Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (31 page)

“Your mind is
your garden, your thoughts are your seeds. You can grow flowers, or you can
grow weeds.”

— Unknown

 
~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I open the
downstairs door and let Mitten out, shaking my head with misgivings the whole
time. He’s gone outside to explore. I hope I still have my Koi fish in the
morning.

I walk up the
stairs in time to see Renata back carefully and quietly out of the nursery.
Eyes bright, she sees me and raises a finger to her lips in a silent ‘shush.’
She leaves the door ajar.

Briley’s
apparently fallen asleep in his crib.

“C’mon,” she
says and tiptoes off, baby monitor in hand.

I follow Renata
into my bedroom. She studies the layout for a moment, then moves my leather
wingback chair so it’s now beside the bedside table, facing my bed.

“That’s your
chair,” she tells me with a smile. “I’ll sit here,” she adds sitting down on my
bed.

Edgy and
nervous, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I sit directly across from her,
our knees are only inches apart. A muscle twitches near my eye as the pressure
of facing my fear grows.

I avoid
intimacy.

I always have.

Just the thought
of that kind of closeness unnerves me, hitting every trigger I have. It dredges
up a cocktail of troubling memories from my past: desire, lust, shame, panic,
revulsion, guilt, and helplessness. The list is endless and all of it, even the
memory of pleasure—especially the memories of pleasure—are negative.

I battle my
sexual urges and shun relationships.

What do I end up
with? A despairing, hollow sense of numbness inside. Clearly avoidance doesn’t
work. My problems haven’t gone away.

André says a
person can only accept the love they feel they deserve. He’s helped me face the
truth. Self-sufficient as I like to imagine I am, I’m actually
lonely.

All the same old
shit rolls through my mind: I love sex; I hate sex. This is wrong; this is
right. I’m good; I’m bad, and my personal favorite, ‘I’m a monster.’ Is it any
wonder I’ve given up on the idea of intimacy?

Tonight I’m
going to quit resisting and put myself in Renata’s hands. Renata knows me. She
makes it safe for me to communicate.

If I'm capable
of facing my demons, it'll be with her.

Renata holds a
deck of cards in the palm of her open hand. “OK,” she says. “This is how we’ll
do it.” She hands me half the deck. “Take the card that’s on the top of your
pack and flip it face up on the table.”

I flip my card
over. It’s a ten of hearts. Renata flips her top card to land nearby. It’s a
two of spades.

“Your card is
higher, so you win,” she says.

I arch an
eyebrow in query. “What do I win?”

“We’re playing ‘
Truth
or Dare.
’ You get to ask me a question or give me a dare. I get to decide
which.”

“OK,” I say.

She gives me a
teasing smirk. “Just ask me, truth or dare?”

My eyes narrow.
“Fine. Truth or dare?”

At my
compliance, Renata shoots
me a playful, heart-stopping smile
.
My breath catches. For a moment, every thought in my head disappears. Her
innate goodness soaks into me, relaxing my hard edges. Just being near her
warms my heart and soothes my soul.

The woman is
beautiful, inside and out.

“Hmm,” she
murmurs cheerfully, unaware of everything that’s been going through my mind.
“I’ll take truth. Now you ask me a question and I will have to answer it
honestly.”

I say nothing,
remaining silent for a long, long time.

I want to know
so many things about her. What shall I ask first? Was she a prostitute when she
lived on the street? Just how experienced is she? What is she ashamed of? But
then I stop to consider—what if she asks
me
those same questions? I
don’t even know how many prostitutes I’ve had. And if she asks me what I’m
ashamed of?

I swallow hard.
Fuck,
no.
There’s no way I want to bring that up.

Minutes pass.
Renata waits patiently until I come up with a question.

“Truth,” I
finally say once I’ve found my tongue. “Have you ever been in love? Who with
and when?”

A grim frown mars
her face—I’ve surprised her. Now, it’s her turn to take a few moments to gather
her thoughts.

“Yes,” she says
quietly, taking in a deep breath. “And
ouch!
You asked a toughie for my
first question.” Her laugh is brittle and humorless. She shakes her head
sorrowfully. “And here I was going to go easy on you.”

Her response
surprises me. I thought I
was
going easy on her, but I don’t tell her
that.

Renata bites her
thumbnail for a bit and averts her gaze. When her eyes return to mine, she
regards me with a subdued and serious air. “My first love was Jamie, my foster
brother who died. My second love was André, who saved me…”

There’s a long
pause as she considers what she’s going to say next. “And I feel something for
you, Grant. You’re seriously sexy, but it’s much more than that. What I feel
for you is definitely love—or at the very least, a strong sense of connection
and affection.”

Time stops in
bizarre moment of unreality.

What?

Heat rises in my
face as a blast of adrenaline, sheer panic and euphoric pleasure rocket through
my veins. I force myself to stay perfectly still. I don’t move or even open my
mouth to reply, as an avalanche of emotions cascade through me.

I have a strange
impulse to laugh—or cry—I’m not sure which. Maybe both.

Instead, I
remain silent.

Connection.
Affection… and love. The very idea of love makes me break into a cold sweat. I
don't know what love is.

A ridiculous
number of thoughts race through my mind. I want Renata so badly that I ache for
her. Is that love? Yet, I'm not worthy of her. I can't cuddle… I’m afraid to
touch her. I can't make love without ending up feeling sick afterwards. She
should have so much more than I could ever give her. I want to be deserving,
but I’m such a mess. Why does she want me? She should have a whole man—an
unscarred man.
Shit.

Moments pass.

I notice Renata
intentionally ignores what she must see as my hugely obvious reaction.
Thank
God
. I appreciate that more than she can know.

Instead of
talking about it, she turns her face down toward the table and flips another
card. It’s a queen of hearts. How fitting.

I flip a jack of
spades—a knave, also appropriate. She wins.

“Truth or dare,”
she says and her eyes are bright with anticipation.

“Dare,” I say,
unwilling to risk exposing any of my multitude of embarrassing truths.

“Take off your
shirt,” she says surprisingly quickly, as if she’s been waiting for the chance
to make this request.

I flinch in surprise.
I
never
take my shirt off around other people.
Nobody
sees my
tattoos. They’re private and they’re mine.

Renata senses my
resistance like a piranha scenting blood in the water. “
Aha!
You don’t
want to!” she chortles.

I can only
assume that since I made her confess something uncomfortable for her, she’s
pleased it’s now her turn to make me squirm.

I school my face
to remain neutral, although my lips twitch—holding back a smile at her
excessive and somewhat unholy glee.

Resigned, I sigh
and begin to unbutton the cuffs on my shirt, and then the buttons down the
front. Renata watches my every move in eager anticipation. Feeling her eyes
hard upon me, I finally throw my shirt down on the floor, exposed and
self-conscious, too aware of her presence.

“Good Lord,” she
whispers, her face alive with awe and excitement. She looks as though she’s
just had a spiritual revelation.

I frown. “What?”

She blinks,
swallows then peers at me with a sudden grin. “Holy Christ on a cracker, Grant!
You are
seriously
built. You are so beautiful! Is that a six-pack? What
does a man have to do to get one of those?”

Her enthusiasm
captivates me. She’s cute and funny, but the subject of my exercise regimen
isn’t really anything to laugh about.

I say nothing.
What
can
I say?

How can I tell
her about my paranoia concerning combat fitness? How do I explain that fear and
uncertainty, rather than vanity, compels me to train? That the daily physical
punishment I force myself to endure helps me maintain some illusion of control.
It's how I keep on top of my demons, driving horrible thoughts from my head and
unwelcome urges from my body?

I have a sudden,
unexpected epiphany, blinding in its clarity. This is the triangle Renata was
talking about.

Body. Mind.
Spirit.

I have control
of my body, my lust and my hungers. In controlling my body, I have better
control of my mind. As for my badly tarnished soul? Well, who knows?

She leans in
closer, intently checking out my tattoos. “So gorgeous. Colorful, too. I love
them. Will you tell me about them, or do I have to wait to use a ‘Truth’
question?”

Her strong
interest isn’t going to disappear anytime soon. I don’t see any way out of it.
Why postpone the inevitable? Sighing, I get up and walk over to sit down on the
bed beside her.

“Yay!” she says,
grinning broadly. 

I point to my
right arm sleeve tattoo, made up mainly of an oak tree, a number of flowers,
leaves and thorns. I trace the intricate branches and leaves. “The oak
represents wisdom, strength and endurance. Flowers are there because I love my
garden. The thorns are there because there's always bad and good together.” I
snort. “I guess it’s to remind me to watch out for the bad things in life.”

“Can I touch
it?” she asks tentatively.

Stiffening, I
nod.

Her fingers
begin to gently trace the oak tree. It's a wonderfully tantalizing soft caress.
I close my eyes and bite back a moan. Sometimes—like now—I’m at ease with such
an innocent touch. My pulse begins to drum at the scorching pleasure of feeling
her soft fingers on my skin.

Stiff already, I
immediately become hard as stone.

“I’ve never seen
any tattoo this colorful,” she says. “Different shades of red, yellow, green,
blue and black. It looks fantastic. What does this say? And this?”

Her enthusiasm
warms me. I trace the red lettering. “This says,
‘Fear is the mind killer
.’
And this?” I point to dark blue letters. “It says,
‘Man's mind may be
likened to a garden, which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run
wild.’
I had them translated into Latin, as private messages to myself.”

Renata frowns,
her expression pensive. “Tell me what they say again.”

I repeat myself
and add, “The garden quote is by a man named James Allen.
‘Fear is the mind
killer,’
comes from a book called
Dune,
by Frank Herbert. The hero
goes through rough times as a boy. I kind of identified with him.”

“You compare
your mind to a garden? That’s rather apropos for you, huh? Weed out bad
thoughts and cultivate good ones. Good plan. It’s important for you to be in
control of your thoughts and emotions, isn’t it?”

My lungs expand
as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. “Yes. I had some pretty major hate
and anger issues when I was growing up. Fear, too, I guess. I was wild and
defiant for a time and heading down a bad path.”

Her eyes
sparkle. “You’re in complete control now.”

My lips curve
into a self-mocking smile. “Mostly,” I say.

I’m thinking
about my raging hard-on and how much effort I'm exerting to curb my more
primitive impulses. I have to fight against a powerful urge to take her right
now.

This is another
reason why I keep away from women.

My body burns
and throbs with unbearable need as raw hunger claws at my belly. I long to
pounce upon her, tearing into her without restraint… like a wolf takes a lamb.
I’m so desperate to give in to my primal urges, to ravish her, to spread her
legs and fuck her hard and fast.

And right after
that? After I climax?

Well, then I’ll
be lost and empty, swiftly followed by feelings of disgust, panic and downright
nausea. I'll need to leave—and
quickly
. It’s my dreaded
run of shame.
It takes place after a climax, unless I'm alone.

“What is this on
the bicep of your other arm?”

I moisten my dry
lips and give her a sheepish grin. “That’s the face of Thor, the God of
Thunder. See? Here’s his hammer.”

Renata laughs
and her eyes light with humor. “Why?”

I shrug. “This
here’s a Christian cross.” I point to where it’s weaved in amongst the leaves
of the oak tree. “When you’re in a battle zone fighting for your life, you kind
of want to cover your bases, I guess.”

Her grin fades
as the thought of war sobers her.

“Thor is usually
depicted as an honorable man, associated with storms, oak trees, strength and
the protection of others. You’d be surprised by how many service men and women
have Thor tattoos or wear his hammer as a charm around their necks.”

“I see.” She
tilts her head. “Thank you so much for showing me.” She grins. “I’ve been dying
to get a look at those tats since the first day I met you.”

“Oh?” I ask,
confused. “How did you know about my tattoos?”

“I could see
just the hint of this one here,” Renata brushes her soft fingers gently along
the top of my right shoulder, “when I ripped the buttons off your shirt,
remember?”

My
jaw clenches, my groin does, too. “I remember,” I say in a hoarse voice.

I
stare into her unblinking blue eyes. There’s that intense bond we have again,
making its presence known. I swear I can see her every thought and emotion
clearly, as if I were reading a novel. Renata draws me in.