Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (38 page)

“Embracing our
vulnerabilities is risky, but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and
belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable.”

― Brené Brown

~~~

Renata
Koreman

“You have a bit
of a dominant streak in you,” I tell him. “Were you aware that you were bossing
me around?”

“Yes.”

“Do you usually
do that?”

“Never—not like
that.”

I wait, but he
doesn’t elaborate on his statement. Often, a therapist can just shut her mouth
and people will tell her things. Human nature tends to make people want to fill
the vacuum of an uncomfortable silence with speech. Sadly, that particular
technique doesn’t seem to work with Grant. He likes silence.

I quickly
realize that I need to avoid asking him ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions. They don’t
get him to talk. Stifling a sigh, I decide to change my approach.

“Did you feel
the urge to run at any time?”

“No.”

“Tell me, how
did
you feel?”

He smiles. “Comfortable.”

“That’s
fantastic,” I say. “What an excellent start. Good for you.”

He smiles. I
smile. More silence.

“Hmm,” I say.
“Anything else to add?”

“No.”

I snort, showing
my irritation. “I feel as if I’m pulling teeth here, Grant. Pretend I’m André
for a minute, will you? We were just intimate, sharing sexual activities that
were new for you. I could have hit upon negative triggers. Give me some more
feedback, will you? What do you think André would want me to know?”

Grant sighs
heavily and leans back in his chair. He averts his gaze, seemingly studying an
oil painting in the living room. I’ve observed this behavior before. A lot.
This is the Grant who fully thinks things through before he speaks.

“Sex has always
felt dirty and disgusting to me,” he says. “It's been that way for as long as I
can remember, so I expect it. But with you?” He shrugs. “Well… it wasn’t...

Unfortunately,
I’m drinking milk when he says this and I almost choke. My gulp and sudden
burst of laughter causes me to do a spit-take, spraying milk all over the
table.

Grant jumps up
to get the kitchen towel, which I grab from him and put over my face to smother
my loud giggling.

He glares at me,
obviously not seeing the humor I see.

“I’m sorry!” I
say, once I pull myself together and wipe up the mess I've made. “Honestly.
Thank you…
I think
.” I snicker some more. “It’s just that your comment
was so flattering—in an ass backwards sort of way. What a compliment!

I sit up
straight and imitate André’s voice and accent, “And how was sex with Renata,
Grant?” I switch to Grant’s Texas twang, “Oh, well, it wasn’t dirty or
disgusting, not like I thought it would be.”

Grant’s lips
twitch into a smile as he finally understands how humorous his statement was.

“Excuse me, I
honestly didn’t mean to interrupt you, but that sure tickled me. Please
continue. You were telling me something.”

Grant frowns and
once more averts his gaze as he thinks. Suddenly, he shoves his glass of milk
out of the way and leans toward me. To my surprise, his expression changes. His
eyes lock on to mine and his face transforms into a look of…
what?
Wonder? Realization?

“I was able to
get into it and enjoy it because my attention was focused on
you
,” he
says, abruptly ardent. “I connected with
you.
I wanted to please
you.
It made everything we were doing seem good and clean and right somehow.”

Wow!
What
a tribute.

I maintain my
composed expression—at least I hope I do. “Thank you,” I reply.

Could I be as
important to him as he is to me? Does he know how much I care? My breath
catches and my stomach flutters. My gaze falls to the crackers. Maybe I’ll have
another one. I’m not hungry, but it will distract me.

I look away from
him because I can’t quite face the intensity I see in his eyes.

I have a huge
crush on Grant. I love the man, but I don’t think it's right to talk to him
about it. Hell, I don't think it's right to even feel this way. It certainly
crosses professional boundaries.

André’s advice
echoes in my mind.
Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This
is not about you.

I can't confess
my love. Especially, not yet. Certainly not just now. His issues must come
first.

Grant gives me a
faint smile. “Can I ask you a question?”

I relax, glad to
change the subject. “Sure.”

“Why were you so
turned on? I mean, without us touching each other, we really just pleasured
ourselves. What’s with that? Are you usually so…um,” he frowns in
concentration, searching for the right word. With a sexy, wry smile he finally
says, “passionate and ah… excitable?”

I grin. “You mean
horny
?”

He looks at me
sheepishly and laughs. “Yes!”

“Well, first of
all, my period's due tomorrow, and honestly, I’m always ultra-horny right
before my period. I swear, even fire hydrants look good to me then!” I quip.

Grant stiffens.

Have I shocked him
by mentioning the unmentionable? He hasn’t had much experience with women, but
I’m not going to treat him with kid gloves on
this
subject. A woman’s
monthly cycle is a part of life, so I refuse to ignore the obvious or dance
around the truth. Since we're going to be living together for a while, he might
as well get used to it.

“So,” I
continue, ignoring his tension. “My hormones were part of it. But what we did
together wasn’t merely masturbation. Simply playing with myself never gets me
that
hot. I told you before—you flip every ‘on-switch’ I have. And tonight, watching
you, seeing your desire for me in your eyes…”

I pause to fan
myself exaggeratedly, while trying to cajole him into a smile. His lips twitch
at my silly antics. He’s so damned cute! On the hottie scale of 1 to 10, Grant
bats 1000.

“Mmm, just
hearing your sexy pillow talk…”

For a heartbeat,
I’m drawn back to those heated moments. The raw hunger I’d felt to have the
hard, long length of him deep inside of me. I shake my head to clear my mind
and take a deep breath.

“We’re just so
damned compatible,” I say with a broad grin. "I bet we could both climax
non-stop all night long and all of tomorrow. I don’t think we'll ever find an
end to that heat.”

“I agree,” he
says, his lips firm, his expression grave.

Grant’s still
wearing his super-serious expression. It cracks me up when I’m trying to be
lighthearted, but I manage to curb my laughter.

We sit there,
stupidly staring at each other once more, but saying nothing. It’s so
ridiculous, yet it’s something we seem to do
a lot.

A thought
strikes me. “So, you touched me…
”

“Yes,” he says,
and a smile tugs at his lips.

“And you didn’t
experience any need to run away?”

“None.”

“So tonight was
a success?” I suggest.

His face fills
with satisfaction. “A complete success.”

“Wonderful,” I
say. “OK then, how about we move forward to the next part of our night? Let’s
lie down on your bed together, but we’ll keep our clothes on. I want to work
toward you learning to accept and appreciate physical closeness.”

Grant's entire
body stiffens, but I ignore his reaction. I know touch is an issue. If I
explain myself, perhaps he’ll come to terms with my plan.

“For a start, we
can just lie down beside one another,” I say. “Trust me, you’ll be comfortable
enough to actually touch me after a while. The main goal here is to just enjoy
it. Once we get to that point, whenever you're ready, we can get into some
hardcore
cuddling!"
I joke.

Appearing
suddenly lost and out of his element, Grant's eyes widen slightly. His discomfort
is almost palpable. Through what I can only assume has been years of practice
and sheer force of will, his features remain composed—but his eyes!

He can’t hide
the anxiety in eyes.

He looks as
though he’s approaching a state of panic.

Someone sure as
hell fucked him up. For all I know, it might've been a number of
someones
.
I want to ask Grant about his childhood. I want to know the details. Who hurt
him so deeply? But once again, I decide that it’s better to wait.

Now is not the
time for that. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.

“You know what?”
I say suddenly, “You already moved mountains tonight. Let’s leave the whole
touching exercise for another day. It’s getting late and I have no idea if
Briley will sleep through the night. Let's just hang out for a while and then
get some sleep.”

Grant nods his
agreement. The tension leaves his body as fast as it came, clearing the air. In
discussing certain topics, such as touching, I risk the chance of pushing him
too far. If we stop now, we’ll end our night on a positive note.

“There’s no
rush,” I add. “You did so well, Grant. I hope you're as pleased as I am about
your progress tonight. You blew me away.”

He smiles and
the powerful masculinity that is such a part of him slams into me with the
force of a semi. I’m suddenly dizzy and breathless.

Dazed, I smile
back.

I know I’ve made
the right decision. We have weeks to spend together and plenty of time to touch
each other.

I had no idea
how wrong I was.

“Search
Warrant: A court order authorizing the examination of a place for the purpose
of discovering contraband, stolen property, or evidence of guilt to be used in
the prosecution of a criminal action.”

— Webster’s
Dictionary

~~~

Detective
Bronowski

“I love you,
Daddy.”

“I love you,
too, princess.”

Janice
Bronowski, the youngest of three children, lay tucked into bed with her
favorite toy, a stuffed pony. Her long brunette hair stood out in stark
contrast to her white sheets. With her perfect button nose, red lips and brown
eyes, she was a beautiful child.

Janice got her
looks from her mother, thank God.

Roman Bronowski
bent over and kissed his daughter goodnight. Impulsively, Janice threw her arms
around his neck, holding on as if she would never let him go. Her slim, young
limbs squeezed him tight.

She might just
as well have been squeezing his heart.

His phone rang
inside his pocket.

“Are you going
back to work, Daddy?” Janice asked sleepily.

He shook his
head. “Not if I can help it, sweetie. Sleep well.” Roman switched off her light,
shut the door and answered his phone.

“Bronowski,” he
answered, as he made his way down the stairs.

“Judge Morrison
came through,” Lee Brewer, the District Attorney, said. “We’ve obtained the
warrant for the Chester Wilkinson case.”

“Excellent. Did we
get everything we asked for?”

“Computers,
phones, and medications at his home and workplace.”

“OK. Should I
call in the team?”

“The State
doesn’t want to pay overtime,” Lee said. “It’s already been three years. It can
wait until tomorrow morning.”

“OK,” Roman
replied. “I’ll text everyone. We can hit both places simultaneously at 7 a.m.”

“I’ll have the
legal paperwork sent to your home.”

“That’s fine.”

“Keep me
informed,” Lee said. “You have a good night now.”

“Sure. You too.”

Roman ended the
call, put his phone back in his pocket and poured himself a couple of fingers
of whiskey from the bar.

His wife, Angela
sat in front of the TV, utterly absorbed. She was watching CSI.

Again.

Fucking CSI.

Roman liked the
show well enough, except watching it was too much like taking work home. It
also irritated the hell out of him at how easy it always was for the assholes
in TV Land to solve their cases. Every crime they worked on was neatly wrapped
up with a pretty bow on top within the allotted one-hour episode.

If only life
could be that way.

Few crimes were
so easy or obvious to solve. Enforcing the law was rarely tidy.
Crimes
occurring in his neck of the woods was messy, took serious time to resolve, and
all too often remained unsolved with the perpetrators still at large.

“Who was that,
hon?” Angela asked absently. Her gaze never left the TV.

“Just work,” he
said.

A familiar,
unwanted emotion welled up inside of Roman. He resented the attention his wife
continually devoted to the TV. There was a time when they couldn’t keep their
hands off each other.

How long had it
been since he’d last gotten laid? It had been a while—more than a week anyway,
and probably closer to two. He was frustrated at how he always had to wait for
his wife to make the first move. Her constant rejection was killing him.

How did it
come to this?
he wondered.

What was the old
joke? How do you stop a woman from fucking? Marry her!

In Roman’s mind,
there were no truer words. He shook his head.

I’m actually
jealous of CS fucking I,
he realized.
Here I am, a real life detective
right here in her own home, in her bed and she ignores me to stare at the fake
ones on TV!

A commercial
came on. Angela turned her brown eyes toward him with a look of displeasure on
her face.

“You’re not
going back to work tonight, are you?”

“Hell, no,” he
said, walking over and slumping down onto the couch next to his wife. “’I have
an early start in the morning though.”

Angela raised
her eyebrows, her lips twisting into a naughty smile. “Good, because I was
thinking we would get to bed early tonight,” she murmured with a seductive lilt
to her voice.

Roman set his
drink down quickly. “Oh, babe, that’s a great idea,” he said eagerly, placing
an arm around her. “You look really tired. Why don’t we go to bed right now?”

“Shh, shh!” she
said, physically withdrawing from him, her eyes again focused on the TV, as the
show came back on. “You can take me to bed… right
after
this episode of
CSI.”