Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (30 page)

“The only
creatures that are evolved enough to convey pure love are dogs and infants.”

―
Johnny Depp

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant studies
me, closely watching my reaction to this important place in his life.

“
You
did
this?” I gasp.

“Many of the
established trees were here already, but yes, I did. Marie’s nephew, Michael,
is my gardener. He looks after the mowing and watering, but I created it.”

“It’s absolutely
incredible,” I marvel. “It’s like the botanical garden in a big city—only much
nicer.”

Grant’s smile is
broad and open. His garden means a lot to him and it charms me to know my
opinion matters. I love that he's able to share this part of himself with me.

I turn my head,
checking out the abundance of flowers. It’s April, a time of early spring
blooms. There will be an even greater riot of colors as spring rolls on. Mitten
rubs up against my legs, so I squat down to stroke him. Mitten loves this
place.

Grant walks
through his garden, telling me the names of his flowers while pointing them
out; chrysanthemums, daisies, daffodils, irises, peonies, marigolds, petunias
and colorful impatiens.

There are unique
garden sections, hidden places to sit, and a variety of trails. Proud and
enthusiastic, Grant is transformed by his garden. The stress lines in his face
have eased, he looks content and completely in his element.

“Gardening makes
you happy,” I say, pleased to discover yet another glimpse of the real Grant.

“Yes, it does.”

“This is the
most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” he
says with quiet intensity. Our eyes meet—his are smoldering. A zing of sensual
energy blasts between us, almost bringing me to my knees.

My chest
tightens and my heart flip-flops as a sudden insight makes me realize how
important I am to him. He wants me, he
needs
me and my libido is now
officially on overload.

Burning sexual
desire and anticipation will be the death of me.

Jesus, if I
don’t get laid tonight, I’m going to have to masturbate for hours to have any
hope of falling sleep. Maybe a hundred climaxes will ease my aching need for
him. I suspect only Grant can truly satisfy me—flying solo won't even come
close.

Of course, a
hundred
is a ridiculous exaggeration.

I’m sure I’ll be
OK after ninety-nine.

“Let’s go
inside,” he adds, placing his hand low on my back. The heat of his palm rolls
through me. I close my eyes for a moment and I bite back a moan.

Turning my head
up, I take in his handsome face. “You’re touching me,” I murmur with pleased
surprise. “And you’re comfortable doing it.”

He shrugs.

“Maybe it’s
because we’re in your garden,” I suggest.

“Maybe.”

“This is such a
romantic setting. With a nice thick blanket, right under those cherry
blossoms—I’d like to make love with you in this garden,” I unthinkingly blurt
out.

Shit! Bite my
tongue! I’m pushing him too fast and too hard. So stupid
.

My speech filter
is off-line—probably because there's an insufficient amount of blood going to my
brain for it to function properly.

Grant snorts in
a humorless laugh and turns toward me. His poor, neglected cock is bulging in
his Levis and my gaze immediately falls to it. He sees where I’m looking and
makes a sound that’s suspiciously like a growl.

“Renata,” he
says, his voice husky with need.

Our eyes lock.
Grant pins me with the hunger of his passionate stare.

I swallow,
utterly affected by everything about him—his smell, his fit, muscular build,
his heady male energy, his arousal and his desire for me.

“Do you think I
want to be like this?” he asks me in a deep, low voice.

His eyes darken
and his unblinking stare scorches me with sensual heat. His breathing speeds
up, displaying his internal battle over his body's response. I see his throat
work as Grant swallows
hard.

He doesn’t touch
me.

If he did, I
might go up in flames.

“Renata,” he
rasps, “I need to be inside of you like I need to eat, move or breathe. I want
you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything before. I want to take you
here in my garden, on my bed, on the kitchen counter or on the table. I want to
lift you up and fuck you hard against a wall.”

Stunned, I just
stare at him with my mouth open and my eyes wide. I think that’s the most he’s
ever said to me all at one time. Every single word aroused me further. Desire
and lust boils out of him.

“I can't—not
yet, but I don’t like waiting either,” he growls, and then strides off in utter
frustration.

I follow him as
he walks back inside the garage. We leave the air virtually sizzling behind us.

I am
so
going to help him fix his intimacy issues—and fast. Otherwise, anticipation and
sexual frustration will bring us both to the edge of madness.

Luckily, I’ve
got an idea.

Grant shows
Mitten and me around his home while we try to ignore the stormy, restrained
sexual tension brewing between us. Mitten checks out every nook and cranny, but
I doubt he’ll find a mouse.

Grant’s house
has four bedrooms, four bathrooms and three living areas, all with high
ceilings and an open floor plan. Window seats are recessed into a wall, and
there’s a balcony with a table and chairs set up, to sit outside and look out
over the garden. Marble floors are on the ground floor; hardwood flooring and
rugs are upstairs, along with an open fireplace.

“Wow,” I say,
stopping to check out Grant’s shooting trophies. He has a ton of them. “You’re
obviously a great shot.”

“I should be. I
was a sniper in the army.”

“Do you still
shoot?”

He shrugs. “I
own an indoor and outdoor shooting range.”

He didn’t answer
the question, but I don’t pursue it. I grin up at him with a flirty smile.
“Will you teach me?”

He smiles back.
“Of course I will, if you’d like to learn. It would be my pleasure.”

“Neat. Do you
hunt?”

“Not anymore,”
he says, his voice suddenly turns as cold as an Arctic winter, changing the
climate in the room.

I still have no
idea who hurt him as a child, yet I sense another mystery here. Why did he have
such a negative response when I mentioned hunting? Clearly, he must have loved
it at one time. Then again, he served in Iraq. Did he kill someone he regrets
killing? And how did he get those scars? Are the two subjects connected?

“OK,” I say, as
I leave his room.
Mental note to self, avoid bringing up the subject of
hunting with Grant for now.

Everything in Grant’s
home is arranged with artistic flair, yet it’s also homey with soft rugs and
attractive curtains, all in calming colors. The kitchen table is covered with a
huge, thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. Only the edges have been assembled thus
far, so it could be a picture of anything.

I snicker.
“Puzzle person, are you?” I ask, bending over and trying to see what he’s
working on.

“I find
listening to music while doing puzzles very relaxing.”

“Neat. What’s
this one of?”

“What else?” He
grins and holds up the cover of the jigsaw puzzle box. “Monet’s Garden.”

We both laugh.

The doorbell
rings, our baby accessories have arrived. We spend the next hour organizing the
nursery, bedding, cupboards and storage. Grant makes a number of phone calls,
but I don’t listen in. My bedroom is directly across the hallway from Grant’s
bedroom.

Convenient…
and tempting.

Grant gets out a
tool set and assembles Briley’s crib. I shower, unpack my things and start to
prepare dinner, or
supper,
as Grant likes to call it.

Just as I finished
cooking, around 5 p.m., the child welfare workers arrive with Briley.
Everything’s already been cleared legally, so they do a basic inspection to
check that Grant has appropriate and safe accommodations. With a smile of
relief, they hand me the baby and leave.

I sit down with
Briley. “How are you, gorgeous one?” I coo.

Instantly and
naturally, the mother in me bonds with the most adorable baby in the entire
universe. He has a round, hairless head, bright brown eyes and fat kissable
cheeks. My God, he’s absolutely perfect and he smells divine.

Briley smiles at
me, a smile of the sweetest love imaginable.

With all of the
innocence and inexperience a baby is born with, the one thing they
know
and
can fully express is pure, unadulterated love.

All of the
bliss, delight and happiness I once experienced with my baby brother comes
flooding back to me, slamming into me in waves of euphoria. Timmy is gone.
Losing him broke my heart, but Briley is here now.

The surge of
love swelling inside momentarily overwhelms me. My eyes sting and my throat
burns. I can share the love I had for my brother with this adorable child.
Timmy wouldn’t mind.

Timmy loved
everyone.

My heart is
full, my chest rises and falls heavily. I can’t stop smiling as silent tears of
loss, remembrance and joy course down my cheeks.

“Are you all
right?” Grant asks. His gaze dark with concern as he offers me a box of
tissues.

“Thank you,” I
say, as I take a few.

My breath
hitches as I wipe my tears and blow my runny nose. “I’m just happy.” I look up
at Grant’s furrowed brow, his uneasy expression and faint smile. I must look a
mess or like a nut case. Probably both.

“I love babies,”
I admit, in helpless explanation.

Briley and I
instantly get on like old friends, with him smiling at me, holding my fingers,
and trying to chew on my face. I giggle, laugh and make stupid sounds.

Mitten jumps up
next to us. I introduce him, so he can join in the fun. Mitten eyes me intently
while I explain about babies. I tell my cat how important Briley is, how he’s
like a kitten and how it’ll be Mitten’s job to make sure he’s OK.

People don’t
think animals understand, but I believe they do.

I once
considered a career in childcare, but I wasn’t sure I could do it at the time.
My brother’s death still seemed too fresh. It seems I haven’t forgotten a
thing.

Grant slouches
down on the couch beside us. We all sit companionably together for a while,
playing with Briley without needing to talk.

“Would you like
to hold him?” I ask.

“No.” There’s a
hint of anxiety in his expression.

“Do babies scare
you? Are you afraid of dropping him or something?”

He shakes his
head. “I freak out at the idea of having kids. I’m afraid I’d be a terrible
dad—mainly because I had such an awful role model as my own father.”

“Wow,” I say.
“Thank you for telling me. I didn’t know your dad was a jerk. See? This is how
we do it. We just keep talking and chipping away. Pretty soon we’ll both
understand each other really well.”

“Miss Sweet and
Positive,” he says, eyeing me with a cynical smirk. “I remember when I first
met you. I figured you must’ve come right out of the Disney Channel.”

“Why?” I ask
with a chuckle, while bouncing Briley on my knee.

“Because you
took one look at my scars and said, ‘
You have a nice face!’
” He laughs.
“I’ll never forget it. You also said,
‘
Those scars don’t bother me.
It’s what’s inside that counts.’
”

“But that’s
true!” I protest.

Grant laughs so
hard his chest and shoulders heave. I can’t help but laugh myself, seeing him
so happy and carefree. The sound of our amusement fills the room, echoing off
the walls and beguiling the baby.

“What?” I
snicker at the disbelieving look he’s giving me. “I
do
love your face. I
think you’re really handsome.”

This brings a
new wave of gleeful, unrestrained laughter to Grant. I swear it’s as though
someone is tickling him, he finds my comment so funny. I love seeing him like
this.

The man is way
too serious. He needs to laugh more often.

Shaking his
head, he grins and says nothing. It takes a few minutes for us to calm down.
When we do, he’s soon as comfortable sitting here with me, as I am with him.

“Thanks for
coming to help me with Briley, Renata,” he says. “I’d be lost without you.”

Smiling, I tilt
my head and study him for a moment.

Grant is still
lost. I know his problem. When people shut themselves off from painful
emotions, they have difficulty experiencing
good
feelings too. There’s a
numb sort of emptiness inside. Grant’s had it for so long, feeling that way
seems normal to him.

The man still
has a long way to go.

“It’s my
pleasure,” I say. “No joke. Hey, you haven’t been so worried about your scars
lately. I’ve noticed.”

A wealth of
thoughts flash behind his blue-grey eyes, something I can’t quite read.
Resignation perhaps, or sadness. Maybe a new sense of understanding? He’s more
relaxed somehow, but maybe it’s not in a good way. It’s as if he’s given in—or
maybe he’s given up.

That thought
alarms me.

“Are you OK,
Grant? Is something wrong?”

“Not really,” he
says, and the genuine smile in his eyes makes me think I must’ve imagined it.
“Everything’s as it should be. You’re right, you know. I’ve kind of forgotten
about my scars. In the scheme of things, they’re honestly no big deal.”

“Sight,
sound, smell, taste, touch—all trigger associations. To change your feelings
regarding any subject, you must change the associations connected with it.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

While Renata
cooks, I try to call Alex, but he’s in rehab and isn’t allowed contact. I leave
a message for him, asking the staff to tell Alex that Briley is here and he’s
well.

I then phone my
mother, who goes on and on in a way only she is capable. Mother firmly blames
Sky for corrupting Alex and “forcing him” to try drugs. Alex is a blameless
victim in this scenario.

“No Wilkinson
has ever had an addiction!” my mother complains bitterly. “Drugs, stealing—all
types of crime—this Godless kind of behavior always comes from the lower
classes. That Sky is a bad influence.”

“Yeah, yeah,
gotta go. Talk later,” I say and hang up.

Never
underestimate the power of denial.

Who would’ve
thought a quote from a popular movie would be so right? My mom doesn’t know
anything and she’s in denial about everything else. I didn’t even tell her I
have her grandson, Briley, with me. The longer I put that off, the better it
will be for all involved.

The woman keeps
her head buried in the sand. Despite our family’s history with alcohol and drug
addiction, my mother's the only one who isn’t involved in substance abuse. Her
addiction seems to be to denial in epic proportions.

If the woman
ever takes her blinders off, she might implode with the weight and force of
what's been going on around her for so many years.

At this point,
the most crucial thing is that the police haven’t arrested Alex for our
father's murder. I still have time. And anyway, it might not happen. What’s
that saying? Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

“Supper’s
ready,” Renata calls out. “Do you want a soda, water or juice?”

“Apple juice
would be great,” I call back.

I follow the
aroma emanating from the kitchen as my mouth waters in anticipation. I walk
into an extraordinarily domestic scene. The baby's sitting in his high chair.
Renata’s dressed in a t-shirt and cut-offs and supper's set out on the table.

“I could get
used to this,” I say.

Renata grins.
“Me too.” She chuckles as she places a spoonful of something that looks like
paste into Briley’s mouth. “It feels like we’re married.”

Our eyes lock
for an instant that seems inexplicably timeless. I’m staggered by intense shock
or
something
—damned if I know what it is. Desire’s a part of it, for
sure, but this is something more. Longing, maybe.

Whatever it is,
it slams into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, almost knocking the breath
out of me.

What would it be
like to have Renata in my life
forever
? To see her every day? Renata and
her infinite capacity to see only the best in me? She has an aura of affection
and humor I've been missing for as far back as I can remember.

I wish I
was
married
to her. I wish I was normal. But mostly, right now, I wish I didn’t have this
shit with my father hanging over my head.

I still can’t
even conceive of sleeping with her. Fucking her fast and furiously? Hell yes.
Actually sleeping? No way. In my imagination, I picture her staying here, but
always in her own room.

I sit down and
take my first bite of her culinary creation. The mouthwatering taste makes me
moan. “This is delicious. You’re like MacGyver in the kitchen! I can’t believe
you whipped this up so quickly.”

She giggles.
“Told you I’m a good cook.”

She’s so damned
cute when she giggles shamelessly. Her blue eyes shine and her whole face
lights up. It’s as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes my heart
ache in a good way to see her like this—so happy and lighthearted.

“You’re good at
everything
,”
I say.

The pale skin on
her face and neck flushes and my brows rise in surprise. How could she be embarrassed?
She’s bold and fearless in many ways. She's a confident sexual therapist, for
fuck's sake. Doesn’t she realize how amazing she is?

Renata quickly
changes the subject. “Do you mind if we talk about our plans for tonight while
we eat dinner?”

“We have plans
for tonight?” I ask.

There’s a hint
of mischief in her expression. “Grant, I’d like us to work on your sexual
issues and have fun while doing it, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah,” I
say. My body instantly heats with equal parts of heart-stopping anxiety and
cock-hardening desire.

“Look at this,”
she says, sliding a piece of paper with a simple line drawing toward me.

I dip my bread
in the stew and take a bite while studying her picture. Renata has drawn a
triangle. She’s labeled one corner of it “Body.” Another corner is labeled
“Mind” and the last corner is “Spirit.”

I frown in
trepidation. “This isn’t some new age thing, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. I
promise,” she assures me with a laugh. Putting another spoonful of baby food
into Briley’s mouth, she praises him and wipes his chin.

“OK,” she says.
“The way I see it, a person can improve themselves via the mind, the body or
the spirit. If someone starts jogging or working out they boost their physical
health—their body—and they feel better about themselves, right?”

“Sure.”

“OK. Well, when
someone works on their body, their thoughts and mental state—
their mind
—is
also enhanced and their spirit tends to be lifted as well.”

Her blonde head
bends down as she draws on the paper, showing how the triangle increases in
size. “If one side of the triangle progresses, the others benefit along with
it. They're also enhanced. What I’m trying to illustrate is the
interconnection. By working on any one of these areas, you obtain results that
change these other areas of your life for the better.”

“I’ll buy that.”

“I’ve known
heroin addicts who recovered completely after finding God,” she says. “No joke.
These weren't temporary fixes, either. These were bona fide “come to Jesus,”
moments. That’s an example of how improving the spirit also improves the health
of the body and the mind.”

I nod.

“So, in your
case, you’ve been doing a massive crap load of
‘mind’
stuff with André,
right? With him, you've thought about, talked though and discussed details of
difficult memories.”

“Yes,” I say
ruefully. As much as André has helped me, it’s been a tough road.

“There you are.”
Renata points Briley’s spoon at me. “André couldn’t even attempt to help you
through the body, could he? I mean you were abused by a man, so therefore he
couldn’t cure you with sex.”

Wincing, I
swallow my last bite. “Certainly not.” I look down at the triangle and grin.
“And I’m not religious. I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“I’m just trying
to explain. See, you can tell me the same stuff from your past that you told
André and that’s fine. You’ll do that anyway when the time is right. But what I
want to do is work through the body part of this triangle. We’re going to focus
on healing via the
body,
not the mind.”

“How do you do
that?” I ask warily.

“Your body has
strong negative memories associated with sex. We don’t need to talk about them
or even think about them at this point. Tonight, we’re going to make new,
fun
memories for you and your body on the subject of sex.”

I stare at her
for a few beats, saying nothing.

What
can
I say? I’ve told her my problems. She knows I can’t touch her without feeling
dirty, empty and ashamed afterwards. What would it be like to be free to touch
and be touched? To hold and be held?

Despair abruptly
grips me in a killer choke hold. I feel so damaged. How could someone like me
ever
achieve any semblance of ‘normal?’

“Don’t worry
about it, Grant,” she says after reading the misery that must show in my face.
“You’ll get there. Trust me. I’m a professional!”

Renata laughs, as
if she finds her title of ‘professional’ vastly amusing. “C’mon! You’re getting
stuck in those dark thoughts again, aren’t you?”

Defeated by the
truth, I sigh heavily.

Renata slaps the
table with her hand. “Well, stop it,” she says.

Surprised by the
noise, Briley jumps and looks alarmed. Renata spends a few moments reassuring
him, praising him and generally giving him tons of attention.

She’ll be an
incredible mother someday.

Turning toward
me she says, “Have a little faith, Grant. We want to
feel
, not
think
.
Body—
not mind.
Sure, we’ll talk, too. But mainly, I figure—to hell with
it! Let’s you and I have some fun.”

Renata’s eyes
are bright. Her cheerful, stress-free enthusiasm is contagious. I chuckle
because she’s happy and her idea is so far out in left field. This
unconventional plan isn’t quite what I expected.

“OK,” I smile at
her. “You’re the therapist. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do.”

“After tonight,
when you think of sex, you’re going to think,
‘Oh yeah, baby! I love sex!
’
OK? That’s the plan.”

I nod but say
nothing. I'm not sold on her idea yet, it sounds impossible to me. When I think
of sex, I figure it’s something I’m better off living without.

“There’s only
one thing we will
not
be doing tonight,” she adds.

“What’s that?”

“We’re
not
going
to get serious about anything.”