Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  I failed Alex in the past, but I won’t fail him again. If I have to, I’ll take the fall. Prison won’t be so bad. And just like that, my worries are over. I’ve made my decision.

  I will sacrifice myself for Alex.

  My body relaxes, all pressure disappears. Clarity empties my mind of all my problems. Right or wrong, making a decision wasn’t the problem.

  It’s indecision that totally messes with a person’s head.

  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.”

  Chapter 3.

  “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.”

  Chapter 4.

  “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 asshol
e.

  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.