Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (44 page)

“Denial can be a most
useful, temporary shield. Unfortunately, such flimsy armor will not last a
lifetime. It is best to face your past—and do so quickly, before your past
returns to face you.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

A few minutes
pass while I wait for Grant to get himself under control. He’s taking a moment
to think this over. That’s fine. It’s all a bit of a shock, I know.

I wonder if his
abuser actually scared the crap out of him? Grant cared for his father—he loved
him, I think—but there is
always
fear instilled with abuse. Fear of
being caught, fear of hurting others, fear of being hurt. As far as I can tell,
Grant’s father was really scary. He’d been a very big man, surrounded by an
aura of guns and violence, not to mention the power he seemed to have over
everyone.

I’m positive
Grant was actually afraid of him. I wonder if Grant knows this, or if his
subconscious is still hiding this unpleasant and perhaps too painful truth?

Eventually Grant
stands up and dusts off his jeans.

I peer up at
him, enjoying the look of him and his long, long legs.

When I reach out
for Grant’s hand, he’s quick to take it. He helps pull me to my feet, but
doesn’t let go. Instead he laces our fingers, binding us together.

I smile, because
he’s definitely becoming more comfortable holding my hand.

“Your father and
my father should
never
have become parents,” I say. “Your situation with
your father was more difficult than mine in many ways.”

His eyebrows
arch as he grips my palm. “You think so?”

“Oh, definitely.
Your problems were so much less cut and dried than mine. Despite his
inexcusable actions, your father had a good influence on you too. You loved him
but he betrayed your trust, and he sent confusing and contradictory messages
about love and sex.”

Despite the
sensitive subject matter, a comfortable silence hangs between us, while Grant
processes my words.

“André said
something similar to me,” Grant admits. “My father singled me out. I was the
special one, the oldest and the favorite child. I still don’t understand it.”
His eyes look haunted. “I don’t think I’ll
ever
understand it.”

I shake my head.
“If you brought him back to life and asked him what the fuck he was thinking,
I’d bet your father wouldn’t be able to explain why he did what he did to you.”

He releases me,
tucking his hands deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans.

Grant sighs
deeply. “Probably not. I never witnessed affection between my father and my
mother. We did things together as a family in order to look good, but none of
us were close. We never talked to each other. If something troubled me, I
ignored it. Denial was a way of life. Having never experienced real connection,
I had no idea of what I was missing. Sometimes I wonder if that was what my
father was looking for with me, that sense of closeness.”

He lifts his
eyes to meet mine. “I feel that closeness and connection with you.”

“Me too,” I
murmur, barely able to meet his powerful gaze.

When he looks at
me, a tingle of awareness courses through my body. I know exactly what he’s
talking about when he discusses that rare sense of closeness. Grant
sees
me
and I see him. It’s frightening and thrilling to be so completely exposed, but
I can trust him.

Grant isn’t
thinking of his father’s betrayal right now. His attention is completely upon
me.

“At least nobody
killed anybody in
my
family home,” he says.

I give him a wan
smile. "True. My father, well I didn’t love him—especially when he was
drunk. He was a mean, violent asshole I avoided at all cost. Your abuse was so
scheming and manipulative that you
sought
attention from your father.”

Grant winces.
His sudden frown is one of confusion, then dawning suspicion, followed by a
hint of growing anger. It’s clear to me that he’s jumping to all sorts of
incorrect conclusions.

“André never
told me anything,” I say quickly. “I simply have a good understanding of exactly
how pedophiles operate.”

“Oh,” he says,
visibly calming.

“That’s what
makes your betrayal much worse than mine, in my opinion. Of course, this isn't
a competition! The winner would be the loser and hell—we both lost out in the
parent department.”

Grant laughs
bitterly. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? I think you had a much worse
childhood than I did, and you think the same thing about me. Together, we make
each other feel better about our own lives.”

“Pretty funny!”
I say with a laugh. “In a dark and twisted way.”

“Yes, it
certainly is.”

White Rock
Escarpment is formed from chalk and rises to a height of about 250 to 300 feet.
The trail narrows and Grant gestures gallantly, so I go first. I can’t refuse
him, but I prefer him to go first. That way I can watch his long legged stride
and admire his perfect, tight ass.

We cover the
hilly ground, climbing back to the top of the cliff. I find myself breathing
heavily—but not for the reason I like best!

“You’ve gotten
over your childhood so much better than I have,” Grant says.

I stop suddenly
and spin to face him. “Me? I’ve been a mess! You’ve only been working at this
for a couple of years,” I say, “and you’ve only just begun to practice becoming
intimate. Honestly? You’re doing really well.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely,” I
reassure him. “Besides you’re seeing me at my best,” I laugh. “Poor André was
stuck with a crazy woman for years.”

We continue
walking, steadily climbing to the top of the cliff. I can feel Grant going into
thinking mode again.

“Thank you,
Renata,” he says after a while.

I turn toward
him. “What for?”

“For helping me
overcome my doubts,” he says.

I wait because
he looks like he’s going to say more. When he doesn’t, I tell him that he’s
welcome and we just keep walking. When we reach the top, right at the skyline,
there’s a mound of rough stones, built as some type of a memorial or landmark.

“Do you know who
put this here and what it means?” I ask, indicating the mound.

Grant turns
toward me. “Two people died falling off this cliff—they fell from this very
spot.”

I move as close
as I can and carefully peer over the edge.
Yikes.
It’s a long, vertical
drop, straight to the bottom. I grimace at the thought. I can easily believe
one person went over, but how did
two
fall?

My mind
immediately latches onto the idea of double suicide. Maybe two people as
screwed up as Grant and I both are, came out here to finally put an end to
their lives of misery.

I jump when I
find Grant has suddenly come up behind me. He grabs me by the waist and pulls
me backwards, letting go the moment I’m in a safer area.

“Jesus!” I gasp.
“You gave me a fright!”

“You made me
nervous standing so close to the edge,” he explains. “I imagine you’re
wondering how
both
people fell to their deaths?”

“Yes.”

Grant strides to
a nearby fallen tree, where a person can see both the memorial and the view
from the cliff’s edge. He sits down and pats the log.

“Have a seat,”
he says.

“Is it a long
story?” I ask with a grin.

He shrugs. “Long
enough.”

“I love
stories,” I say cheerfully.

Grant smiles and
begins, “It happened over a hundred years ago. Some people say the man had
taken a mistress. He brought his wife up here, planning to push her to her
death. But at the last moment, the woman recognized his intent. As he pushed,
she held on to him and took her husband right over the cliff edge with her.”

“I see,” I
murmur.

I imagine the
scene unfold before me. A woman suddenly realizes her husband's betrayal, and
her furious fight for revenge. There are countless examples where couples—once
madly in love, grow to violently detest each other. But can love actually turn
to hatred that quickly?

I stare at
Grant, certain I could
never
do that to him. I can’t imagine
not
loving
him. If he pushed me off a cliff? Well, I don’t think I’d try to take him with
me. Revenge would be far from my thoughts. If I grabbed him, it would be in a
fruitless attempt to save myself.

Knowing the kind
of person I am, I’d no doubt find a way to blame myself somehow…
on the way
down.

“OK, what’s the
other account of this tragic tale?” I ask him.

“Oh, there are
many versions of this story,” Grant says. “As many versions of it as there are
people. Some say the woman slipped, and while trying to save her, the two
lovers both went over the cliff. There’s even a Romeo and Juliet version, where
the two families disliked each other so much their parents wouldn’t let them
marry. Thus, the lovers committed suicide together.”

Grant takes my
hand, which pleases me. He holds it with one large palm, and traces along the
tendons and veins with the other.

“You have such
feminine hands,” he says, his thumb caressing my knuckles. “So slim and
delicate.”

“And you have
such big
man hands
,” I say, taking his other palm in my own. “Look at
these calluses. These are working man’s hands, strong and skilled. You could do
anything
with these hands,” I tell him.

"Why does
that sound a bit dirty to me?” He asks with a small smirk. “Was that what you
intended?"

I bat my
eyelashes and give him a coy, yet innocent look. "Maybe."

“You’re always
thinking of sex,” he accuses.

“Fine words
coming from the man with a constant hard-on,” I shoot back at him while
checking out the big bulge in his pants.

We both laugh
out loud.

I adore the open
and carefree sound of Grant’s laughter. Usually so solemn and taciturn, over
the last few weeks he’s begun to open up.

“So, what do
you
think happened?” I ask.

“I’ve come to
recognize what I think depends on my mood,” he says, his voice deep and husky.
“I used to cynically believe the man betrayed the woman and he never really
loved her. That seemed an extremely plausible story, probably because at the
time, I was feeling unloved and deceived by my father.”

“Perfectly
understandable.”

Grant sighs. “I
figured perhaps the man married her for her dowry. Maybe he was actually gay
and married her to hide that fact, while keeping his male lover. It’s bad
enough now, but no one could admit they were gay back then. I used to think the
woman found out and her husband was worried she’d tell someone, so he killed her.”

I tilt my head
and study him curiously. “You don’t still believe that’s what happened?”

“No,” he says,
smiling.

“What changed
your mind?”

“Now, when I’m
with you, I see everything differently.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” His
steady eyes meet mine. “At this moment, I’m inclined to believe the man and the
woman loved each other very much.”

A flush of heat
rolls up my chest and face. Grant’s penetrating regard stops my breath.
Does
he love me?

“Now I think the
woman slipped and her lover tried, but couldn’t save her.”

“That’s so sad!”
I interject. “So the lover went over with her?
By choice?”

“Yes. He loved
her very much, you see? And he wouldn’t want to live without her. If you
slipped and I couldn’t save you, I’d go over that cliff with you.”

“What!” I straighten,
stunned with surprise. “Why?”

“I’d hold you
very tightly,” Grant says, almost to himself. He’s looking over the cliff edge,
perhaps imagining the scene in his mind.

“I’d be thinking
of you and wanting to protect you,” he clears his throat and shifts restlessly
in a moment of awkwardness. “I don’t know if I’d be doing it for love,” he
adds, shaking his head. “Love is a good word, but it’s a word I’ve never quite
felt comfortable using. The whole concept has become so fraught and convoluted
in my mind.”

“Then why?” I
ask. “Why would you throw your life away if you couldn’t save mine? You dying
too would be such a terrible waste.”

Grant turns
toward me, his gaze locking with mine. “Because,” he says as his lips curve
into a smile. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone and frightened on the way down.”

“Instinct is
a marvelous thing. It can neither be explained nor ignored.”

―
Agatha Christie

~~~

Renata
Koreman

My mind is still
reeling from what Grant said to me on the escarpment.
“I wouldn’t want you
to be alone and frightened on the way down.”

It was all I
could do not to burst into tears. I was never used to being taken care of as a
child. My foster brother changed that, then André, and now Grant. I can't
believe he'd consider sacrificing his life simply to help me feel better for
the last few seconds of mine.

I
matter
to him, which thrills me. Grant matters to me, too.

So very much.

To my absolute
surprise and delight, Grant arranged for Maria to look after Briley until
tomorrow, so we can spend the night together at the
Omni Dallas Hotel
.

Our room is
extravagant and the view of Dallas from the twenty-third floor is amazing. The
Omni
has an outdoor terrace pool and spa, but I only want to make use of the
suite's enticing king-size bed. The real luxury is having time alone with
Grant.

“No pressure.
You set the pace,” I say with a smile as I pat the cushion beside me on the
sofa. “Have a seat.”

Grant hesitates,
so I add, “I'm only asking you to sit down next to little ol’ me. It'll be
easy, you'll see. This isn’t about sex,” I try to reassure him, “that’s why we
have our clothes on.”

"OK,"
he murmurs quietly as he joins me on the couch.

“Isn’t the view
wonderful?” I ask, as I point out the Dallas skyline. The sun is setting in
colors of pink and blue and a veil of darker clouds move at a dizzying pace
across the sky. I ask him about different buildings and try to make small talk.

Grant does his caveman
act, saying little or answering in grunts.

I curb my
disappointed sigh. We’re not even touching, yet the mere
possibility
of
sex is already freaking him out. Intimacy is such an emotional trigger for him.
You'd think he was contemplating undergoing limb amputation without an
anesthetic rather than cuddling up with someone he likes.

I turn to him
and take his hand. “You picked tonight and this hotel, so you must think you’re
ready for this. It’s something you
chose
to do, for which I’m eternally
grateful!” I say in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Sure,” Grant
shrugs.

Undaunted, I
tilt my head, study his face and grin. “You want to be able to touch my
breasts, kiss and hold me while you fuck me, right? That’s your
ultimate
goal,
isn’t it? For us to get into bed and screw each other until neither of us can
walk, or until unconsciousness—whichever comes first?”

“Yes, that’s the
plan,” he says with the ghost of a smile that quickly disappears. Discomfort
rolls off of him in waves. The man is so powerful he changes the climate of the
entire suite with his nervous energy.

Mentioning ‘bed’
and ‘sex’ was a mistake. We made significant progress during our first night
together at his house, only to slide back to square one after the police
entered our lives. It’s so frustrating. What a mess.

Most people seek
comfort and safety from touch. Grant’s aversion to physical contact is the
opposite of
normal
human instincts. In his mind,
not touching
is
the safer option.

What the hell
did his father do to screw him up to this extent? When will Grant share details
about it with me? More importantly, what can I do to encourage him and make
this easier? It hurts to see him suffer.

“You know,” I
say. “I believe once you lighten up and let go, after the initial shock to your
system, you’ll get past this.”

“Maybe.”

“Shall I run
down to the store in the lobby and buy us a set of cards for another game of
Truth or Dare?”

“We don’t need
to resort to that just yet,” he says, amused. Yet, a heartbeat later, his
expression abruptly turns grim.

“What was that
thought?” I ask him.

“What thought?”

“You were
smiling, thinking about us playing
Truth or Dare
, and then suddenly you
looked so serious. I’m guessing that a horrible thought accompanied that bleak
facial expression.”

Grant stands and
begins to pace. “You want to know what I was thinking?” His eyes flash with
sudden fury.
“What kind of man is afraid of being intimate with a beautiful
woman he cares about?
That’s what I’m thinking! I feel humiliated, ashamed
and stupid. I’m scarred, I’m scared and I’m useless. God, I hate myself for
being such a freak. It's as if I'm not even a man.”

“
Whoa! That’s
what you think about yourself?” I say, surprised and horrified. “That’s not
what I see
it all!
You're wonderful, Grant. I wish you could see
yourself as I do. You’re uneasy with good reason, we both know that. But here
you are, in a hotel room
you arranged
, in order to face your fears. When
I look at you, I see an incredibly brave man. It’s one thing to know a problem
exists, it’s another thing to have the courage to deal with it.”

“That’s really
what you think?”

I shoot him a
broad smile. “That’s what
I know
. You’re a hero.”

He gives me a
somewhat sheepish half-smile. “A
hero
?”

“Absolutely.” I
put my hand to my heart. “You’re
my
hero.”

This elicits a
genuine laugh. “I don’t feel very heroic.”

“Real heroes
don’t,” I tell him. “Self-doubt isn’t such a bad thing. Anyway, I’m not the
only one who thinks you’re a hero.”

He raises his
eyebrows at that remark.

“Sally Ann
adores you.”

“Sally Ann
thinks she’s in love with me,” he says.

“Sally Ann
is
in love with you—and
I
think she has good taste! Anyway, you did stick
up for her brother when you were kids. She told me how poor Danny was always
getting picked on by bullies.”

Grant snorts.
“That was pure selfishness. At the time, standing up for Danny was an excuse.
Back then, I just really liked beating people up.”

“No, really?” I
ask, uncertain if he’s joking or not.

He chuckles.
“Absolutely. Those guys deserved it, so it was a win-win.” He gives me a wry
grin. “I suspect I’d still enjoy beating people up, but I’ve learned some
self-control.”

“Glad to hear
it.” I laugh. “Look, I love being with you, no matter what we do or don't do.
Would you rather chat, hold hands and forget about anything else for the
night?”

“No.”
Determination blazes in his eyes.

“OK, then,” I
say. “Do you want to stay here on the couch or go lie down on that wonderful
big bed?”

“Bed,” he says
quickly, still resolute, but not exactly happy with the idea.

“Excellent.” I
stand up and hold out my hand to him.

After a moment’s
hesitation, he folds his palm into mine. It’s warm and dry, but I can feel the
tension he’s generating run through me like an electric wire.

We leave the
living area and stroll into the bedroom. I search his face. “Are you sure
you’re up for this?”

“Yes,” he
replies, his jaw taut. “I want to quit screwing around and get past this shit.
I’ve managed to put this off for weeks, but that’s enough. It's humiliating,
but since you don’t view it that way… I’ll attempt to see it from your point of
view. I’ll try to be a hero.” There’s an unmistakable edge of angry derision in
his tone.

I ignore it.
“OK.” I pull back the bedcovers, crawl onto the bed and discuss which positions
we might start with. “It’s
your
choice, Grant. Whatever you’re most
comfortable with is the best place for us to begin. We can always move around.
Let's start out just being close to each other, without touching. What position
would you feel most comfortable with?”

“Spooning—me
behind you,” he says.

“Excellent, come
join me,” I say.

I’m not
surprised by his choice to cuddle me from behind. That position gives him the
most control and it’s the least personal. We’re starting off slowly.

The bed shifts
as Grant climbs onto it and moves beside me. His chest rests near my back, no
more than a few inches away from me. Heat radiates from his big body warming
me. I picture him lying there behind me, his body rigid with tension. 

“Well done,” I
say. “There’s no rush, but whenever you’re ready, just put your arm around me
and try to relax. I promise this’ll get easier.”

After a couple
of minutes, Grant tentatively places his arm around me.

Our bodies are
very close but not exactly flush up against one another. When his arm reaches
around me, I slowly wrap my own arm around his. We stay that way for about
twenty minutes. I offer a few conversation starters, trying to distract him and
lighten the mood, but he doesn’t have anything to say.

I don’t push it.

When I hear his
breathing calm, I wait a bit and then snuggle back into him, barely touching
his body with mine. His breathing rate spikes, so I freeze in place for a few
moments.

Talk about
awkward. I feel as though I’m snuggled up against a warm two-by-four. Although
I love Grant
hard
, this is not what I had in mind!
Damn it and damn
his asshole father!

I wait until his
breathing slows again and then I lift his hand to my lips. Gently, I kiss his
palm. “I wish…” I say, but stop abruptly.

I wish he
could relax and let himself go. I wish he'd never been hurt. I wish I could
kiss away his shame and his pain.

I bite back a
melancholy sigh and softly say, “I wish I knew how to make this easier for you,
Grant.”

He remains
quiet. 

What else is
new?

We stay like
this for at least a half-hour in utter silence. There’s no change in Grant,
he’s still impersonating a boulder that’s somehow exuding negative energy and
wired to explode. Surely, he must've been cuddled in some positive way, at some
point when he was growing up.

“Tell me about
your mom,” I finally ask. “Did she ever hug you?”

“No, that wasn’t
her style,” he says.

“Really? Why
not?”

“I don’t have a
clue, but I’ve always wondered. She said kissing was
'dirty,'
so that
was also out.” He shrugs.

Kissing is a
sensitive subject. I’m the first woman Grant has ever kissed on the mouth. He’s
kissed me a few times now, but they’ve been rather chaste affairs. For myself,
I find deep and sensual kissing to be one of the hottest forms of foreplay. Of
course, kissing
after sex
is pretty sweet too.

Grant sighs
deeply. “The mouth contains more germs than any other part of the human body,
did you know that?”

I chuckle. “No,
that’s news to me.”

“My mom always
used to tell me that. Maybe she had a phobia, who knows?”

“Oh,” I say, as
I process this.

It sounds as
though the only touch he remembers from his childhood was from his abuser. To
imagine no woman
ever
hugged Grant shocks me. It explains so much. It’s
so sad.

As if it’s an
unpleasant exercise, he’s merely enduring being on this bed with me. Stiff and
unmoving, he simply cannot let go or engage.

“OK, let's try
something else,” I suggest. “Roll over onto your other side.”

Grant silently
complies with my request. I curl up behind him, my front to his back. He’s
still tense and worked up. It frustrates me, so I decide to try yet another
tactic.

“Take a second,
Grant,” I murmur, in as calm and soothing a voice as I can muster. “Just for a
second, please close your eyes.” When he does as I’ve asked, I say confidently,
“I care about you, Grant and I'm here for you. We’ll get through this, OK?”

“OK.”

“The subject of
touch has you so jammed up. Concentrate for a moment. Can you tell me exactly
what you feel
right now?”

Time passes
while he considers my question. I hold him gently and wait for his response,
projecting as much strength, love and tranquility as I can in his direction.
Finally, he draws in a shaky breath.

“To touch and to
be touched… I find it disturbing, for obvious reasons.” He clears his throat.
“Years ago, long before I became scarred—I realized something was really wrong
with me. I lived with only two emotions back then—rage and a sense of numb
unreality… of disconnection.”

“Go on,” I
prompt him.

I understand the
detached numbness he describes. I know
exactly
what he means.
Psychologists call it 'dissociation,' an involuntarily defense mechanism that
results from psychological or physical trauma.

“Anyway, one day
I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I really
saw
myself. I had a
terrible revelation. My eyes were soulless and I felt
nothing at all.
It
was as if my body was an empty shell. I wasn’t even there.”

My breath
catches. Grant expresses such unspeakable pain. Yet, his voice is calm—
too
calm. It’s appalling to hear something so disturbing spoken with such quiet
certainty. It's almost as if he's telling a story about somebody else.

“I understood
then how detached I’d become from everyone and everything,” he says.
“Emotionally, I was shut down and dead inside. I was gone—the lights were on,
but no one was home. I’d checked out, switched off… whatever you want to call
it.”

My eyes burn,
welling with unshed tears. I understand that dark, dark place created by
profound despair. I know the feeling of emptiness he’s speaking about
intimately. Honestly, I can feel every agonizing inch of his pain.

My nerves are on
edge—matching his, I guess. “So, is that what you feel when you think of
touching?” I ask. “Shut down and disconnected?”