking that over? He turns his head to check for oncoming
traffic before backing out of the parking space.

“Anyway,
I
think
you’re a handsome guy,” I add.

His lips twitch.
“Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” I
flutter my eyelashes in an exaggerated manner.

He grins.

“By the way, I
thought you were amazing in
Buy, Buy, Baby,
” I say. “All that confidence
and unflagging vigor—
whew!
I was impressed.”

He releases the
parking brake and turns toward me. Surprise, disbelief and confusion are
apparent in his expression. “I was just getting stuff done.” He shrugs. “We
need to have this all set up before child welfare arrives with Briley this
afternoon.”

“That’s a big
part of your charm. You have no idea of how powerful and in control you were,
do you?”

A frown mars his
face. I can see he doesn’t understand. His long, manly fingers curl around the
wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot, into traffic. With those long legs
and muscular, denim-covered thighs stretching out before him, he’s sexy as
hell.

“The thing is,
Grant,” I say, clearing my throat. “What you did in there is an example of the
real you. You didn’t have to think about anything, did you?”

“No.”

“You just did
just as you wanted—what had to be done.”

“Yes.”

“You weren't
self-conscious, uptight or preoccupied because you were so focused on the
task,” I say. “I’ve never seen you like that before. It was seriously sexy.”

He gives me a
doubtful smile. Grant has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Think about
what it would be like to be that confident all the time—if you didn’t
second-guess, overthink or doubt yourself. Imagine if you didn’t filter what
you wanted to do through a bunch of mental shit. Can you picture how different
your life would be?”

He inhales
sharply and sighs. “You’re talking about sex, right?”

“Absolutely! I’m
talking about sex, about touching and openly saying exactly what you feel.
We’re discussing the possibility of you, ‘being yourself’ and being who you
really are all of the time, but especially when you’re having sex.”

He snorts and
shakes his head. “It’s much harder than you’d think.”

I raise my
eyebrows and give him a teasing, calculating look. “I imagined what it would be
like to go to bed with the
real
you, the confident, go-for-it, and
take-what-you-want part of you.”

He slants me a
look, as I pause to let that idea sink in.

“I also thought
about being able to hold you afterwards,” I add. “Cuddling up, my head on your
chest—listening to your heartbeat and breathing you in. It would be heaven.”

Just like that,
there’s a jolt of raw sexual energy throbbing between us.

That’s not all
that’s throbbing, there’s a pulsing ache between my thighs. My breasts feel
heavy and tight—every bump in the road makes them tingle as my nipples rub
against the fabric of my bra. I press my legs together to try to assuage my
need.

I can’t stop
thinking of the toe-curling, sheet-ripping, screaming hot sex we had.

I’m drawn to him
in every way imaginable. Does he feel the same attraction? I hope so. The man
is so damned built and sexy. I can’t help but fantasize about him kissing me,
touching me... and
especially
fucking me.

Focus on him.
Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

But holy hell,
I’m only human and right now I’m needy and greedy with lust. My mind keeps
skipping backwards, reliving the sensation of having his hard body on top of
me, his cock stretching and filing me.

The mere thought
of him makes me burn with desire.

How soon can I
have him deep of inside of me again?

Grant has spent
his life being guarded and closed off. Just now, he’s trying to conceal his
lust with an impassive expression on his handsome features. Yet, his lips are
parted, his breathing has quickened and the outline of his massive hard-on,
trapped inside his Levis, is hard to miss. Of course, I'd be much more apt to
miss it if I stopped looking at his groin!

A streetlight
turns red and we stop. Grant meets my gaze for a moment, but quickly looks
away.

“We did the sex
part—” he exhales and pauses for a long while.

“Mmm?” I
encourage him.

I wait
patiently.

And wait.

And wait.

Getting someone
to speak about uncomfortable subjects requires patience. He’s thinking it over.
The light changes to green, and Grant remains silent, continuing to drive for a
bit.

“I don’t like
how I feel…
after
,” he says. “I’d love to be able to hold you…”

“Yes?” I say,
encouraging him to go on.

Grant says
nothing. His back straightens and his muscles tighten as tension begins to coil
in his body.

I don’t want to
push him. I could freak Grant out so easily, and that would make our sessions
more difficult.

For one long
moment, I remember how painful it was for me those first days when I moved in
with the mysterious André Chevalier. I was a timid wreck. Anxious and
frightened, André never even made me leave the safety of my room.

“I can’t do it,
Renata. I wish I could—but I can’t,” he finally bites out.

“We have time,”
I reassure him. “When someone is brave enough to address a difficult issue,
they
always
start with unbearable discomfort. That’s OK. It’s normal and
exactly what you
should
expect. If your problems were simple, you
would’ve solved them all long ago, right?”

Grant gives me a
sharp nod of agreement.

“The fact that
it’s tough for you will make your success so much sweeter,” I say
encouragingly. “Why should something worthwhile, be easy?”

Grant says
nothing, but I can tell he’s listening.

I shake my head.
“We’ll figure it out, Grant. We’ll get through it together.”

After a long
silence, he says, “André told me to start at the ground floor, but what is the
ground floor? I’m not even comfortable touching you. I have trouble simply
holding your hand.”

“I know, but
that’s OK,” I say. “See? Just now, you spoke about the handholding issue.
That's progress. You didn’t even
try
to talk to me about it before. You
should feel good about that—I do. Today and tonight, we can try just a little
casual touching. We can hold hands, lean against each other maybe, or put our
hands on each other's shoulders. Nothing intense. We'll keep things G-rated…
mostly.”

I smile at that,
because we are
so
going to go past 'G-rated' tonight, if I have
any
say
at all. Hopefully, we'll head straight to 'MA-rated' due to adult themes,
nudity, sexual content and coarse language.

“I don’t know…
if I can.”

“Fine,” I say.
“If that’s too tough, we can start by just looking at each other, all right?
Whatever we do, we’re going to have some laughs, OK?”

He glances over
at me and I shoot him a bright confident smile. It’s easy because I
am
confident.
I’ve had a ton of success with my surrogate clients. It isn’t too long a jump
to imagine I’ll get there with Grant.

“Fine.” His
smile is wry, but there’s a glint of humor in his eyes.

“No pressure,” I
say. “I know how to make this easy and fun. We both deserve to have fun, right?
How does that sound?”

His relief is
palpable as he exhales and says, “Good.”

“You’ll get
there, Grant.”

His slow smile
isn’t forced. “I’m beginning to think I just might.”

I decide to give
him a break and change the subject. “I love your car, by the way. It’s
super-slick. What kind is it?”

“It’s a
Cadillac,” he says and his lips twitch up in a smile. There’s a flicker of
amusement in his gorgeous grey eyes, but at least he doesn’t roll them. I’m
acting out some sort of girly-girl stereotype, I guess. When it comes to cars,
I haven’t got a clue.

“So, sue me,” I
reply snarkily to him. “I’m not a car person. How old is this one anyway?”

“A couple of
months.”

I knew that. No
one can mistake that
new car smell
. “André is nuts about cars, too.” I
chuckle. “You boys and your toys.”

“If you have
a garden and a library, you have everything you need."

―
Marcus Tullius Cicero

~~~

Renata
Koreman

“Where to now?”
I ask, after we make a quick stop at a gas station. Shifting restlessly in my
seat, I push back the drumming need inside me.

Grant’s biceps
are huge… I want to touch them. His casual, long-sleeved shirt, rather than
hiding his body, seems to enhance the muscles in his arms and shoulders. Fuck,
I want to bite that tantalizing bit of bare flesh on his neck where the buttons
end. I long to jump him over and over again, until we’re both sweating and limp
with exhaustion.

I
surreptitiously glance down at his unflagging erection and desperately curb a
bubble of laughter. I recall how he remained pulsing and hard inside of me,
even after he came.

“Limp” is a
highly unlikely description when it comes to Grant’s penis. His entire body is
hard.

“We’re making a
quick stop at the Whole Foods Market,” Grant says, as he smoothly navigates the
road. The quiet engine of his high performance car hums in the background.

“That’s fine.”

“Maria, the lady
who cooks and cleans for me, won’t be back until next week, so we’ll have to
fend for ourselves.”

“I can cook.”

“You can?” he asks,
slanting me a pitifully hopeful look while making a left-hand turn.

“Yes,” I say
with a grin. “I can clean, too.”

“Forget
cleaning.” He chuckles. “I’m much more interested in your cooking.”

And I’m
interested in seeing you naked,
I think, but I say, “Have you ever had
boeuf
à la Bourguignonne?
Also known as beef Burgundy, it’s made with garlic,
onions and mushrooms.”

“No beef?”

“You made a
joke,” I exclaim. “That was funny!”

“Not that
funny.” He says with a wry smile. “French stew sounds great. Can we have it for
supper?”

“Sure. It
doesn’t take long to make. It’s prepared with beef braised in red wine,
flavored with garlic, thyme, bay leaves and sage.”

His forehead
creases in a frown as he pulls into the grocery store parking lot. “I’m a
recovering alcoholic, Renata, so I never drink. Am I right to assume the
alcohol burns off during cooking?”

“Not fully. We
can buy dealcoholized wine to use instead.”

“That’s good—but
what about you? We can get you wine, beer, or whatever you want. I’m OK with
that.”

“Thank you, but
I’m not much of a drinker,” I assure him. “André introduced me to the basics,
but my father was a real prick and he used to drink all the time. Somehow that
lessened my interest in the subject.”

“I’m sorry about
your father,” Grant says quietly, but he leaves it at that.

I shrug. “Thank
you.”

I don’t want to
talk about the asshole who’s given me my nightmares, my last name and half of
my DNA. My reticence on this matter must be obvious as Grant changes the
subject.

“You sound as
though you know your way around the kitchen,” he says. There’s a cute kind of
hopefulness in his statement.

“I’ve spent many
hours with André’s chef, Pascal and his wife, Anne,” I tell him. “They taught
me French cooking.” I raise my eyebrows. “And I’m a good student.”

“French
cuisine!” he chortles enthusiastically. “I love French cooking!”

I’m charmed by
Grant’s plainspoken honesty. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic. He didn’t try
to minimize it by just saying, “I don’t like to drink.” This is another facet
that will help me in unwrapping his history. Ashamed and isolated, Grant must
have turned to alcohol to numb his pain and to forget, as many victims of abuse
do.

I turned to sex
for comfort and connection instead.

He’s definitely
loosening up, and it only makes him more desirable to me. There are high,
unassailable walls surrounding him, but maybe he’s starting to open a small
window to give me a peek inside.

André’s
cautionary warning runs through my mind.
You cannot rescue someone from themselves.
People are never as helpless as they feel themselves to be. When they improve,
it is not because of you—it is because they have chosen to help themselves!”

If anyone is
seriously working toward getting his life on track, it’s Grant. He’s such a
good guy and I’m so ridiculously drawn to him. I’m going to do everything I can
to help him figure out how to help himself.

The sound of a
horn captures our attention for a moment. I look around, but whoever it was
wasn’t honking at us.

I leave Mitten
in the car when we get out, assuring him we won’t be long. I don’t think anyone
would appreciate me bringing a cat inside a grocery store.

Dallas is a
thriving city with nice parks, a fascinating skyline and interesting buildings.
Everyone is amazingly friendly here. Complete strangers look you in the eye,
smile and give welcoming nods.

People here have
an overwhelming sense of pride in their state. Texas maps are everywhere,
including embossed into the walls on the freeways. Flags fly on many houses—US
of A and Texas—American Pride and Lone Star pride.

The service is
mind-blowing. Men smile and open doors for women. Bags at the checkout are
packed by clean-cut high school students—or by polite, elderly folks working
part-time.

It’s like being
on the film set in
Back to the Future,
when Michael J. Fox drives his
DeLorean back to 1950. There’s a homey, welcoming, wholesome vibe. The truth
is, I kind of like it.

I’ve looked, but
there’s not a tattoo in sight.

I snicker
because I know Grant has tattoos under that long-sleeved shirt of his. What
kind of tats does he have? I can’t wait to see them… and to see him without his
shirt. Even fully clothed, the man is such a turn-on.

He’s needy and
vulnerable underneath all that confidence. I swallow, because being around him
makes me super-needy and vulnerable too. My constant state of arousal is hard
to ignore.

We’re in and out
of the grocery store in under twenty minutes. Another twenty minutes in his car
and we’re pulling into his driveway.

“Oh my God! This
is a wonderful home, Grant.”

It’s a
cream-colored Spanish Mediterranean style stucco design, with green shutters
and red terra cotta shingles. A huge dogwood tree with big white flowers stands
out front, nestled within a well-manicured garden.

He drives into
the garage and hits the remote button, closing it. When he turns toward me,
he’s wearing a boyish grin.

“You really like
my house?” he asks.

“I’m blown
away.”

His grin widens
into a broad smile. “I’ve spent a lot of time doing it up just the way I like.”

“It’s
beautiful.”

“I love this
house. It was built in the 1930’s, but honestly?” he grins. “I bought it for
the garden.”

“No way.”

“C’mon. Let me
show you my pride and joy.”

He leads me
through a side door out into the backyard, with Mitten happily following behind
us. I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the bright, setting sun. The first
thing I notice is the fragrance of flowers. There are cherry blossoms in bloom,
awe-inspiring puffs of pink and white, not to mention rhododendrons, azaleas
and who knows what else.

Grant escorts me
down a path where a little stream runs through. A small picturesque wooden
bridge crosses over it until it reaches a shallow little pool. A number of
colorful Koi fish languidly swim around in lazy circles.

“Oh, I love
Koi!” I gasp. “Are they friendly?”

“Sure,” he says
with a smirk. “If you feed them.”

There’s a rock
garden with lavender and other ground covers. Rock steps have been artistically
placed throughout. Crepe myrtle trees blossom in mauve and white, and jasmine
perfumes the air. A large grassy area is near the house.

It’s like a
secret Garden—this open space seems larger than a normal city block. Lavish,
thriving, and full of life, it isn't highly manicured as some gardens are. I
much prefer it this way. It's wild but not overgrown or messy.

It’s nothing
like what I expected, but then, what had I expected?

This creative
hands-on interest is another fascinating part of Grant’s character. Betrayed by
humankind, I sought love, trust and fulfilment from Mitten. Obviously, in the
same boat, Grant turned to flowers, trees and plants for the same reason.

Why not? It
makes sense to me.