Abuse

by Nikki Sex

I love him.

  My tears ease after a little while and I‘m finally able to stop taking the short hitching breaths I’ve been struggling to stifle. I begin to appreciate that something important is happening.

  I can’t believe it—he’s actually cuddling!

  Grant’s big, solid body remains relaxed beneath mine. It reminds me of when he discovered he could hold my hand and even kiss me.

  It may only be temporary, but for now it seems he’s broken through yet another one of his barriers.

  I wonder if I should remain silent and stay right here, snuggling with him and letting him continue to touch me. If I point it out, I risk ruining this perfect moment.

  What would André tell me to do?

  I imagine asking André for advice, and immediately hear his wise and playful tone of voice in my head, “Ma petite souris, trust yourself. The head—at times, it fails us—but the heart? Ah! The heart sees what the mind cannot. Let your heart be your guide and you will make the right choice.”

  An image flashes through my mind, a recent memory of us both eating graham crackers and chatting at Grant’s kitchen table. He was upbeat at the time. What did he say? He explained why he’d felt comfortable masturbating in front of me and making me come. He was clarifying why he didn’t feel the need to run away.

  “I wanted to please you. It made everything we were doing seem good and clean and right somehow,” he’d told me.

  The truth suddenly hits me. Like the Greek scholar Archimedes, I do everything I can not to cry out Eureka!

  That's it! That's the similar element to that night. When Grant attempts intimacy, he hits a wall. Then his innermost issues are triggered, holding him back.

  However, Grant was able to break through his own barriers by centering his attention on me. This seems to be the key to his success, focusing on someone other than himself.

  This speaks volumes about his generous nature and inner goodness.

  I raise my head and meet Grant’s gaze, aware I can’t tell him my revelation. It’s not up to a counselor to tell a client what’s wrong with them. How could anyone know such a personal truth?

  A counselor can ask, or direct a client to a fruitful area to look, but it’s not something they should have fixed ideas upon or openly guess at. This kind of thing just muddies the water.

  Only the exact truth sets someone free.

  Who can know their own personal truth? Only the individual concerned.

  For all the experience and knowledge a counselor can have, they are not the client. They haven’t walked in his or her shoes. Every journey is unique. Even if they’ve temporarily forgotten, no one can know the client as clearly as the client knows themselves.

  You can’t give someone else a truth about themselves—that’s for them to do. That’s why it’s called self-realization.

  Grant studies me and the worry on his face lessens. I wipe my eyes with my forearm. His shirt is wet from my tears. We smile at each other.

  “Feel better now?” he asks.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say. He has his arms wrapped around my waist. Awed, I say to him, “You’re touching me.”

  “Yes.”

  He’s wearing an expression I can’t interpret. My brows knit with concentration. What am I missing?

  “You seem relaxed,” I say.

  “I am.”

  “So, do I need to cry—for you to feel comfortable touching or cuddling with me?”

  He arches one eyebrow. “No,” he shakes his head and says with a chuckle, “but apparently it helps.”

  Chapter 37.

  “Find one person to trust—there need only be one. With them, share every shame, every secret and listen to theirs… with love. Bare hearts and souls until there is understanding. Of a certainty, such honest exposure is the first step toward happiness.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Grant’s lips turn up in a smile as he shifts his body upward and settles himself back against the headboard in a seated position. Putting both of his hands on my waist, with natural ease and no sign of effort, he picks me up and lifts me across his lap so I’m straddling him.

  He’s so strong and so male. I feel tiny and feminine in his hands.

  Face to face with him, I reach out and flatten my palms against his chest. I love the intimacy and closeness of this position. It’s a shame we’re both fully clothed. Grant’s big hands, warm against my waist, slide down to rest lightly on my hips. He’s studying me with a peculiar expression on his face.

  “What?” I say

  “I no longer have a death wish,” he assures me. “Especially now, with you in my life, I can’t think like that anymore.”

  “Aww, that’s nice.” I adore the soothing comfort of his solid, masculine body under my hands. “I was worried…” I say, nervously, “that maybe in a moment of despair, you gave yourself those scars.”

  “Oh.” Grant smiles wryly, a glint of twisted humor behind his eyes.

  He’s amused by my mistake. This is another example of it’s funny, but it isn’t. Grant and I seem to have a lot of those moments. I ignore this one.

  “Will you tell me how you were injured?” I ask. “How did you get those scars?

  He inhales deeply. “Do you have any dark and terrible secrets? Something you haven’t even told André?”

  My thumbnail goes between my teeth where I begin to chew on it. After a few moments of bracing myself for my confession, I let out a deep breath and say, “I have a lot of terrible things I feel guilty or ashamed of, but there’s one main thing—one secret that turns me inside out. It's almost impossible to accept or to get past. It’s something I did again and again.”

  His expression is curious and concerned. “What is it? Will you tell me?”

  I summon the strength to face a horror from my past that haunts me. I hate going back there, to that time and place. It's difficult to say it out loud. In a strange way, doing so makes it feel too real.

  “I remember the first time my dad beat my mom really badly. I heard such strange sounds, thuds and muffled screams. Mom was crying. I went into the room and saw her covered with blood—my dad had broken her nose.”

  I pause to slow my breathing. Grant’s eyes soften with understanding, but he says nothing,

  Smart guy.

  If he interrupts me I don’t know if I can go on.

  I clear my throat. “I guess I was three or four—or possibly even younger. I was so upset by what I saw that I freaked out. I can’t even explain the gripping fear that held me. I screamed and screamed. To shut me up, my father slapped me so hard I flew across the room. My right ear rang for days—but screaming worked. He stopped hurting my mother.”

  “Is your father dead?” he asks, his voice a low growl and his expression intent. “Because if he’s not, I’m going to kill him.”

  Warmed and strangely charmed by his statement, I laugh, perhaps a little too loudly. Not because I imagine Grant will ever get the chance to kill my father, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

  His jaw is taut. My story has affected him. I think back to how he stood up for Danny when he was bullied as a kid. I know Grant has many layers, but one part I'm sure of is that he's a natural born protector.

  “No, my father’s still alive,” I tell him. “Luckily for the population at large, he’s safely locked up in jail. I don’t think they’ll ever let him out, but the Board has to interview me whenever he’s up for parole. I think it’ll be years before I have to worry about that.”

  “Good.”

  “I agree. Anyway, about my greatest shame.” I chew my thumbnail right down to the quick. “I don’t know if I’ve told André about this or not. The thing is, from the first time I screamed, I learned all I had to do to stop my mother from being beaten was to scream. But I also knew he’d stop hurting her and instead hurt me, do you see?”

  “Of course,” Grant says.

  “My father must've beaten my mother
a thousand times,” I muse, gnawing on what’s left of my thumbnail. “But I only stopped him that one time. I'd always run and hide. I learned to be silent, never making a peep—I'd do anything I could to save my own skin. I was afraid of him and afraid of being hit. He terrified me. I mean, no matter what I did or didn't do, I wasn't safe from his wrath. My father hit me anyway, but I’ve never had a single brave bone in my body—that’s what I’m most ashamed of.”

  Grant shakes his head.

  “Studies show childhood trauma leads to a brain that’s wired for fear. Do you know what André says about that?”

  “No, what does he say?”

  “Une absurdité totale—utter nonsense.” I grin. “The truth is, the studies are correct. André refuses to agree with research that, as he says, makes victims feel justified in their decision to give up!”

  We both laugh out loud, because I’ve managed to perfectly enact André’s accent and mannerisms.

  “That’s an amazing André impersonation,” Grant marvels.

  “Thank you,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve watched him for many years. André doesn’t agree with even valid excuses to fail,” I add. He maintains that, ‘With time? With effort? All can be conquered.’ Yet, for me, mind-numbing fear and anxiety has ruled my life.”

  Grant’s eyes widen. “I had no idea! You hide it well. To me you seem so… fearless.”

  “You think I’m fearless?” I say, grinning ear to ear.

  He smiles. “You are in the bedroom—a place where I’m particularly spineless.”

  “You’re not spineless, you just need practice,” I say. “Wow. I don’t know if I’ll get over that in the near future! Grant thinks I’m fearless! Grant thinks I’m fearless!” I happily sing out loud.

  His eyes soften. “You’re fearless with me.”

  “That’s easy,” I say. “I have nothing to be afraid of with you. You may make my pulse pound and my breath speed so I pant as if running a marathon, but I’m not afraid with you.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.” You make me feel something else entirely.”

  We stare at each other stupidly as sensual electricity zings between us.

  “I’m pretty good with people one on one,” I explain, “but strangers and groups can still send me into a panic. It’s humiliating to be like this. You can have no concept of the courage it takes for me to leave my apartment in the morning.”

  “I know you climb into that little black box.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Is that why you have it?”

  “Lord, yes,” I say. “There’s a long story about my attraction to small, dark places,” I say with a laugh. “I’ll explain it to you sometime.”

  “I’ve never been aware of how debilitating your fear must be,” he says.

  I snort. “Years of practice. I learned to fit in, I guess.” I shrug. “The only other time I ever stood up to my father was when he had Timmy in his hands during a rage. Despite my pounding heart and my limbs frozen with fear, I forced myself to run and throw myself on him. I was so desperate to protect my brother. I couldn’t save Timmy, you know? But at least I tried.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Grant says, exhaling a deep breath. He looks as pained as I feel.

  “If I hadn’t at least tried,” I confide in him, “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You of all people would understand that strange longing for numbness or death. Those kinds of thoughts used to plague me whenever I felt low. Sometimes dying seemed like what I deserved, but I definitely couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least tried to save Timmy. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” he says, pulling a stray lock of hair away from my face and tucking it behind my ear. “I’ve had my share of those kinds of thoughts too,” Grant admits calmly. “Sometimes I think that’s what suicide is—when you believe you’re no good, so you decide to throw yourself away. As if you’re doing the universe a favor by taking out the trash.”

  I grin at this ridiculous, yet spot on statement. “I don’t know if either of us would have gone through with it, but both of us have seriously considered suicide. What a screwed up pair we are!”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty special.”

  “Now, I showed you mine, it's only fair you show me yours. Will you please tell me how you got your scars?”

  Grant briefly closes his eyes. “I’ve never told a soul.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

  Chapter 38.

  “Don't be a victim of the urgent. In the long run, much of what seems so pressing right now won't even matter.”

  ― Gary Chapman

  ~~~

  Detective Bronowski

  Secure enough in his masculinity not to care, Roman wore his wife’s pink, frilly apron as he made breakfast for the family. With a sparkle in his eye, he was brimming with smug satisfaction.

  Roman had left his sleepy wife in bed after the alarm clock went off. She deserved to catch up on some shut eye after he wore her out last night.

  The Bronowski family had lived in this house for fourteen years. The hot water pipes knocked loudly within the walls, but that kind of noise was so commonplace, Roman hardly noticed it anymore.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Janice chimed. The first of his brood to arrive, she plopped herself down at the table.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, as he dished out scrambled eggs and a slice of bacon onto her plate.

  “Wow,” she said. “This looks really good daddy. Where’s Mommy?”

  “She’s sleeping late today.”

  “Oh.”

  Janice took this explanation easily, as would any child her age. Roman couldn’t remember when he last got up and made breakfast for the kids. Was it a year ago? Or two?

  He worked long hours and his job was tough sometimes, but that was really no excuse. Angela was no slouch either.

  How had he allowed everything to slide? He’d taken too much for granted for way too long. As her partner, it was up to him to be an important part of her life.

  Thank you, Mr. André Chevalier, he thought.

  Decisive and determined by nature, Roman was the kind of guy who, once he made a plan, he began putting it into effect immediately. He was still using the stairs and increasing his fitness level, because that’s what he’d decided to do.

  After his meeting with Chevalier, Roman had begun implementing a strategy of wooing his wife. Thus, the last few days with his Angela had been miraculous.

  When he brought home flowers, she became suspicious. When he did the dishes, she’d been genuinely surprised. When he arranged for a babysitter and took his wife out for dinner and dancing, she’d been elated.

  Last night he’d had the extreme pleasure and honor of making love to his wife and she’d been as hot as hell for him. Jesus, the sex had been amazing, but even more importantly, they had talked. Really talked, rather than the superficial chatting they normally engaged in.

  At first, he’d listened. There’s listening and listening. Roman had listened before but not really heard her. For the first time in years, he paid attention.

  I hear her now, he thought smugly to himself, recalling the volume of her screaming orgasm when he’d shocked her by going down on her.

  Chevalier had been right. The warning the Frenchman gave him echoed in his ears, “Your wife? She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.”

  So Roman asked himself an important question. Did he want to learn to live his life, trying to be happy without Angela? The answer to that was a resounding no!

  Roman had all the plates out, full of food, before the rest of his family came down the stairs. His two older children, Sonia and Matthew, dashed into the kitchen in a great rush, Matthew openly smirking over his dad’s pink apron.

  “You made a hot breakfast?” Sonja asked, astonished. “Oh, no! I can’t eat bacon! I’ll get fat!” she said, sounding like any normal teenage girl.

  “Wow,” Matthew said, slamming his body do
wn onto a chair. “Is mom sick?” he asked, using his fingers to snag his sisters bacon and placing it on his own plate.

  “No, your mother isn’t sick,” Roman said, insulted. “She’s sleeping late; she deserves it.”

  All of his progeny stared at him with disbelief and even suspicion. “What?” Roman said, brandishing a spatula. “Can’t a man be nice to his wife without his kids questioning everything?”

  His phone rang, which was just as well. He picked it up, “Bronowski,” he said.

  “Detective?” An unfamiliar male voice asked.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Edgar Gates. I’m the tech guy, going through the computers brought in on the Wilkinson case. I think you’re gonna want to get down here. I found something.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Roman said and ended the call. He heard Angela coming down the stairs, and she walked into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” he said with a smile. In her bathrobe, still half-asleep, she looked beautiful. Roman couldn’t help but remember the fun and pleasure they’d had in bed last night.

  “Hey, yourself,” she said.

  With that appealing smile on her face, Angela seemed to be remembering too. He leaned over to kiss her.

  “Oh, gross!” Sonia said, rolling her eyes as they embraced each other. “A-hem! Kids trying to eat here—take it to another room!”

  Roman ignored her. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “I know,” Angela said. “I heard the phone.” There was an alluring twinkle in her eye. “I had a good time last night,” she said.

  “I did too.”

  “Call me later?”

  “Count on it, babe,” Roman said, waggling his eyebrows teasingly.

  Angela giggled, an attractive, youthful sound that brought back memories of the good times they’d had together. He felt grateful for what he had. To think, he could have totally screwed this up. He almost felt indebted to Grant Wilkinson for bringing André into his life. Strange how things work out.

  He kissed each of his kids goodbye, took off the apron, grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.

  Roman whistled as he got into his car. He’d started this new game of pleasing his wife, which was such an easy and fun game to play. And, it sounded as if there were going to be a break in the Wilkinson case.