Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  “Of course.” I grin. “You were my surrogate, but now you’re going to be my wife.”

  “Yes.” Her face lights up. “And you’re going to be my husband.”

  We grin at each other like lovesick fools, but the intimate moment is broken when she nervously bites a thumbnail, an anxious frown in her eyes. “When we marry, do you expect me to stop working as a surrogate?”

  “Of course! Jesus, Renata. I don’t want you to be intimate with anyone else. Being faithful is a big part of what marriage is about,” I say adamantly.

  Her brow furrows. “Why? Most surrogacy is about intimacy and physical connection, teaching the client how to touch another person and not freak out. I don’t actually need to have sex with anyone.”

  Molten heat rushes through me. I shut my eyes for a moment to block out unwanted mental images. I don’t want to imagine Renata in anyone else’s arms—not even if she’s just touching someone as a form of therapy.

  I won’t share her! She’s mine!

  I clear my throat. “Can you give it up?” I ask hopefully, practically begging her with my eyes while willing her to answer in the only way I can accept. “For me?”

  “I honestly hadn’t thought about it,” she says. “I didn’t realize it would bother you, but I can see how it would. You’re so… traditional.” She winces. “I guess having your wife work as a surrogate would be a rather big leap.”

  The way she says ‘traditional’ makes it sound like a swear word. To her, my thoughts are outdated, old-fashioned and uptight. Well, maybe she needs some traditional in her life.

  After all, she made a choice to be with me… unless she’s changed her mind?

  My heart thuds hard in my chest as I break out in a cold sweat. The rigid tension I feel makes it nearly impossible to breathe.

  Hesitating for a long moment, her lips pursed in thought, she finally smiles. “Of course I’ll stop being a surrogate if you want me to. I can still work as a counsellor when I finish my degree. I won’t give up helping, though. That’s my thing.”

  I lean forward so we’re sitting knee to knee. I pull her to me, rest my forehead against hers, and take a few deep breaths.

  “Thank you,” I sigh with profound relief.

  “You’re welcome.” Pulling back from me, she meets my gaze with a grin. “I understand, truly. With luck, there won’t be time for it anyway—not if we’re going to try to start a family.”

  “That’s right.” I raise an eyebrow. “If you’re taking orders, I want a little girl just like you.”

  “And I want a boy just like you.”

  The tightness in my chest eases. “Renata, there are some social conventions I won’t ever get past, primarily because I don’t want to get past them. I refuse to share. I know it’s selfish, but I want to keep you all to myself. I need you to belong to me alone.”

  “I already belong to you alone.”

  We kiss, sweetly and sensually, then I move in to deepen the kiss. Controlling. Demanding. Possessive. I want brand her as my own. To leave her with no doubt she’s mine.

  “Mmm,” she hums.

  “Mmm,” I agree.

  Breathing heavily, Renata pulls back as though with a sudden thought. “Grant, how do you think I learned about sexual surrogacy?”

  “I’m guessing André taught you.”

  “That’s right,” she says, a look of deeper meaning in her expression. “When it comes to sex, while I was no virgin, André still taught me practically everything I know.”

  I stare at her.

  I hear the words she says, but I’m unable to understand them.

  Shock does that to a person. It freezes my mind as a feeling of disbelief comes over me. Have I heard her correctly? I must have misunderstood.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t.

  Chapter 57.

  “It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit.”

  ― Noël Coward

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  It takes a moment before I truly come to terms with the meaning of her unexpected bombshell. When I do, I freak out and jump to my feet.

  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve actually had sex with André?”

  “Of course.”

  “But… wasn’t he your counselor?”

  She leans back in her chair, lifts her chin. “When I was a child, André was my counselor and my best friend,” she says, slowly and clearly. “When I grew up, he taught me how to be a sexual surrogate, but he remained my very best friend.” She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I have sex with my friends? Who else should I have sex with—complete strangers?”

  “But he’s your counselor!”

  “He was my counselor. Once I became an adult, he became my sexual surrogate mentor.”

  My world shifts, but not in a good way. “You’ve had sex with André?”

  I try to make sense of information my brain desperately wants to reject. I still can't believe it. I don't want to know this. I don't want this to be true.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus!” I begin rapidly pacing back and forth in angry, jerky motions. “So that’s how you know what he likes.” I say, throwing my hands into the air. “André and you—you and André! Christ on a crutch! André sodomized you, didn’t he?”

  Sodomize. There. I finally said that word aloud for the first time, but I don’t feel any better for it.

  Her eyes flash with a hint of anger. “André and I enjoyed each other’s company as consenting adults. For the love of God, Grant! It’s not as if he took my virginity and promised me marriage. We had sex. What do you think a sexual surrogate does, anyway?”

  I glower suspiciously at her.

  The bottom has just dropped out of my world.

  André, my trusted and loyal friend, my therapist, my mentor, has fucked Renata? No, not just fucked her, he’s butt fucked her! I clench my teeth so hard I wonder if they’ll break. Right now, André’s probably also fucking my sister. Who the hell hasn’t he fucked?

  Well, he missed his chance with me!

  My phone rings.

  I’m so enraged I welcome the distraction. I glance down. Caller ID states that it’s André.

  Fucking André—literally!

  I answer the phone, carefully moderating my voice. I can act rationally, no matter what’s going on inside my heart or my head. Hiding my feelings comes easy to me. I’ve done it all of my life. So, what’s one more time?

  “Hello?”

  “Mon ami, if you please, can you meet me at your brother’s home? In perhaps, thirty minutes? It is most important.”

  “Yes,” I reply with forced calm. “I’ll be there,” I add then hang up.

  I’m glad to have this excuse to leave. I have to get out of here! I need to get away! I’m also grateful for a chance to have it out with André once and for all. I have to get some of this off my chest. I’m going to beat the shit out of the bastard.

  The strangest part is, I can’t isolate exactly what’s bothering me. I feel betrayed. Deceived. Tricked!

  No, André helped me. Renata saved me! Or did they?

  Is everything I thought a lie?

  Fuck, there’s something seriously wrong with me. I’m still crazy.

  Monster! Pervert!

  Images flick through my mind. Me, a monster, drinking, fighting, killing people with head and heart shots… seeking penance through pain and isolation. I see Renata, fucking me, then Renata fucking him. My father standing naked before me in his den. André bare-assed naked in our tent.

  Me entranced and admiring. Looking up to my father. Looking up to André. Loving them both.

  Duped by oversexed manipulators, an utter fool once again.

  My hand flies to my facial scars. I touch them, feeling the uneven thickness, the pulling and rippling of the skin. How did I forget about my scars? Disfigurement is my punishment. I’m sick inside and out. I deserve every scar I have. I am my father’s son—a monster.

&
nbsp; Endless doubts assail me. Like ticking time bombs, they begin to detonate. Have I actually been brainwashed by André? Is it like being in a cult? Is Renata in on it? Does she care for me at all?

  Everything I trusted, everything I believed disappears in an explosion of shame, suspicion and uncertainty.

  I wonder if any of this was ever real.

  I have a burning desire to kill someone.

  Lust has been my downfall. It's always been that way since I can remember. I’m a sinner living in sin. Perhaps the minister of our church had it right all along. The flesh is weak. Sodomy is evil. Homosexuality is wrong. Sexual surrogacy is the work of the devil. No one should have sex out of wedlock.

  I grab my car keys and stalk out the front door.

  Renata runs after me. “Grant, what’s happening?” she calls out, panic filling her voice. “Grant, please talk to me. Where are you going? Don’t leave like this!”

  I stop suddenly, spin on my heel. Like flipping a switch, I feel utterly numb. Expressionless, I stare at this beautiful woman, this siren sent to draw me in. I should have known everything was too good to be true.

  Why is she even here? What does she really want?

  No one could genuinely want me. I’m unlovable.

  Monster! Pervert!

  “I have to go,” I say, my voice as dead as my heart.

  “Fine,” she says curtly, hurt showing only fleetingly in her eyes. Chin lifted, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. Her tone has a ring of anxiety, but she looks really pissed. “Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back,” she says quietly.

  I used to believe that I was going to hell.

  Now, I feel as though I’m already there.

  Chapter 58.

  “Seek first to understand, then to be understood.”

  ― Stephen R. Covey

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  I sit with Alex in his living room, waiting.

  My brother definitely hired a decorator for his home. The living room walls are dove white, while cool metal touches give the room a modern sophisticated air—mirror, coffee table, even the fireplace is glossed in chic silver.

  One wall is flame-red, a hot, angry color, which perfectly matches my mood right now. No longer numb and disconnected, I stare at it in barely suppressed rage.

  Alex’s wife and son have gone out, thank God. He tries to make me laugh with a few jokes, which fall flat. Now we’ve reverted to our normal sibling interaction—that is to say, we don’t speak to each other at all.

  “What did Chevalier say to you?” I finally ask—not to break the uncomfortable silence, but because I want to know. “He asked to meet me here, but he didn’t say why.”

  “Oh, he told me he’s coming over with Betty Jo because there’s something important to discuss.” When I don’t respond, Alex adds, “André suggested Sky and Briley go out while we talk. That suited me because Sky and Betty Jo don’t get along. I figure it’s either about my court case, or maybe concerning real estate sales. Betty Jo’s having trouble managing the family business without me.”

  He pauses, but I say nothing.

  Alex shrugs. “It could even be about our mother. What I don’t understand is why is Betty Jo hanging out with your counselor? Is she getting counseling?”

  No, she’s not getting fucking counseling, I itch to tell him. She’s getting fucked by my counselor, you can appreciate the difference I’m sure.

  With real effort, I don’t say this snarky thought out loud. I’m calmer now, I’m back in control. I ignore the fog of confusion and fury that surrounds me like a dark cloud.

  When the doorbell rings, Alex jumps up. Moments later, he guides Chevalier and my sister into the living room. A distinctive smell of breath mints perfumes the air. It’s supposed to camouflage her drinking problem, but it doesn’t.

  I clench my fists, sit back in my chair and act relaxed.

  I’ve been counting my breaths and my heart rate, but this unfinished business I have with André tests my control. I’ll wait to see what this meeting is about, then afterwards I’ll deal with him.

  When I’m greeted by André, I barely nod. If he notices I’m pissed, he doesn’t show it. Betty Jo, of course, doesn’t greet me. She stares at me with open loathing.

  I stare back at her for a change. For some strange reason, today I revel in her all-consuming hatred and openly hate her back.

  Alex overcompensates for my rudeness, fussing around. Chatty and amusing, using one-liner jokes, he offers his guests comfortable seating.

  “Drink anyone?” he asks.

  Alex has been sipping a beer, which doesn’t trouble me. While beer tastes OK, I never developed an interest in it. Straight to the hard stuff, that’s what I went for.

  “Scotch,” Betty Jo replies with a nasty little gleam in her eye. “You have any good Scotch? Maybe Lagavulin?”

  “Sure,” Alex says. He moves to the bar, gets out a bottle, pours her a glass and hands it to her.

  “Perfect.” She slants a glance at me, well aware that I attend AA. “I’ve heard Lagavulin is excellent.” Taking a sip she moans, “Mmm, yum. It is perfect. So smoky and smooth.”

  Bitch!

  Betty Jo usually drinks bourbon, but she knows Lagavulin Scotch is my preferred poison. I don’t drink alcohol anymore, but the desire is still there. As an addict, I remember the taste, the smell and the delicious numbing effect of downing a bottle of hard liquor almost every damn day. Betty Jo has chosen to drink Scotch in an effort to tease, tempt and annoy me.

  Unfortunately, it’s working.

  “Merci beaucoup, I also, will drink Scotch,” André says.

  Rat bastard!

  Everyone sits down except André. “Mes amis.” He stands like a public speaker and begins. “I wish very much to impose upon you. I have had the honor of spending an evening with your sister. We discussed, oh-so much. It became clear to me—the Wilkinson family do not communicate to one another concerning the important issues, no?”

  None of us say a thing.

  André laughs and flings a hand in the air. “Et voila! You illustrate my point!” he scolds us with a teasing, mischievous smile on his face. Yesterday I would have found this comment amusing. Today, I don’t.

  “I ask a favor, if you please,” André continues. “Eh bien, I have found when there are one or more people embroiled in dispute, sometimes it is best for one person to say everything they wish. The others, they are not allowed to interrupt. Then a turn from another can occur, and so on. I am willing to mediate this process, if you agree.”

  He pins Alex and I with an indulgent, yet penetrating gaze. “My friends, Alex and Grant, your sister, Betty Jo, has many valid grievances.” I sit forward, my lips part, but he holds out a hand, preventing me from speaking my mind.

  “Oui, oui! I find her complaints valid. Before you condemn your sister, I wish for you to honestly listen. Do not prepare to reply. Non! Hear your sister with the intent to understand. Try to ‘walk in her shoes,’ yes? Je vous assure, you will not regret your participation.”

  Why am I putting up with this? I should be taking André outside and beating the shit out of him. I console myself that I can do this later.

  “Ma belle,” he says to my sister, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. “It is well?”

  “Yes, thank you, André,” she replies politely.

  Who would’ve thought? I admit, now I’m intrigued. Betty Jo appears positively meek around André. Respectful and courteous, he’s leading her by the nose. How does he do it? How did he gentle the harridan?

  My sister turns away, speaking under her breath to him—maybe asking last-minute questions. He returns to take a seat on the couch. Betty Jo stands before us.

  “Mr. Chevalier has convinced me that it’s time to talk to… you both,” she begins in an oddly subdued tone. “I told him…” she hesitates. “I told André… some things. Against my better judgment, he suggested my issues were a family matter.” She l
aughs, a hollow cynical sound. “As if we’ve ever been a family.”

  When Alex opens his mouth to speak, André silences him, palm out with an open, unapologetic hand. “Pardon, my friend. We must not interrupt.”

  Betty Jo then launches into a long tirade, expressing how hard she’s had it in life. On our housekeeper’s days off, she was supposed to cook, do the dishes and clean—just because she was a girl.

  Honestly? I never noticed.

  She complains our father never took her on his horseback riding excursions. He never took her shooting or camping when she wanted to go. Excluded, left behind and overlooked, she always wanted to go.

  I have to admit, she has a point.

  I find myself observing her childhood from her point of view. I never gave it much thought, but I can appreciate how our father’s neglect hurt her. Of course she must have been jealous—resentful of the attention Alex and I received.

  If she only knew.

  We all grew up in a toxic family, full of terrible secrets. No one escapes that kind of upbringing. We each are injured in our own way.

  The only problem is, Betty Jo blames me.

  Chapter 59.

  “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”

  ― C.G. Jung

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  Something André told me once, suddenly comes back to me.

  ‘You, your mother and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate yourself from others, because you fear there is something very wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family, giving all of her attention and support to others, no?’

  “You were always the favorite,” Betty Jo accuses, glaring at me, “but you never appreciated it. Angry and sullen—admit it, Grant! You were an asshole. Just like our father, you never had time for me either.”