by Nikki Sex
Monster! Pervert!
Somehow, I find myself pulling into the lot at Beverage Depot. It’s as if my Cadillac drove itself here. I park the car, sit blankly for a few moments, and then read the notice of daily deals. I can hardly believe my eyes.
‘Today Only!’ the poster boldly proclaims, Lagavulin 16 Year Old Scotch has been reduced in price.
I get out of the car, close the door and hit the remote lock. All the while my mind sings with a perverse kind of joy. Lagavulin’s on sale.
Hallelujah and praise the lord! It’s a God damned sign!
Just like that, my decision is made. No one has to die tonight, that’s how I justify my behavior. It’s a better excuse than countless others I’ve used to get wasted before. I’m not going to kill anyone.
Instead, I’m going home to get drunk.
I can hardly wait.
Chapter 62.
“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”
― Maya Angelou
~~~
Renata Koreman
I spend the evening with my friends from Dwell with Dignity, a nonprofit group of volunteers and interior designers. We provide home interiors for families including furnishings, art, bedding, kitchen supplies, and food in the pantry.
Our mission statement is, ‘Helping families escape poverty and homelessness through design; one household at a time.’
I’ve been volunteering here for the last three weeks, with a great group of people who welcomed me from the get-go. As Grant went off with the car, my new friend picked me up on her way there. Marla is probably fifty, but has the figure of a thirty five-year-old. An empty-nester, her last child recently left for college.
Tonight, we’re sanding and painting a bedroom set that includes bunk beds and dressers. I’m dressed in an old t-shirt and cutoffs, worn clothes that I don’t mind staining with paint. My clothes are light and cool, as it’s quite warm in the warehouse where we work.
I’ve been sanding for almost two hours. Although I’m here with Marla tonight, I mostly find projects I can do alone. I need some time to myself to think.
Today was the biggest breakthrough I've had in ages. After that spanking, I feel fearless. I should be happy, but my thoughts are focused on my fight with Grant.
What the hell got into the man? Usually, I wonder what I did wrong, but I’m getting better at that knee-jerk tendency. His upset had nothing to do with me.
Grant freaked when he found out I had sex with André, but why?
I’m reminded of my only known living family member, my blood relative, Uncle Robert, who sent me to André in the first place. His cruel words he said to André about me echo in my mind, ‘The dirty little slut opens her legs to anyone. It’s a wonder the little whore isn’t pregnant!’
Does Grant think I’m a slut? How could he? He went through a number of prostitutes himself, so he can’t point a finger. Besides, he’s well aware that I was a sexual surrogate. He isn’t judgmental, or is he?
No, he’s jealous—he has to be jealous!
Yet, Grant was all over the place today. Earlier, he fixated on André having sex with his sister. He simply couldn’t let that go. I was surprised he gave it any thought at all. They're both consenting adults. Why should that get under his skin?
If anyone could benefit from time with André, it's Betty Jo. Maybe André can yank that big bug out of her uptight ass—she certainly needs to loosen up. I hope he has the Jaws of Life handy. That bug sure is jammed in tight.
I thought Grant’s issue was because he dislikes his sister so intensely, but now I’m not so sure. When he found out André might be bisexual, he freaked. He acted like it was some sort of betrayal. Then when he discovered André and I had sex together, it really finished him off. But why?
I don’t understand him.
Grant’s father was hypersexual. Maybe finding how sexual André is was some sort of father issue trigger. Is it the counsellor angle? I get that one never has sex with a client, but André never did that with me. Wait, maybe in his mind, therapists are supposed to be celibate? Has Grant got them mixed up with priests or something?
The mystery is interrupted by one of the girls stopping by.
“Y’all doin’ all right, here? Can I get you a glass of water, soda… or hey, how ‘bout a nice cold glass of champagne?” Katrina, one of the women who volunteers asks in her soft Southern drawl with her welcoming smile. I never tire of listening to Southerners speak.
“No, thank you, Katrina,” I say, forcing myself to smile back, while wiping down the headboard I’m working on. The girls nearby have already started painting other parts of the bed a classy shade of blueberry. “I know where the fridge is. I’ll just finish this first, then help myself.”
“OK then, but y’all sing out if you need somethin’, ya hear?” she says, moving away to offer drinks to someone else.
“Are you OK, Renata?” Marla asks, suddenly standing beside me with concern etched on her features. “You don’t seem quite yourself tonight.”
Marla is a kind soul with a good sense of humor. We both enjoy the same kind of ‘feel good’ movies and usually discuss them at length while working together. I’ve been unusually taciturn tonight. I guess it shows.
I shrug. “I had a fight with my fiancé.
“Oh, honey! I’m so sorry!”
As my fingernails are filthy with dust, I consciously restrain my impulse to anxiously chew on my nail and settle for biting my lip instead. “It’s our first real fight,” I confide.
“Oh, there’s nothin’ wrong with fighting, hon. It’s important to clear the air. I just hope you didn’t let him win too easily! You stand your ground and make sure to get your point across, won’t you?” She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Politely, of course.”
I laugh. “That’s excellent advice.”
In truth, I’m concerned, but not too worried. Grant clearly ran into a trigger of some sort, then ran off before we could deal with it. I’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it is. There’s nothing can’t be figured out with honest communication and effort.
This isn’t one of my usual nights to volunteer. I purposely left to give him something to think about when he comes home to find me gone.
I hope it gives him a fright.
Cruel, but he won’t suffer long. When he sees I haven’t packed my bags, he’ll calm down.
I startle, caught off guard by a very strange noise, one I’ve never heard before. It kind of sounds like someone sawing wood, but instead of coming from my surroundings, it’s coming from my purse!
A few of the girls look my way as I pull out my phone.
Holy crap. This embarrassing noise is my ringtone! I suddenly recognize the sound of snoring! Just before I answer the call, I hear a male snicker and Grant’s low voice says, ‘See? You do snore, but I think it’s adorable.’
Other volunteers, women of all ages and a couple of men, stare at me curiously with big smiles on their faces. Oh my God, how embarrassing! My face burns, I must be bright red.
Grant teased me recently, complaining that I sometimes snore. I didn’t believe him. He must’ve recorded me snoring and set it as my ringtone for a laugh. In other circumstances, I’d be in stiches. Right now? When I’m mad at him for running off? Not so much.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hi Renata, it’s Sky. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, of course not. What’s up?” I ask. “Is everything OK?”
“I just got home. Is Grant with you?”
“No, I’m working at Dwell with Dignity. Grant isn’t here. Why?”
“Did you know André met with Betty Jo, Grant, and Alex tonight?”
“No.”
“I’ve been talking to Alex—he’s a total mess. I saw Grant when he left and he looked distraught, too. We’re both a little worried about him, so I thought I’d call you.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Alex and Grant got some upsetting news. It’s Wilkinson family shit, really. I guess it shook them. Anyway, Alex is all screwed up, but he’s worried about Grant. He keeps calling him, but Grant isn’t answering. I know he’s an alcoholic and he’s been on the straight and narrow for over a year—but if ever a man went back to the bottle, it would be after tonight.”
My breathing increases as I feel the beginning of panic. “Jesus. What happened this time? Are the police involved?” I ask, fearful of the news.
“No, no police, nothing like that. No immediate crisis, just some disturbing news. I’ll let him tell you all about it. I will say, it’s bad for Betty Jo—not us for a change. Still, the news hit both of our boys pretty hard. I have to get back to Alex. Do you think Grant’s at home?”
“I hope so,” I say. “With any luck, he’s there and just not answering his phone. If he’s drinking we’ll deal with it. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll go home now and see. I’ll text when I find him, so Alex doesn’t worry.”
I say goodbye and hang up.
Before anyone can tease me about my ringtone, I tell them there’s been a family emergency. When I try to call Grant, it goes to his voicemail. I leave him a message and ask Marla for a ride home.
~~~
The house is dark and silent when I walk in the front door, but it’s a relief when I find Grant’s car in the garage. He’s home.
“Grant?” I call out from the kitchen. He doesn’t reply.
I quietly walk to his bedroom and find him there. Exhaling in relief, I survey the scene. The place is a mess. An old photo album is out, lying on the floor. Numerous photos are strewn across the rug—many are ripped into two, some shredded into confetti, beyond recognition.
In the corner of the bedroom used to be a glass display stand filled with trophies Grant won over the years. The stand is wrecked. Glass kicked in, it lays on its side. Every single one of his trophies are also broken.
You’d think it would be difficult to break metal and Plexiglas. Apparently not, if you’re dedicated to the task—and you have a hammer! The hammer he used lies abandoned nearby.
As if in a trance, Grant sits silently in a wingback chair. Shirt and shoes off, his colorful tattoos seem to stand out more than usual, marring his smooth skin like open wounds. The corded muscles of his chest, broad shoulders and his taut abs draw me in, as usual.
Angst and pain radiates from him, coming off in waves.
One hand resting on his denim covered thigh, the other holds a photo. Grant's intense, unmoving stare is directed at a glass full of an amber liquid sitting on the table in front of him. Next to the glass is a full bottle of Scotch, minus what looks to be approximately the contents of the glass.
He’s so beautiful. He’s damaged, he’s hurting, but he didn’t break.
Grant hasn’t been drinking. Thank God.
“I take it you’re redecorating?” I ask in a teasing tone.
His eyes lift to mine, his lips curve into a slow smile. “I decided that I never wanted to see those trophies… ever again.”
“Good idea,” I say calmly.
My calm isn’t forced. Looking at the scene, it's apparent that he must've been in a powerful rage, but it’s burned out, now. The storm is over. He obviously had an eventful evening acting like a human wrecking ball. Whatever crisis Grant has endured tonight, he’s journeyed past the worst of it.
Most importantly, I don’t think he’s touched a drop of alcohol. Sure, he bought a bottle and poured a glass—but as far as I can tell, his glass is untouched.
“What’s this?” I ask, gesturing toward his bottle of Scotch.
“This is me, overcoming temptation tonight,” he says with a self-deprecating smirk.
I sit down in front of him, on the end of the bed. “What about tomorrow night?”
“I was hoping you’d be back by then,” he says with a sheepish, boyish smile. “I may stumble, but when you’re with me, I won’t fall.”
Oh, he’s good.
I smile back at him. He’s intentionally trying to charm me and holy hell, it’s working. Still, he’s not getting out of this without an abject apology.
“What stopped you?”
“I figured if Jesus could do forty days and nights of temptation from the devil, the least I could do is try to manage one.” He raises a dark eyebrow. “It was quite a battle, but I won. When it came down to all of the things I don’t want to be, I realized that being ‘a drunk’ nearly made the top of the list.”
“Ah, I see.”
I wonder what made the top of his list. ‘Murderer?’ No, for Grant, it would probably be ‘coward.’ Whatever. For now, that’s a question for another day. I fold my arms across my chest meaningfully.
His eyes light with understanding; he knows what I expect. Tossing the photo he’s holding down on the table in front of him, I catch a fleeting peek at it. Even with that one glance I can see it’s a childhood picture of Alex, Betty Jo and Grant all sitting beside each other on a fence.
He sits forward, his beautiful smoky eyes meet my gaze. “I owe you an apology,” he says.
“Yes, you do,” I agree, “and an explanation.”
“After tonight’s shit—which I’ll tell you about later, the concerns I had about you being with André don’t matter anymore. Maybe tonight was a moment of temporary insanity. I’m not exactly sure why I was so upset, except that I felt insanely jealous. When I came to my senses I thought, who cares if André had sex with Renata? That was before I met you. Besides, he’s not having sex with you now. Why should I be jealous?”
“Oh?” I murmur encouragingly. “Well, why should you be jealous?”
“Because André is a better man,” he replies, averting his gaze.
I laugh loudly at this, highly entertained. “No, he isn’t. He’s a good guy, but André has as many flaws and faults as the rest of us.”
Grant frowns. “Why didn’t he marry you? Why didn’t you propose to him?” he asks. “You’ve known each other for ages and you’re so close.” He shakes his head. “I can’t understand that.”
“Stupidity can’t be ruled out,” I quip playfully.
I was heartbroken when I first realized my love for André was not the ‘getting married and having children’ kind of love. André doesn’t need me.
Lucky for me, Grant does.
The color drains from Grant’s face. “Do you still love him?”
“Of course. Everyone loves André, even you,” I say lightly. “As it happens, André and I were never really suitable as a long term proposition.”
“Oh?’ He straightens at this, looks hopeful. “Really?”
I smile. “No, you’re my type. Besides, I not only love you, I’m in love with you.”
A little buzz of pleasure rolls through me when I see relief and joy in Grant’s eyes. My feelings haven’t changed, of course. I suppose even the happiest couples run into difficult triggers and misunderstandings. I doubt this will be the last fight we ever have.
Marla’s advice comes to mind, ‘… make sure to get your point across, won’t you? Politely, of course.’ A courteous Southern lady, good manners were no doubt bred into her, along with good sense.
“I love you, too,” he says. My heart lurches as he gazes deeply into my eyes.
He shakes his head. “I was stupid to jeopardize our relationship, but it was such a relief when I got the call to meet at my brother’s house. It gave me a chance to calm down. I have a hell of a temper—a temper I’ve had under control for years. Getting in touch with my ‘feelings’ has its drawbacks. My emotional control isn’t as strong as it was. Maybe I need to get out of the house, or go for a run when I’m pissed. It’s an escape thing.”
“I guess that’s better than flying into a fury.” I remember my father and clear my throat. “Yelling puts me at a disadvantage.”
“I know,” he says, totally understanding the look on my face. “I never want to be anything like your father. I shit bricks when I came ho
me and found you weren’t here.”
I smile. “Really?”
“I totally lost it. I remembered you saying, ‘Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back.’ If I’d found your clothes gone, I would’ve gotten drunk. The thought I may have lost you? It would’ve been the last straw.”
“Sorry.”
“I think you meant to scare some sense into me.”
“Yes, I did,” I admit sheepishly.
“Well, it worked.”
“Good,” I say with a smug smile. “As the song says, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
“So true.” He gives me a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I gave poor Mitten a fright.”
“Oh?”
“He took off when I kicked over my trophy display cabinet.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well, he disappears when I turn on the vacuum cleaner, too. Never mind. He’ll be back.”
“I owe him an apology, as well.”
“Good plan—hey, you want pancakes?” I ask, changing the subject abruptly as I stand up. “I’m in the mood for thin pancakes. French crêpes, actually, but not with lemon. I want whipped cream, banana, strawberries, blueberries and vanilla ice cream.”
“Sounds wonderful.” He stands, picks up his full glass and the bottle.
“Do you still want it?” I ask curiously, looking at his bottle of Scotch.
“Oh, yes,” he breaths fervently. His eyes lift toward mine. “But not nearly as much as I want you.”
Chapter 63.
“The more one judges, the less one loves.”
― Honoré de Balzac
~~~
Renata Koreman
I sit at the kitchen table with Grant while sifting flour into a bowl. I’ve already sent a text off to Sky and Alex, telling them Grant is here at home and all is OK.
“So, what set you off, anyway?” I ask him. “You seemed fine, then you totally lost it.”
He cuts freshly washed strawberries into neat quarters and sighs. “In my mind everything mixed together.” He gestures toward my bowl. “Probably something similar to your crêpe batter. Out of the blue, André began to eerily remind me of my father. There are similarities—both have charismatic charm and manipulating ways.”