Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (47 page)

“Prohibition...
goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man's
appetite by legislation…”

―
Abraham Lincoln

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I inhale deeply.
“My whole life may have been screwed up, but I had
one
thing I was
certain of: As an American soldier, I was a patriot and one of the
good guys
.
I came to Mexico expecting to do the world a favor by killing a bad guy.”

The thought that
I might have been wrong, almost destroyed me.

“The good Father
had to know I killed the head of the cartel, yet we never discussed it. When I
was well enough, he drove me around, pointing out the good things my Target’s
organization was responsible for. Do you know that the Knights prevent drug
sales in their own communities? They even offer free treatment programs for
addicts.”

Incredulous,
Renata shakes her head. “That seems… counterproductive.”

“Not for them,”
I explain. “They want the communities that support them to be healthy and
happy, with as many family ties to their organization as possible.”

“Really?”

“They’re
well-integrated with hundreds of social programs. They employ half the
community, providing them with excellent wages and benefits—better than a
soldier in the Mexican army receives. They even prevent domestic violence and
petty crime.”

“Unbelievable,”
she says.

“It’s a hell of
a thing. They deeply favor the Pope and consider themselves good Catholics! Do
you know what the motto of the Knights Templar is? Every new member has to take
this vow,
‘I swear and promise to always fight to protect the oppressed, the
widows and the orphans.’
Can you believe that?”

Renata’s eyes
widen and her mouth drops open. “They see themselves as heroes?”

“Oh, yes,” I
assure her. “Protectors of the church, family and community. They have
legitimate business interests, yet they mainly import and distribute cocaine.”

“I haven’t had
much experience with alcohol or drugs,” Renata says.

“I have,” I tell
her. “Every party I attended as a teenager had cocaine flowing like a river of
snow. Politicians, celebrities, NFL players—people with money use and abuse
cocaine. It’s a party drug, but I’ve met my fair share of addicts.”

Renata shrugs.
“Addicts often end up living on the street.”

“Of course,
you’d know about that first-hand.” I give her a faint smile.  “I’m sorry you
were homeless in your teens.”

“It wasn’t so
bad,” she says.

“Miss Positive.”
I grin at her. “Rich and educated addicts often camouflage their addiction,” I
say, thinking of my father, brother, sister… and myself.

“Yes,” Renata
agrees. “Except sometimes they act like two-year-olds—they want what they want
and they want it now!”

We both laugh
because it’s funny, even though it really isn’t. Renata’s clearly thinking
about her alcoholic father and I’m thinking about mine.

“You’ve got to
admire the community business model,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s genius.”

“But they push
drugs!” Renata protests. “Look at your brother and sister-in-law, they’ve lost
their son. Drugs are the root of so much evil!”

“Good or evil
isn’t the issue—the issue is big business. The United States is the largest
consumer of cocaine worldwide. This one cartel probably makes between forty and
sixty
billion
dollars
a year. Do you know who else makes sixty
billion a year?”

“No.”

“Microsoft,” I
tell her.
“That’s
the kind of money I’m talking about.”

Renata frowns.
“What are you trying to say?”

I shrug.
“Prohibition doesn’t work. Too many wealthy and influential Americans enjoy
cocaine and will find a way to get it.”

Her eyebrows
shoot up. “You think public servants and government officials turn a blind eye
to the sale of cocaine?”

“I don’t know.
Is there another explanation?”

“Human nature?”
Renata suggests. “It’s forbidden, therefore people want it?”

“Maybe,” I
reply. “But that doesn’t explain the exponential growth in sales.” I shake my
head. “No, drugs are actively
being pushed.
Some companies spend over
a
billion
dollars a year on advertising—that’s one thousand
million
dollars. If you think about it, you’ll know who they are.”

Renata’s brow
furrows in concentration. “Walmart?” she suggests.

I laugh. “Good
guess,” I congratulate her. “Walmart don’t pay their staff a decent wage yet
they can afford a billion dollars a year in advertising—go figure. Promotion is
big business. Do you know why people buy
that
new car or
that
brand of insurance? Because advertising told them to!”

“I never see
cocaine advertised.”

“Drug pushers
don’t promote on TV or billboards,” I explain. “Their promotions are more
subtle, yet they still spend millions marketing their product. You know how
they sell drugs in schools?”

“No.”

“Dealers find
the most popular, good-looking and well-dressed kid in the school and
give
him
cocaine to share with his friends.
That’s
the kid they recruit
to move their product. Why? Because everyone wants to
be
him. If the
popular kid sells cocaine? Well, he makes experimenting with drugs cool. When
you’re an adolescent, you want to be cool, don’t you?”

“You really
think that happens?” Renata asks with alarm in her voice. She’s probably
imagining Briley going to school and being sold drugs.

“Yes.” I pause.
I’m trying to remain calm, but I’m not having much success. “Did you know you
can send a text and have cocaine delivered to your door in thirty minutes or
less
anywhere
in the United States? Think about it. What organization
can meet that criteria? Who are these faceless criminals who distribute drugs?
They’re people we know—housewives, teachers, white-collar workers and
students.”

“What are you
saying?”

“I killed a good
man,” I tell her, fisting my hands in a sudden spike of fury. “He was a better
father than either of us had. I
murdered
him in his home around his
family. And why did I do this? For my country? No! I don’t know
who
benefited from his death!”

“But he sold
drugs!”

“So did my
brother!” I roar, and my rage echoes loudly through the room.

Renata visibly
flinches and I feel like an ass.  The angry moment hangs thick and heavy in the
air between us. I’m mortified that I’ve shouted at her. Breathing heavily, I
stop for a long moment to collect myself.

“Does Alex
deserve to die?” I finally manage to say quietly. “Should I kill
him?”

Her features
light with understanding. “Oh.”

I run my hand
through my hair, touching the edge of my scars. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“It’s OK.”

I reach over and
take her hand. “No, it’s not OK. There is no way on God’s green earth I’d ever
believe that losing my temper with you is OK, especially with your history. Are
you sure you’re alright?

“Yes,” she says.
“The subject is very personal to you.”

“It is,” I
admit. “I spent weeks brooding in that damned basement. The same thoughts went
round and round my head.
Am I
a good guy? Killing is a sin. I killed,
but it was my job. Yet, it’s OK if I kill
bad guys.
My Target was a good
father—was he a bad guy? Of course he was a bad guy! He sold drugs. Yet,
my brother
sold drugs and it was
my
father
that
really
deserved to be
shot. Do you see why I became so damned confused?”

Renata’s
compelling blue eyes soften with understanding. “Yes,” she says quietly.

“The Knights
Templar are still going strong. Luis is dead and a mother and her three
children have been deprived of a husband and father. What was it all for? I
always believed I was a monster—I had so little self-respect as it was.”

I drop her hand
and avert my gaze. “That one mission took away what little self-respect I had.”

“You’re not a
monster and I respect you like crazy,” Renata says.

“Thank you for
that,” I say with a sigh. “More and more American kids discover the pleasures
of cocaine every day and
someone
has to meet the ever-growing demand.
Meanwhile, soldiers are sent to do jobs that make them doubt everything they
ever believed in.”

“That’s
terrible!”

“Yes,” I agree.
“What’s the point in going after Mexicans? Our real enemies? The people who are
selling cocaine? They’re Americans and they live next door. In truth,
Los
Caballeros Templarios
are simply providing a product to the American
people.”

We both remain
silent for a long moment. Finally, Renata asks, “Grant, did you ever write to
the priest to thank him?”

“No, that
wouldn’t be safe for him… or for me.”

“That’s too bad.
I’d like to thank him,” Renata says quietly.

I shake my head,
still amazed after all this time. “
Padre Sigala
really was a saint,” I
tell her. “I’m still astonished he didn’t turn me in.”

“Why?” Renata
asks. “Because he risked his life by saving yours? That sounds like something a
priest would do.”

“Yes,” I say,
“but not only that. The man I killed was the chief financial supporter for
Padre
Sigala’s
church. Without fail, the Target went to the priest for communion
every Sunday. After services, he always played a quiet game of chess with the
good Father.”

Renata’s blue
eyes widen in surprise and confusion.

I give her a
sad, ironic smile. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. The man I murdered?” I
explain. “He and
Padre Sigala
grew up together. My Target was the
priest’s best friend.”

"Tension
is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are."

— Chinese
Proverb

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I’m still
reeling from the sniper story Grant shared with me. That was intense. He’s such
an amazing man. I’m madly in love with him, but I also I can’t help but
like
him.

Also, it doesn’t
hurt that the sexual chemistry between us is off the charts. I don’t know if
it’s his hot all-muscle-body, his heady male scent, his pheromones or what.
Either way, he makes my knees weak, my nipples hard and my panties wet.

I crave him.

The hotel phone
rings and Grant answers it. “Thank you, I’ll be right down,” he says, and hangs
up. “That was the front desk, our pizza’s here.” He smiles boyishly and adds,
“Right on time. I’m starving.”

My lips part and
I gape at him like an idiot. I’m pretty sure my heart just stopped. Who could
resist him?
Not me!
I melt every single time Grant smiles at me.

I follow closely
behind him, through the living area to the front door. Damn, that man sure can
fill out a pair of jeans. I love the long, lean length of him and his
confident, sexy stride.

“Thank you, for
listening,” he says, leaning over and kissing me on my cheek.

“It was my
pleasure,” I say. “Thank you for sharing. It means so much to me.”

Grant smiles,
nods, opens the door to our hotel suite and leaves, shutting the door behind
him. 

I’ve told him my
stories and he’s told me his. That’s what really close friends do. Now I just
need to figure out how to get them out of his head, and turn him into a
confident lover.
My lover.

I squeeze my
eyes shut. God, I want to feel his hands on me. I want to feel
my
hands
on him. I imagine him naked, my nails scratching his back as he pushes inside
of me, deep and hard.

Waiting has been
agony. For the love of God, will he fuck me
now
? Here? Tonight?
Ever?

I feel as though
I’m losing my mind.

I decide to have
a quick shower and wrap myself in one of those fluffy bathrobes the hotel
provides. Maybe that will give him some ideas.

The smell of
hot, fresh pizza fills the room as Grant returns. “You took a shower,” he says,
as he eyes me in the robe with my freshly washed and blow-dried hair.

“Sure did.”

“Good.” He nods
and looks me up and down speculatively. “You got anything on underneath that
bathrobe?”

I give him a
teasing smile. “Not telling. That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

He raises an
eyebrow, and once more peruses my covered body with a long, leisurely stare.
“Now, I
really
want to see what’s under there.”

Grant is so
relaxed at this moment, I don’t feel that anxiety vibe he radiates whenever he
thinks of being intimate with me. I’m not sure exactly where he’s getting all
of this confidence, but I think he needs to be rewarded.

“As you wish,” I
say, fluttering my eyelashes
.

Under his
intense scrutiny, I slowly untie my bathrobe, taking one side of the terrycloth
material in each hand, and pull it open—flashing him my naked body while
undulating in a slow, sensual dance. It reminds me of my striptease from our
special
‘Truth or Dare’
night weeks ago, which puts a big grin on my
face.

Grant laughs—
he
laughs!

“Renata, only
you!” he says, then clears his throat. “You’re cruel. Um… pizza, remember?” He
shoves the pizza box toward me as a reminder.
“Pizza!”

I laugh and
cover up. “I get it. Address one hunger at a time, huh?”

“Yes.”

Grant drops the
box on the nearby table and we both sit down. A few minutes go by as we eat.
The near silence is punctuated with an occasional “umm” or groan of pleasure. 

“What’s with
you?” I ask him once my initial hunger pangs have eased. “You seem…
stress-free.”

Long legs
stretched out in front of him, Grant slouches back in the chair. “I’ve been
thinking.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You know I’ve
never actually
slept
with a woman, right?”

It still blows
me away that I’m going to be his first, yet I keep my features composed. “So I
understand,” I say evenly.

“I’ve been
nervous about tonight,” he says, “but I’m not nervous anymore.”

“What changed?”

“I’m not sure,”
he says, taking another slice of pizza. “It felt good to tell you what happened
in
Michoacán—
I think that may be part of it. It was a huge relief to be
able to finally talk about that. I’ve had all sorts of idiotic thoughts running
through my head. I’ve been worried about doing something stupid, or of you
finding out who I really am, or what I’ve done and possibly hating me for it.”

I want to jump
in here and deny I could ever hate him, but André’s lessons hold me back. I
need to be the therapist, right now. Grant is still working through something.
Opening my big mouth would just interrupt his train of thought.

André says
all
counselors talk too much.

Every. Single.
One.

He confessed he
only knows this, because he’s been one of the biggest offenders! Listening is
much more important than talking.
Dieu nous a donné deux oreilles et une
seule bouche,
he says. That’s
why God gave us two ears but one
mouth.

Nothing helps a
client more than intently listening
in silence.
It gives a person time
and the headspace to work things out for themselves.

Grant stares at
his pizza as he thinks. “I’ve been afraid of feeling sick or panicking and
needing to flee like a coward. Fear of failing, too—failing is a big one.”

I pause, waiting
to see if he’ll say anything else. When he doesn’t, I ask, “You don’t feel
those things now?”

“No,” he says,
lips curving into a smile. “I suspect thinking about something is much harder
than actually doing it. It’s strange, but now that you know so much about me,
and I know so much about you, I feel… safe.”

I nod. “I know
exactly what you mean.”

He smiles back
at me and then chuckles. “You don’t scare me anymore.”

I shake my head,
laughing at that nonsensical notion.
“Me? Scary?”

“It’s true!” he
admits. “I always thought of myself as a monster, and you always thought of
yourself as a mouse. Yet, I think in a way,
I’ve
been the mouse. I’ve
been afraid of so many things—my secrets, my guilt, sex and women. I’ve hidden
these fears from everyone, starting with myself.”

“Wait… does that
make
me
the monster?” I say teasingly.

Grant grins.
“Never.”

I grin back at
him, but say nothing.

I’ve been
wanting to ask him about what happened when we were playing
‘Truth or Dare.’
That was when he first realized he found sex easier when focusing his
attention on me rather than himself. Too bad I can’t ask about that now.

André says, ‘The
enemy of good is “better.’ Why try to ‘improve’ a good thing? Grant is doing
well. I don’t want to risk breaking his current mood.

“I’m gonna take
a quick shower,” Grant says, standing up and glancing down at me, “and I think
I’ll come out dressed like you.”

“Does this mean
we are going to have sex tonight?” I ask hopefully.

“Absolutely.” He
stares at me. “I have a plan.”

His gaze travel
from my breasts, to my face. For a moment he focuses on my lips, then higher.

Our eyes lock.

Grant’s piercing
gaze makes my inner muscles clench. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to
curb an overwhelming need to squirm under his intense scrutiny.

I ache and I’m
empty. I swear—his hungry stare is all the foreplay I need. The tension in my
core builds, coiling tighter at the thought of finally having his body inside
of mine again.

Grant taking me.

Using me.

Filling me.
Oh yes!

I clear my
throat and swallow hard.

“Do you?” I
manage to choke out. “When did you come up with this plan of yours?”

“I’ve been
thinking about it for weeks, but I finally figured out exactly what to do while
I was going down to get the pizza.”

Grant ‘
going
down’
for pizza takes on a whole new meaning. How does
that
work? It
cracks me up, easing my extreme arousal. Stupid jokes fly through my mind, most
of them having to do with; ‘meat lovers,’ and ‘sausages,’ and ‘if I don’t come
in thirty minutes, is the pizza free?’

“What?” he asks,
confused by my laughter. “What’s so funny?”

I shake my head.
“You don’t think it’s funny? While
going down
for pizza, you figured out
your big plan of seduction. Did you think it would work as a pickup line?
Hey
baby, how about sex and a pizza? No? What's wrong? Don't you like pizza?”

Laughter bubbles
from his throat, when I explain all the silly jokes going through my mind.

He strides into
the bathroom and I hear the shower as I tidy up and pull back the covers on our
bed. When he comes out, he’s wearing the bathrobe that matches mine. 

“Want to use the
restroom?” he asks.

“Yes, thank
you.” I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I’m done and I open the
bathroom door, Grant is standing right there.

I peer around
him but see the bedroom is now pitch black. Grant has drawn the blackout
curtains. No lights are on in the room. The only light comes from a digital
clock at the bedside and of course, the bathroom light, behind me.

Grant stands
before me, a smile flickering in his eyes and around his mouth. There’s lust in
his features and also a glint of wry humor. Still, I can’t help but be daunted.
He seems so damned big—his body fills the entire doorway.

I sense no air
of vulnerability, uncertainty or nervousness in him. He’s comfortable and at
ease, which ratchets up my desire to instant overload.

Jesus, is
this man finally going to let himself go?

My pulse spikes
and heat pools between my legs. “What’s up?” I ask, licking my lips. “Why is it
so dark in here?”

Grant’s sexy
grin enchants me. “You like the dark because you enjoy climbing into that box
of yours. Darkness is safe and private. I think I’ll be more comfortable in the
dark too.”

“Oh,” I say, my
whole body zinging with electricity. “Yes, dark can be good.”

Grant takes off
his bathrobe and throws it across a nearby chair. He stands in front of me,
utterly naked and as hot as hell. Perfectly sculpted, he’s like the marble
statue of a Greek God.

My gaze roams
over his face, his broad shoulders and muscular chest, moving lower and
converging on his proudly upstanding cock.

It’s huge.

Jesus! Did
someone just suck all the air out of this room?

My body stills,
my mind goes blank. I’m pretty sure my heart has somehow been transported
lower—it’s now beating furiously between my legs. I feel it throbbing,
thundering like a pulse right
there.

Grant stares at
me, aware of my aching arousal. I don’t know how, but
he knows.
His nostrils
flare.

What? Oh my
God. Can he smell me?

“Lose the robe,”
he growls in a low, husky voice.

I tremble, as
everything within me—everything I am, responds to his erotic command. I make a
tiny sound as I untie my robe, and let it drop behind me at my feet.

Holy shit,
he’s so damned sexy!

Grant nods his
approval at my compliance, but his lips are pressed together in a firm line. I
recognize his single-minded expression.

Grant wants
to fuck me.

He has the
confident look of a man who fully expects to get what he wants.

Raw, intense and
strangely imposing, he holds out his hand to me. I need the support—my knees
feel as if they’re about to buckle. They barely hold me up.

Somehow, I
manage to place my smaller palm in his. The contact of his warm flesh on mine
burns like a brand. Everything about Grant utterly disarms me.

I can’t speak.
There’s no oxygen getting to my brain. I’m pretty sure all of my blood flow has
migrated south to my swollen, tingling breasts and my pulsing clit.

“Why don’t you
turn off the light, darlin’?” he murmurs in his sexy, Texas drawl.

As if
hypnotized, I keep my eyes on his.

Then I turn off
the bathroom light.