by Nikki Sex
“You are so not fine,” I tell him.
Face impassive, Grant says nothing.
“I don’t mind you being moody,” I say. “Everyone has moods, but I think we need to establish some ground rules in our working relationship.”
He remains silent, but I don’t mind. At least he seems to be listening.
“Will you please nod your head if you’re open to setting ground rules?”
There’s the slightest twitch of a smile at one corner of his soft, sensual lips as he nods. I smile because I’m clearly getting through to him.
Encouraged, I continue, “I have a strict rule when I work with someone. I never lie to them. If my client asks a question I can’t answer, I explain that I’m unable to talk about it. Secrets are OK—everyone has something they want to keep private. I don’t expect you to bare your heart if you’re not up to it. But you just told me you were fine. I know you weren’t trying to lie to me. I know ‘I’m fine,’ is a normal social response when a person doesn’t want to engage. Well, that’s all right, however I expect the truth. If you can’t tell me something, I accept that. Just don’t lie to me. Can you agree with that rule?”
Grant’s body relaxes—just slightly. “Yes,” he nods. “I’m sorry for being an ass. I’ve got… a problem and I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Did something happen after you left me last night?” I ask.
He stares at me with his grey, unblinking eyes, then slowly nods.
It kills me just how alike we are. When I’m upset, I withdraw, preferring not to speak to anyone until I sift through my emotional shit. I run, hide away in my little box and lick my wounds.
A part of my overly responsible mind worries that Grant is upset because of something I’ve done. Blaming myself for everything is just one of my Big Flaws. I can be too open and trusting. I don’t have strong boundaries—I’m often a pathetic people-pleaser who seeks acceptance and fears rejection.
Whatever his issue is, it has nothing to do with me. What a relief!
My confidence returns.
“Alrighty then,” I say cheerfully, curbing a desire to grin. “Are there any ground rules you want to add?”
“No.”
“OK. You’ve hardly said a word since you picked me up this morning. Can you at least give me an idea of what the plan is for today?”
His takes a deep breath. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll pick up my car at the airport and stop at an infant accessories store on the way home. We could order a crib and stuff over the Internet and get it delivered, but I think we’ll do better if we buy everything we need on the way home.”
“Can’t we just move Briley’s things to your house?”
“No. This is going to be hard enough for Alex and Sky as it is. Trust me—it’s better this way. Those two don’t need to live in a house devoid of their son’s possessions.”
Wow.
What kind of guy thinks of things like that? He's so caring and considerate. He must genuinely love his brother.
“That’s incredibly thoughtful of you,” I say.
Grant ignores my compliment—another response I identify with. I’m also uncomfortable with praise.
Why?
Who knows?
As far as I can tell, there’s a stupid, irrational voice of conscience inside of me, telling me I don’t deserve it. If I ever get the chance, I’d like to grab that nasty, nagging, negative bastard by the throat. Then I’d cheerfully wring my conscience’s neck.
“We’ll go home and set up Briley’s room,” he says. “My lawyer arranged for child welfare to bring him to my house at 5 p.m. this afternoon.”
Grant’s expression remains composed, but there’s a shadow of despair in his eyes I don’t understand. Is it fear? I think he’s really worried. About Briley? About his brother? Or what?
I reach over, squeeze his hand and quickly let go. I know he doesn’t want to be touched.
“We’ll figure it out, Grant,” I say.
The stewardess stops by. “Sir, would you like a beverage?” she asks Grant.
“No, thank you,” he replies woodenly, without turning his head to look at her. It’s probably unconscious, but Grant is still broadcasting invisible signs that say, ‘keep away!’
Poor Grant. He’s in such a dark place right now.
I force myself to meet the stewardess’ eyes and ask for a Mountain Dew. It’s icy cold and I enjoy sipping it.
The inability to accept human touch is just one of Grant’s issues. For a moment, I recall him swinging me up in the air so joyfully yesterday. He’d been buoyant and happy. Lifelong barriers had simply fallen away.
Those honest moments of connection are so rare.
So vital.
When Grant told me, I love you, he didn’t mean love, marriage and 2.5 children. The guy can’t even be naked with a woman. What he meant was, “I saw myself through your eyes, and realized I can love myself.”
It was a BIG thing. An epiphany.
Time passes on our journey. I try to read, but find that I'm reading the same paragraph over and over again. My heart aches knowing Grant sits, silently suffering. I wish he’d talk to me. I’m helpless in the face of his pain.
“It’s gonna be OK, Grant,” I finally say, desperately grasping at the trite saying. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”
My heart jumps as he turns to me, nods and gives me a small twisted smile.
I can see he doesn’t believe me.
I’m not sure I believe myself.
Chapter 2.
“What is love? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me, no more.”
— Dee Dee Halligan
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
“It’s gonna be OK, Grant,” Renata says to me. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”
I try to respond with a smile of agreement, but I fail miserably. I can hardly think straight. She’s been discussing ground rules, truth and lies. The woman has no idea what’s been going on, thank the Lord.
I don’t intend to tell her. I need to take this short spell on the plane to try to figure out what I’m going to do.
Yesterday, for a short time, I was transformed. For once, I felt like me and accepted myself, imperfections and all. I never experienced that before—not that I can remember anyway.
I had a glimpse of what I’ve been missing all my life.
I stare out the window at white clouds below and try to recall the joy I felt during that brief time. I had never soared so high, felt so free or full of hope. Without that glimpse of heaven, the decisions I need to make would be so much easier.
Renata sees me as a man—not a monster.
I think what I experienced with her was love.
But what is love?
Damned if I’ve ever been able to figure that out. I love finishing a project and knowing I’ve done a good job. I love making the perfect shot and the satisfaction of hitting a difficult target. I love my garden and the sense of peace and rightness in the world I get from watering it, feeding it, weeding it and watching it flourish and grow.
I loved my father.
When I was a child, I thought he loved me—but what he felt for me wasn’t love.
When you've been hurt by someone you trust completely, you never forget. Being the victim of betrayal at that level causes a shameful pain that forever brands your heart. It changes who you are as a person.
Monster! Pervert!
He was my father and I don’t know how to feel. He’s gone and I’m glad. I loved him, but I also hated him.
After everything I’ve done, how could anyone stand me? I don’t even like myself. Yet, yesterday, Renata said she loved me. The memory of her words causes a burning ache deep in my chest.
“Sir, would you like a beverage?” a different stewardess asks as she passes by, snapping me out of my thoughts.
My mouth waters. I bite my tongue to stop myself from an automatic reply, I’ll have a double bourbon, neat.
; As much as I crave the relief alcohol provides, I know I must never take another drink. If I start, I won’t have the strength to stop.
“Coffee, black, no sugar please,” I reply without turning toward her, keeping the scarred side of my face averted. I can feel Renata’s gaze, hard upon me.
Renata. Beautiful, kind, intelligent… and also damaged, like me.
Renata wants me to talk to her about my problems, but I can’t—not about this. I won’t allow her to get involved in my father’s murder investigation. I have to figure this out on my own.
I’m glad he’s dead, but the timing for this news about the bastard being exhumed is seriously fucked up.
Why couldn’t this have happened a year from now? Or twenty? Or better yet, never?
Renata and I. Two people, both alike in our traumatic backgrounds. She knows who I am and what I’ve done, but she isn’t disgusted. I saw no hint of pity, embarrassment or blame.
Talk about intense mutual attraction! We both experienced lust, but my high wasn’t only sexual. For all its rapturous momentary pleasure, sex is nothing compared to what I learned about myself while with Renata.
She saw me.
She knows me.
And she likes me anyway.
I’m a good person—I’m certain of that now. There’s still a flicker of pleasure, from that newfound, absolute truth. I’m not perfect. I have many flaws, yet now I feel separate from the darkness inside of me.
Yesterday, there was so much love in my heart, but now it’s a distant memory. Where did it go? Yet, I still feel something inexplicable and profound for Renata.
Is it love?
I imagine trying to explain this to my brother, Alex—not that we’ve ever had an honest or open conversation about anything important.
For some reason, that stupid song comes to mind, “What is Love?” and the lyrics, ‘We are together, I need you forever.’
Why am I so drawn to her? Is it lust? Chemistry? Some other passion? Whatever it is, it’s a powerful, all-inclusive force. There’s an emptiness inside me only she can fill. Even after this news about my dad, especially after this terrible news, I need Renata in my life forever—sex or no sex.
Is that love?
I can almost hear Alex’s snappy, dismissive rejoinder to this thought. He’d give me shit for sure.
“What is love?” Alex would announce in his most entertaining and teasing voice. “What, like the song? True, he did sing, ‘I want no other, no other lover,’ but he also sang, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, uh, uh whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, uh, uh,” so maybe you shouldn’t draw too many conclusions from his lyrics, Grant.”
Alex would have the whole room busting their guts with laughter.
Alex.
My younger brother. The man who jokes about everything, is never serious, and uses cocaine to help him forget. I know all about self-medication. I abused alcohol in order to escape my own demons.
I should’ve protected Alex from my father, but I didn’t. I was twelve and Alex was ten. Those two years made all the difference. The false illusion of “love” my father instilled with his games had started to fall away. I’d known better, but I’d yet to surface from drowning in an ocean of denial.
I should have stopped him. Regrets like this make me remember how much I hate myself.
I lift my cup of fresh coffee to my lips. It’s boiling hot, so I should sip it.
I don’t.
I swallow a large gulp of scalding coffee, burning my throat in the process. I enjoy the painful pleasure of intentionally hurting myself. I’ve despised who I am for so long. Yet yesterday, I felt love.
I was on a high, right until I received a phone message from my mother letting me know the sheriff had been tipped off by a “reliable informant” that my father had been murdered. I’d immediately called my mother back, to find out what else she knew. I had to endure her hysteria before I discovered she didn’t know any more than that.
My mother doesn’t like anything to disturb her “perfect” life.
I know just how she feels.
My life was just beginning to move in the right direction. But Dad’s death wasn’t accidental. The police now suspect he was murdered.
While the airplane hums, I recall that night at the country club, years ago.
I’d been on leave from the Army, before I was wounded and branded with facial scars. Usually, I prefer being alone, but that night I sought company. Wartime firefights and casualties had been too close in my thoughts. I had needed a distraction.
My brother hadn’t met his now wife, Sky, back then. Alex and I found ourselves alone in a private place. I’d been drinking, but wasn’t drunk. Alex, however, had been smashed.
I’m not one for social chit-chat—I never seem to have anything to say. My brother was the talker, but he only teased or made jokes.
Two brothers, both isolated in our own way. Only two years apart in age, yet separated by a monstrous gulf—a black abyss of ugly secrets. We never confided in each other. Why would we? We had both been there.
My thoughts return to the conversation we’d had at the time. I use the term “conversation” loosely. Alex had been speaking to me, but honestly, I hadn’t been listening. His voice had been reduced to a mere buzzing in the background.
I suddenly tuned in when I heard Alex slurring, “… everyone loves him, but WE know he’s a real bastard.” It’s the word ‘bastard’ that catches my attention.
“What?” I say.
“I hate him so much. I dream of killing him,” Alex snarls, his voice a low growl.
“Killing who?” I frown, coming out of my mental fog. Alex is never angry—but there’s something ugly and vicious in his tone. Am I imagining it?
“I know exactly how to do it and get away with it,” he slurs.
“Get away with what?”
Ice clinks as Alex takes another long drink of his Crown Royal on the rocks, but he doesn’t answer my question. “There’s a drug called scopolamine, I saw it on CSI. You can get it anywhere.”
“What are you talking about, Alex?” I ask, and stare hard at his face. Yet, my brother doesn’t seem to hear me. Is he angry? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pissed-off at anyone before.
I figure my brother is at least three times the legal limit. Dazed, Alex’s face looks haggard, his jaw slack and his eyes are at half-mast. The idiot’s talking horseshit. Who knows where his thoughts are?
Alex unexpectedly starts giggling over nothing.
Oh, yeah, that settles it. He’s dancing to the beat of his own tune all right. It’s a good thing he got a ride here—he’d kill himself trying to drive home.
“Scopolamine is used for motion sickness,” he mumbles. “So you don’t chuck your guts up when you’re on a boat or a plane. It makes people suggestible.” He snickers. “I’ve got a few things I’d like to suggest to him.”
I blink, stare and blink again. Is this the start of some silly joke?
“Murderers usually try to kill without witnesses,” Alex adds. “I think the more witnesses the merrier!” He snickers suddenly. “I’ll simply tell him to go to the edge and then I’ll push him off.”
Inhaling a sharp, surprised breath, I ask, “What are you talking about?”
He peers up at me with eyes that suddenly understand he’s said too much. It almost seems as if he's surprised to see me.
“What?” Alex asks.
“I said, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Alex replies. He lies back in his chair and shuts his eyes. After that, I couldn’t get him to talk to me at all. Sound asleep, he began to snore.
I open my eyes and take another sip of coffee. It’s still pretty hot, but the burning discomfort in my throat is soothing. There’s a sickness inside me—sometimes pain provides inexplicable pleasure.
I’d completely forgotten the conversation with Alex, right until I found out my father’s body was being exhumed to be tested for drugs.
&nb
sp; Did Alex kill our father?
I never even thought about it when the bastard fell off of that balcony. Dad was forever throwing things at the squirrels when he was outside on that veranda—everyone knew that. Sometimes he’d feed them. Sometimes he’d nail them with rocks when they got closer. He’d always laughed at the squirrels, especially when he hit them.
If scopolamine is found in Dad’s body, I’ll know who killed him.
The police don’t have evidence on Alex, or do they? I lick my dry lips, focusing on this concern. What if he’s already been arrested?
I’ve let my little brother down before. I can’t forgive myself for making no attempt to prevent his abuse. If he murdered our father, it's because of what I let happen. How can I let him go to jail?
In my heart, I know I can’t.
My body tenses as everything I am resists the thought of a trial, of a media circus and of the possibility of being locked up. If it looks as though they might convict Alex, should I tell the police I was the one who planned and executed the crime?
The memory of Renata’s soft voice drags me out of my reverie. “It’s gonna be OK, Grant. Everything’s going to work out fine.”
I turn to look at her, attempting to remain impassive in order to hide my despair. I'm wrestling with savage indecision. Should I? Shouldn't I? Uncertainty is a dull blade, hacking ragged edges into my soul.
I know what I should do—but do I have the courage to do it?
It’s not a matter of bravery, or a desire to sacrifice myself as if I’m some sort of martyr. It’s about making things right.
I don’t want to go to jail.
Especially not now, when my life is coming together. Just once, I’d like to be able to hold a woman without feeling sickened afterwards. Maybe even cuddle and sleep with Renata without freaking out. How much further can I improve before I’d have to turn myself in?
Murderers are executed in Texas.
If I tell them about my father’s abuse, perhaps I’d get a reduced sentence. Maybe nothing will happen, anyway. This might all be a tempest in a teapot. But if it isn’t, what will I do?
I care about my little brother. He has a wife. More importantly, his son needs his father. Alex is a good dad—a great dad. I’ve seen them together. Alex will be the kind of father we always longed for our own father to be.