by Nikki Sex
“Thank you… for coming,” I murmur.
“You are most welcome—oh!” she suddenly interrupts herself, her almost musical voice singing, “What a gorgeous little baby! And what a beautiful cat!”
I briefly introduce her to Mitten, who likes her instantly. This settles the matter for me. Mitten is a wonderful judge of character.
“Do you have experience with babies?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” she replies in that soft, quiet voice. “I’m very good with them.”
That’s all I need to know. Urgent with the desire to leave, I stand up. “Would you please look after Briley?” I ask her. “Just for two hours or so? Honestly, I need some time alone in order to pull myself together. I’ve had such a fright.”
Sally Ann’s expression is filled with compassion. “You poor thing! Grant told me what happened over the phone. What a terrible shock for you. Go!” she says, making a shooing motion with her hands. “Don’t you worry now. I’ll manage just fine.”
Before I disappear, I show her Briley’s bottle, which is ready when she needs it, and also the location of some jarred baby food. As soon as possible, I take off, escaping into the much needed, familiar safety only my little black box can provide.
~~~
We all have our boxes we escape into, in order to get by. Mine just happens to be a physical one.
A psychiatrist once diagnosed me as “agoraphobic” with “severe social anxiety.” If I’m at a party, or any gathering I feel awkward, stupid, mute and judged. It’s not them—it’s me. I can be friendly, but I find it difficult to make friends.
André taught me how to act normal around strangers.
Feeling normal is the tough one.
Like a frightened mouse, I spend almost three hours regrouping. I’m cut off from everything, curled up into a ball, enveloped by comforting dark silence. When I come out, I’m able to be myself again.
Sally Ann is sitting on the couch, playing with Briley. She looks up with a smile as I enter the room.
“Hi, Renata,” she says. “You look so much better!”
“I feel better, thanks to you,” I say, forcing myself to speak confidently. Sally Ann blushes and shakes her head, unable to easily accept my tribute. We’re both apparently shy, which is pretty funny.
I change the subject. “Did you have any trouble?”
Sally Ann tells me in detail that she fed Briley, changed him and gave treats to Mitten. Her eyes are bright, her manner enthusiastic. It’s clear she's enjoyed her time with both of them.
She’s straightforward and happy to talk. What you see is what you get with her. I like that. It’s unusual to find anyone as open and easy to read as she is. Maybe this type of behavior kicks in when she sees someone she perceives of as wounded, exactly like I was when she first arrived. She’s a nurturer.
Sally Ann has also made herself at home by brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Thank God!
I offer her a slice of chocolate cake, and serve us both. After such a terrible morning, I’m empty inside. Now that I’ve gotten it together, I’m able to eat and settle my stomach.
“How do you know Grant?” I ask her, pouring a cup of coffee for myself.
“Oh, I’m a good friend of his sister, Betty Jo. We all went to school together. Grant is three years older than we are. He’s always been so nice to me and my brother.”
I find listening to strangers much easier than trying to speak to them. With careful questioning, I find out that Sally Ann has a twin brother, Danny. Sadly, he was a troubled teen who never grew out of it, I gather.
Briley is in a baby swing, half asleep. Sally Ann rocks it from time to time. “Danny’s too sensitive, you know what I mean?”
I nod. Oh boy, I understand that all too well. I was like a raw nerve ending for too much of my life.
Mitten climbs onto my lap and I absently stroke him.
“And bullies are just like rabid wolves,” she says, her voice rising with righteous anger. “They instinctively sense who in the herd is the most defenseless. They’re also such cowards! They don’t go for strong prey, they go after the broken or already wounded, you know? They target the easiest one of the pack to bring down.”
“Stinky! Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!”
“I understand,” I say, as vivid memories of my troubled childhood flash through my mind. Children at my school taunted and tormented me too. I instantly feel a kinship with her poor brother.
“Bullies seemed to come out of woodwork, inevitably zeroing in on Danny, in the way bullies do,” Sally Ann continues. “Whenever they did, if Grant found out, he’d beat the hell out of them. He was always so protective of Danny, as though he was his personal bodyguard or something. It was sweet, even if it wasn't always done in the sweetest way," she says with an uncertain smile.
Sally Ann frowns for a moment, her features marred by confusion. “In a way, Grant is kind of like a wolf too—the biggest and scariest wolf of all, but I don’t think he’s ever been a bully.”
“Really?” I was interested in hearing her story before, but now I’m hanging on every word.
“Oh, yes,” she says with starry awe in her eyes. “One time, at school, during swimming, this big jerk kept dunking Danny, scaring him half to death. My poor brother was choking and panicking. Grant got so angry he grabbed the bully and held him under water until Danny was terrified the big jerk would drown.” She smiles. “Then Grant made the guy apologize to Danny.”
I smile. “Impressive.”
“Isn’t it?”
We chat for over an hour, mostly about Grant. It astonishes me he's spent his life resisting someone so sweet and pure. I’m even more surprised to find how much I envy her wholesome perfection. I feel a strange, never-before experienced urge to hate the woman. But who could dislike her?
I've never been the jealous type. However, Sally Ann is just so remarkably demure, caring and lovable. I'm touched by her charm. There’s a compelling sort of innocence in her eyes. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn she’s still a virgin. Actually, I'd bet money on it.
Grant said he never dated or had any relationships with women other than prostitutes. I'd have thought Sally Ann would be utterly irresistible to him, or to any man with a pulse. Hell, if I had leanings in that direction, I'd fall for her.
Grant obviously trusts her—and he doesn’t trust easily.
A bitter knot of envy tightens my chest.
I'm not sure why I feel this way about Sally Ann. I can only attribute my newfound jealousy to the strength of my love for Grant. I find myself feeling possessive of him in ways I've never felt for anyone. This is surprising. Yet, even with these new thoughts and sensations coursing through me, I can't help but like Sally Ann.
Socially adept, kind and graceful, I truly admire her.
It breaks my heart to admit it, but Sally Ann is perfect. Mental demons whisper in my mind with bitter, hateful reproach. You don’t deserve Grant. You’re not good enough for him.
Sally Ann is.
By the time I see her out the door and say goodbye, I know three things. One, she adores her brother. Two, the sweet Southern Belle is saving herself for marriage, and three? The poor woman has silently suffered years of unrequited love for Grant.
Chapter 31.
"Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy." — Guilaume Apollinaire
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I’m wearing jeans and boots without a shirt as I labor in the yard.
Two weeks have gone by since the police so rudely raided my home and frightened the hell out of Renata. Other than her spending a few hours every day alone in her room, she came out of it pretty well.
The heat from a potential murder charge is off for now. My lawyer assures me that there’s not enough evidence to press forward with the case. At last I can relax.
The sky is clear, the temperature's about fifty but it’s still early. It's going to be hot today, but not humid.
I have the day off from the shooting range. I want to get this project done and spend more time with Renata.
I have two poles, both eight inches in diameter and fourteen feet high. They’re held fast with wire cables. The four cables and two poles are all anchored in concrete that has almost set.
These babies won’t be going anywhere.
I’ve already put the metal crossbar in place, now I just need to attach the two rubber swings I picked up from The Home Depot.
I stare up at the sky, measuring in my mind. I estimate Renata and I will be able to reach about twelve feet high at full swing. I recall the joy on her face when I took her to that playground after she'd told me how much she loved to swing. It changed her mood from troubled to jubilant so quickly. It was beautiful to watch.
Delighting Renata is my new favorite thing.
“I love it,” she says.
I shoot her a grin and my pulse kicks up just from seeing her smile. I’ve memorized her face, her profile, the feminine shape of her. I could easily draw a detailed picture of Renata from memory—if I could draw.
Every time I look at her, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her in my life and in my home. I find it almost impossible to believe she even exists. How can someone so perfect live in the world?
Despite the cool morning air, Renata is wearing a summery, yellow dress. She’s been watching me while holding the baby on her hip, a common domestic scene I’m getting used to.
What would it feel like to see her holding our child wrapped in her loving arms?
Monster! Pervert!
Echoes from my past make me fear fatherhood, yet these whispering demons don’t hold as much sway anymore. I’ve learned to listen to my negative self-talk. I recognize the inner dialogue, tell myself it’s bullshit, and then ignore it.
These embedded thoughts no longer have the same power to hurt me they once did. I’ve realized every one is a lie.
“You’ll be able to try it out later today,” I say.
“Woo hoo!” she calls out wearing a broad grin.
Renata wants to know who abused me. I won’t lie, but there’s no way I can tell her now. I’ve explained to her it’s a secret I must keep.
My history of being sexually abused by the murder victim would be more than enough motive to send me to trial. Who knows when the police might get around to interviewing her? They’ve already spoken to my entire family, my employees and my alcohol rehab facility. They even tried to talk to my AA sponsor, who told them to shove their head where the light don’t shine.
Luckily, they don’t seem to know about the counseling I’ve had with André. Communication between a therapist and a client is privileged information, but you never know.
Detective Bronowski kept his word and quickly returned Renata’s iPad. Why haven’t they returned my personal laptop or business computers?
I had to buy new computers for the shooting range, which was fine. Yet, we're missing our data files. It’s been a tedious task, reconstructing the information we need for taxes and bookkeeping as well as countless other business-related responsibilities.
My lawyer told me Stan Huber was the witness who claimed that I killed my father. I couldn’t believe it. Stan fucking Huber? The bastard.
I’d talk to him, but I don’t see the point. Clearly, Alex got drunk or high and jabbered the same plan to kill our father to Stan that he'd blabbed to me. Stan used that knowledge to get out of jail. Of course, being my brother's best friend, Stan didn't want to hurt Alex, so I became the fall guy.
It doesn’t matter at this point, because I don’t want Alex arrested, either. He's in enough trouble with the law already.
“You mind holding the ladder again?” I ask Renata.
“Sure.”
Renata puts Briley down on the baby blanket and hands him a toy. Damn, she looks hot in that little dress. As she bends over, her ass moves in a way that makes my blood pressure rise. Is she teasing me?
I wouldn’t put it past her in the least.
I’ve never met a woman who wants sex more than Renata does. Actually, she doesn’t have to tease me. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to fuck her. Just thinking about her makes me horny. Around her, I’m constantly hard.
Mostly, I try to ignore it.
This strategy isn’t working.
She straightens with a sexy grin, walks across to me and keeps the ladder steady with both hands.
“So, Mr. Up-Early-and-Energetic,” she says. “Where did you say we’re going today?”
I climb the ladder, hook the first swing in and attach the clamps with nuts and bolts. “White Rock Escarpment—hand me the other swing, will you?”
She pushes the ends of two chains into my hands. “Do you go there often?”
“Nope. I haven’t been there for years.”
I climb down. Renata and I stand back, admiring the swing set I’ve built for her. From the moment she expressed a love of swinging, I began to envision how to build her the perfect swing set. These are like swings on steroids. This way, we both get to swing together, like we did on that special day at the park.
“I love it,” she says, turning toward me. “Thank you so much.”
I shrug, it really wasn't a big deal. I’m strangely self-conscious, yet delighted by her happiness. Pleasing her is easy.
My body tightens as I recall what I have planned for her tonight. Renata knows nothing about it, so I don’t have to go through with it.
I relax instantly at that thought.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I think we both deserve a second childhood, don’t you?”
I adore the glint of delight I see reflected in her eyes.
“Can I kiss you?” she asks hopefully.
I clear my throat and move closer to her. Touch still unnerves me, and kissing is too intimate, but I’m working on it.
I bend my head down, pressing our foreheads together. Renata puts her hands on my shoulders, I place mine upon her slim waist. My palms flex around her soft flesh and my cock stiffens further.
I knows she’s wearing a bra and panties, but Renata feels naked under her thin dress.
For the love of God, she smells good.
I take a deep breath, let it out and then we kiss. It’s not a real kiss with tongue, mouth and urgent demands. It’s more like a gentle press of lips. After only a moment, I pull away and both of us then drop our hands to our sides.
Renata smiles at me. “You’re getting better at this.”
“A little,” I say quietly. I'm improving, but it's still a struggle.
After the incident with the police, I put the brakes on everything physical between us. I stopped and rewound my foray into the sexual realm back down to the ground floor. Instead of picking up where we'd left off, we’ve been taking it very slowly. I've been dating Renata.
This is the first time in my life I’ve dated anyone. I might be flattering myself, but I think it’s going pretty well.
Rushing ahead faster than I'm ready for can't be good. She means too much to me. I already have enough pressure from my body, which is in a constant state of arousal.
It seems as though this thing with the police might not be a problem. So what’s the hurry? I want to relax and enjoy this experience. Doesn't it make sense just to let things progress naturally?
Truthfully, I’m worried. Things are going OK so far, and I’m afraid I’ll screw this up.
Yes, I have intimacy problems I need to overcome. Yes, I want to make love to Renata so much I burn and ache, relentless with need. But, I also want to bask in this strange, foreign sensation of simply being happy.
“Hola!” my housekeeper, Maria says, as she strolls out to the backyard.
A small, thickset, grandmotherly woman, she’s always full of energy. It must be 8 a.m. Maria, who usually starts at nine, assured me she’d come early today.
I put on my shirt as I smile and greet her.
Maria’s been with me since I was a child. She tau
ght me Spanish and was as close to a mother as I ever had. My own mother was never the nurturing or mothering type. Of course, my uptight mother didn’t want me associating with ‘the help,’ so Maria and I had to keep our interactions and mutual admiration for each other secret.
Of all of the secrets I kept as a child, this was the only good one.
Renata, Maria and I, exchange greetings and last minute details. As a mother of seven and grandmother of six, Maria is well able to care for Briley.
“You are good for him,” Maria tells Renata, speaking about me as if I’m not even here. “Without a woman, a man is unhappy.” She nods wisely. “Señor Wilkinson is a good man—a very good man. He will make a good husband.”
Renata laughs, tilts her head and asks her, “Do you think so?”
“Si! Si! Marry him and give him many children,” she eagerly advises, emphasizing her enthusiasm for her plan by flinging her hands into the air. “It is best for you both, I think.”
Renata eyes me speculatively. “Oh?”
I shake my head, unable to stifle my smile. Encouraging Maria to elaborate on this subject is very naughty. Maria's always had a soft spot for me.
“He is very good looking, don’t you think?” Maria turns and regards me appreciatively. “Together, you will make very beautiful children.”
This is awkward. I stand utterly still, trying to remain composed. Contradicting thoughts and emotions rush through me, ranging from embarrassment to delight, from unworthiness to hope.
How did I manage to find two such wonderful women?
They say beauty is only skin deep, but that isn’t true at all. Real beauty can only be found much deeper.
The scars on my face don’t bother me much anymore. Why should they? Renata touches my scars with love. Maria and André also see past them. My scars don’t bother the important people in my life.
I spend long periods each day completely forgetting I was ever wounded. André was right—I’ve put too much importance on my scars.
I wonder if I focused on them because I felt those ugly wounds reflected who I really was inside—the monster I'd kept hidden for so long. I not only believed I deserved them, but as a monster, the scars served a purpose. As if my toxic past was contagious, I wanted to warn people away, so I wouldn't run the risk of contaminating anyone.