by Nikki Sex
“It’s not about that, darlin’,” I say. “Making love with you is the most incredible thing in my world—except for being with you, talking to you or knowing how much you genuinely care about me. I don’t need any stupid fantasy when reality with you is better than anything my imagination has ever come up with.”
Her eyes soften. “Aww, that’s so sweet. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It’s true.” Her smile tugs at my heart.
She leans forward, kisses me lightly on the lips. “As nice as those beautiful words are and as excellent a diversion, you’re still going to have to answer my question sometime.” She smirks. “I want to know your fantasies, then I want to act them out.” Her eyes glitter mischievously. “Role play is a blast.”
My face heats. “Renata,” I rasp hoarsely, but further words fail me.
I can’t believe she wants to talk about this! Of course, other than André, I’ve never known anyone who’s as open-minded and straightforward on the subject of sex. I try not to squirm, to let my roiling emotions show.
“You don’t have to tell me now,” she soothes. “I just want you to think about it. Once we act out your fantasies, you’ll get past your hang ups. Honestly, it’s just sex! But first you have to tell me, right?”
My lips press together, I run a hand through my hair. Will I tell her? Can I? I’ll have to eventually.
“Oh, c’mon! Cluck, cluck, cluck, chicken!” Her blue eyes flash with determined resolve.
Shit. How am I going to get out of this?
My phone rings again. Two times in one morning!
“Saved by the bell,” I say and fall on my cell with intense relief. The number is unlisted.
“Hello?”
“Grant? It’s me, Alex.” He laughs in a strange way—weird, stilted. There’s no trace of real humor in his laugh.
“Alex? What is it? Are you OK?”
I hear a shaky intake of breath. “I’ve been arrested for the murder of our father,” he says. “This is my one phone call.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, as a jolt of fear slams into me. I stand up and begin to pace across the kitchen. “Was a detective named Bronowski involved?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I know the guy, is all. OK, we’ll figure this out. Don’t say a thing to anyone—I’m not kidding Alex. Don’t speak until your lawyer gets there. I’ll deal with this.”
Alex exhales a sound of relief. “OK.”
“Now, tell me what you’re going to do when you hang up.”
Alex clears his throat. “I’m not going to say anything. I’m going to wait for my attorney.”
“Good.” I put extra confidence in my voice.
Renata’s concerned gaze locks on mine. This week Alex and Sky are supposed to get their son, Briley, returned to their home with full custody. I hope my brother’s arrest won’t screw that up. That would practically kill them both.
Sky’s becoming more and more desperate. It's been way too long for any mother to only be able to see her son through scheduled, chaperoned visits.
Still meeting her eyes, I continue, “Listen, Alex. When I get off the phone I’ll call your lawyer. I’ll ask Maria to take care of Briley and I’ll drop Renata off at your house to be there to support Sky. Don’t worry about anything. I swear to God, I’ll fix this.”
Alex laughs, this time I hear his sincere relief. “Thanks, bro. I knew I could count on you. You're always coming to my rescue. If this shit works out, I gotta buy you a white horse.”
I force a chuckle. “What are big brothers for?”
I end the call and look at Renata. She regards me with apprehension, but says nothing. The woman's so sensible. She knows me so well. I need to get my shit together before I can talk. She'll patiently wait until I initiate a conversation.
Right now I have to think.
Life sure can throw some curve balls. Just five minutes ago, I was in a panic at the idea of confiding my shameful fantasy. Now, I wish that’s all I had to do.
Alex’s been arrested, but I won’t let him go down for it. I'm going to protect him this time. Our father will never hurt him ever again, not even from his grave. I'm no longer a confused and scared kid. I refuse to fail my brother again.
I need to find another likely suspect, fast.
Chapter 38.
“Life is deep and simple, and what our society gives us is shallow and complicated.”
― Fred Rogers
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I make a ton of phone calls—starting with the family lawyer and my manager at the shooting range. When Maria arrives, she agrees to care for Briley. I drive Renata over to comfort Sky, Alex’s wife, ensuring she has money for a taxi if she needs it before I kiss her goodbye.
I end up spending the whole day trying to spring my brother from jail.
The news is as bad as it can be.
I’d no clue what to expect concerning his arrest. As my father abused several kids outside of our family, I'd wrongly assumed Alex would be easily cleared for the bastard's murder. After hearing the strength of the evidence against my baby brother, I feel an achingly familiar longing.
My hands tremble, my mouth is dry. For the first time in a very long stretch, a double bourbon seems more than attractive.
Shit, forget the glass. I could finish an entire bottle.
I’m an alcoholic, but thank God, I have the strength to deny myself alcohol. Renata intoxicates me now. Once I get home and drink her in, this rotten day will become tolerable. But even her near magical healing power over me, can't erase what's happening.
After an interminable day, I leave for home, looking forward to jumping into the shower. Summer in Dallas can be hot as blazes and humid as a jungle. Earlier this week we’d experienced a heat wave, then a cooling storm. It’s cooled down even more since then, but it’s still over 75 degrees outside.
When I return home around 5 p.m., I park my car and look through the house. Where is everyone? I finally roam out to search the garden.
I feel my blood pressure lower the moment I step outside. I smile as my eyes take in our double swing set that stands in the grassy area near the house. Michael’s been in to mow the lawn, and the sprinklers have been doing their job daily in this heat.
I inhale deep, healing breaths, loving the warm, rich smell of the earth, cut grass, sweet honeysuckle and jasmine. Everything looks fresh, well-watered, lavish and thriving.
My back yard is my inspiration and my sanctuary. As always, I admire the natural beauty and perfection of it. Large shady trees, smaller ornamental trees, hidden trails and summer flowers. I feel alive and at home in my garden.
Beautiful. Perfect.
At peace in this place, I smile as I begin to walk. I know exactly where to find them.
Renata, Mitten and Briley sit in the shade of a tree near the pond. Mitten’s on the bank, his paw in the water. He looks to be tormenting the Koi. Briley sits on a blanket with toys, wearing only a diaper in this heat. Renata’s wearing a light, summer dress, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
A cool breeze flows across the water, causing her hair to sway slightly. She’s on her knees, outside of the shadow of the tree, planting the last of a row of ‘Black-eyed Susans,’ a hearty daisy that likes the sun.
I was going to plant those today. My girl has done it, hoping to surprise me. My heart swells, full of love for her.
Intent on planting and keeping an eye and ear out for Briley, Renata doesn’t notice my arrival. I'm not being purposely stealthy. I'm simply taking everything in and enjoying the moment.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I softly murmur, from about six feet away.
My eyes water, I blink them rapidly. I never felt so many intense emotions before I met Renata. After this terrible day I’m suddenly so happy, I feel as if I could cry.
How crazy is that?
She turns toward me with a broad smile, a small spade in one hand and an adorable stripe of
dirt across one cheek. “Grant! You’re back.”
I say nothing.
I can’t.
Despite all the shit that went down today, despite my past and all of the crap in my family and life—right now, I feel like the luckiest man in the world.
We regard each other silently for a few long moments.
Her blue eyes darken. Her unblinking stare scorches me with loving, sensual heat. We’re like animals when it comes to our primal urges. Right after making love, we both immediately want to do it again.
Insatiable. I can’t imagine a day when either of us will ever get enough of each other.
Briley makes a protesting cry, so I pick him up and ask him about his day. He can be a good distraction sometimes. He babbles sweetly, breaking the magnetic tension between us, bringing normality back to our world. Without him we'd give in to the sensual electricity between us. We’d have sex, right here, right now.
“Thanks for planting the Black-eyed Susans,” I say.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
I grin. “You did surprise me.”
“Mitten,” Renata barks suddenly in a reproving voice. “Leave the fish alone.” She picks up his ball, shows it to him with raised eyebrows. “Want to play catch and kill?” she offers enticingly.
Mitten stares at her with callous disinterest. His disgruntled gaze returns to the Koi, but he lays down with his paws tucked beneath him. His body language makes it clear he only wants to look. We both laugh.
“So, how did it go today?” she asks.
“Alex is in real trouble.” I sit down next to her on the blanket. “I had a long talk with his lawyer, and the D.A. reduced his charge to manslaughter, but I wasn’t allowed to see him. Remember Stan Huber, the guy who told the police I killed our father?”
“Sure,” she says. “He threw you under a bus in order to save himself from a drug charge as I recall.”
I nod as memories of my conversation with Alex surface from years back. My brother and I had been at the club, drinking. Alex had been extremely drunk. I was too, yet I clearly remember our conversation.
“I know exactly how to do it and get away with it,” Alex slurs.
“Get away with what?”
Ice clinks as Alex takes another long drink of his Crown Royal on the rocks. “There’s a drug called scopolamine, I saw it on CSI. You can get it anywhere.”
“What are you talking about, Alex?”
“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.”
I explain the gist of that conversation to Renata, as well as how Stan Huber lied to the police, claiming I told him that story—my plot to kill my father. Stan and Alex were old friends from school. Since he barely knew me, apparently the selfish jerk decided I made a better scapegoat.
For a moment, I wonder how many people my brother blurted his murderous plans to, when he was under the influence. I only know of Stan and myself, at this point. The idea came from a popular TV show any killer could have seen. It wasn't as if Alex cooked up a creative way to off someone.
Clearly this proves it. Television can be educational.
“Detective Bronowski went back to Huber,” I explain. “This time, he got the truth out of him by threatening to put the sniveling coward back in jail. Based on his testimony, they searched Alex’s house.” I shake my head. “You won’t believe it. Alex had a detailed journal of his plans! He also had a three-year-old bottle of Scopolamine, missing four tablets! It had clearly been purchased around the time of our father’s death. In this case, it's a smoking gun. Alex is seriously screwed.”
Renata’s face falls with dismay. “Oh no! That’s pretty compelling evidence.”
“It sure is,” I agree with a sigh. “They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I seriously messed up trying to protect Alex when he was arrested. I thought he was too stressed out facing rehab, possible jail time and losing custody of Briley, so I didn't tell him I was arrested for our father's murder. If only I told him, he would’ve gotten rid of that stuff. I can’t believe I was so stupid, so short-sighted. But a Wilkinson never talks about their problems—or anything else for that matter. Keeping our mouths shut is an ingrained way of life for our family. What a legacy.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, placing a hand comfortingly on my arm. “This is not your fault.”
She knows me so well. I already feel guilty about Alex’s abuse by our father. Now I feel responsible for his arrest. If only I’d told him!
Briley pats my cheek with one chubby hand. He curls his tiny fingers around my thumb, while I peer down at his smiling face. “Despite his screw ups, Alex is a good man. He has a family,” I say quietly, “and his son needs his father.”
She nods, but says nothing more. I swear I can feel her compassion. She’d do anything to help. If only there was something she could do.
I force a smile. “André’s resourceful and he’s coming to visit this week. Maybe he can help us come up with a plan. We need as many ideas we can get. We’ll figure this out.” My jaw flexes. “We have to.”
I stare blankly at the pond, gritting my teeth. Even if I tell the police that I did it, they’d never believe me.
How can I fix this?
I clear my throat. My eyes lift to meet her soft, sympathetic gaze. “There’s no way I’ll let my brother go down for this.”
Chapter 39.
“…laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy.”
― Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
My brother enters a plea of ‘not guilty’ at his arraignment.
Mother turns up to support him in a royal blue suit, high heels, strings of pearls, with her brunette hair perfectly coiffured.
“My son is innocent,” she proclaims.
With her soft Southern accent and confident good-looks, (and good breeding) she’s as impressive as Scarlett in ‘Gone with the Wind.’
Lee Brewer, the Dallas D.A., has his hands full with her. Heartbroken widow that she is, Mother can’t understand how, “Mister Brewster, a good Christian, from a good family,” could be so obviously mislead.
I almost feel sorry for the District Attorney. Over six foot tall, with a muscular frame thickened with age, the big man cowers under her biting scorn and condemnation. Between our expensive lawyer’s celebrated debating skills and entreaties by our ‘help-others-fulltime-fundraising’ mother, my brother has every advantage.
The fact mother personally knows the judge doesn’t hurt either.
Eventually, after long discussions, I manage to strong-arm Brewster into lowering Alex’s charge to manslaughter, a second degree felony. I exploit the D.A.’s every weakness, ruthless manipulating him like an unscrupulous politician. I discuss the Wilkinson family's standing in the community, all the while throwing big names around like confetti. I even point out my military career, a card I never use.
Yet, what really clenches the deal for moderation is when my mother leaves and I show the D.A. photos of my father and me.
It shocks the hell out of him.
Brewster immediately sees the necessity of downplaying such a high profile murder. Sexual abuse makes people squeamish. It evokes sympathy for the victim of abuse and vengeful thoughts toward the murdered party. The D.A. hopes to avoid shark-like news coverage as well as a media circus.
Good luck with that.
Alex’s probation bond is set at five hundred thousand—surprisingly chea
p really, considering the damning premeditation in evidence. His was no spontaneous, heat of the moment crime of passion—quite the opposite. Murder had been planned in a cold and calculated manner.
I expected the bail to be a few million. For now all he will suffer is home detention, a confiscated passport and the need to wear an ankle monitor.
As far as I can see, legal justice and true justice are NOT related.
Money talks and so does having numerous high-powered associations. Corruption and ‘gentleman’s agreements’ are widespread and acceptable. I can’t help but have contempt for the system. Rich, well-connected white people from good, or more accurately, reputable families tend not to go to jail.
There’s a reason stereotypes hang around—often they’re completely accurate.
It’s a cynical way for me to look at things, particularly when it's working in Alex's favor. I'm unfairly playing the system in the precise manner I detest, but my brother isn’t incarcerated.
Now he’s at home with his family, awaiting trial.
Today, after a troubled night’s sleep, I drive to my brother’s house, dodge the foot and street traffic, and barely manage to navigate into his driveway. I expected reporters, but I certainly didn’t count on the virtual ‘car park’ full of news vans waiting outside his doorstep.
Is it a slow news day, or what?
My head begins to pound. Patricide of our father, a well-respected member of the community, clearly makes the headlines. Imagine if they knew ‘dear old dad’ had been an active pedophile?
When I open my car door, the press surge toward me in a wave. I’m flooded with questions from reporters looking for the latest angle on this delicious story of fame, wealth, and murder.
“Mr. Wilkinson, do you think your brother killed your father?” “Mr. Wilkinson, how do you feel about the death penalty?” “How does it feel to have a murderer in the family?” “Mr. Wilkinson, were you there for your brother's arrest?"
I hate this infuriating horseshit.