Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (88 page)

“Driving
instructors tell you to keep your eyes on the road. Why? If you look at the
object you are attempting
not
to hit, the steering wheel, it
automatically moves in that direction.
Oui! Oui!
This is true!
Et voilà,
then you have the accident, no? Life, it is also like this,
n'est-ce pas?
Do not focus on what you
do not
want. If you do,
je suis désolé,
this
is
exactly
what you will get.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I stare out of
my office window through the late afternoon light into the tree-lined streets
below. The maples are changing color, fall has arrived. It's one of my favorite
times of the year. My garden is lovely during this season.

Somehow, here I
am, running
Highland Park Real Estate,
my family’s business. For over
thirty years the multimillion dollar company has specialized in sales,
marketing and consulting services for luxury residential developments, as well
as private and commercial concerns.

Now it’s all my
responsibility.

How did it come
to this? I’ve run a successful business, but when it comes to real estate, I
have no idea what I’m doing. At least I have a number of experienced, full time
sales consultants and two administrators, who know what they’re doing, thank
God.

I hate sales,
always have. Alex and Betty Jo are the salespeople of the family. With my
scarred disaster of a face, I would probably scare potential customers away.

My brother has
been officially indicted; he’s currently awaiting trial. Grand Jury proceedings
won’t proceed for another couple of months, but our legal team has everything
well in hand. Wearing his ankle monitor, stuck at home, Alex is making up for
lost time with his son, Briley.

As for Betty Jo,
she recently was released from alcohol rehab and is receiving extensive
counseling as an inpatient in another facility. She emails Alex and me at least
once a week, but says very little. I’m sure someone is making her write—probably
André.

Dr. Zhao, Betty
Jo’s therapist, is well known in her field and is frequently called as an
expert witness in court proceedings. Betty Jo calls her ‘The Gestapo’ because
she’s so strict. Dr. Zhao, a doctor of psychology
and
psychiatry, has a
list of letters after her name that reads like the alphabet.

Unfortunately, my
sister’s passionate, no-nonsense doctor also charges like a wounded bull. Good
thing the Wilkinson family can afford her exorbitant fees.

Alex and I are
trying to figure out if Betty Jo intends to let Alex take the fall for the murder
of our father. When I ask André, he’ll only repeat,
‘All will be well, my
friends. Trust me. Your sister and I have a plan.’

Unfortunately,
neither Betty Jo nor André see fit to share this plan with us.

Meanwhile, I’ve
been left running our real estate business. Who would have thought that would
work? I largely deal with correspondence, advertising and ‘the buck stops here’
kind of stuff. Luckily Alex is only a phone call away.

I have to admire
all of the time and effort my brother has invested in this business over the
years by managing this madhouse. Apparently, he’s as much of a wheeler, dealer
as our father was.

I’ve given up my
guns, as I’m a hell of a lousy shot with only one eye. Consequently, I’m in the
process of selling my shooting range to one of my managers, a friend of mine.

“Hey,” Renata
says, suddenly standing behind me in my office.

I spin around,
grinning widely. A blast of raw, overwhelming emotion hits me when I regard her
standing there. I’ve barely seen her all day. Her blonde hair is pulled back,
she wears little make up, while her generous lips shine with gloss. A joyful
smile flashes in her eyes, around her mouth.

I can hardly
believe it. This incredible woman loves
me
.

“Hey yourself,”
I manage in a low, rough voice. “I didn’t know you were back.”

I adore the flattering
tight navy skirt suit she’s wearing with the perfectly tailored blue blouse
that matches her eyes. She’s so damn sexy. She has an elegant manner of dress,
something she attributes to shopping with André.

“I made the
sale!” Giggling adorably, she throws her hands in the air. “How cool is that?” She
does a little happy dance.

“Of course you
did.” I blink, stunned by the sound of her laughter. She makes my chest ache
with pure joy. I always want her to be happy.

When I was
forced to take over the business, Renata saw how lost and out of my element I
was. Thoughtful as she is, she wanted to be there for me to help in every way
possible. Boy, did my lady go above and beyond, more than just rising to the
occasion. She took the fast-track to earn her real estate license through
weekend
and
weekday courses.

Untrained at
first, she came to work with me every day. By asking questions, observation,
fielding walk-in customers, directing them to the right consultants and generally
making my life easier, she quickly learned the ropes. Renata made a
less
than ideal
(more like
dreaded
) situation something I look forward to
each morning. Sharing my workdays with her, watching her confidence grow and
seeing her throughout my day has made this change in our circumstances
fun.

“The Robertson’s
are lovely people,” she gushes jubilantly. “I knew
exactly
what they
wanted. Mrs. Robertson is such a doll. Once I found out about their little
girls, the need for a good school and a fenced in backyard for the family dog,
I knew exactly the house to show them.”

Given her
shyness growing up, it’s surprising to watch how completely she’s turned her
inhibitions around. She's come into her own, right before my eyes. Her weekly
self-defense classes helped. Renata started those after I gave her that
spanking that triggered life-changing epiphanies about pain. André and I are
delighted.

An abrupt image
of her beautiful bare ass sears my brain. My fists clench, my dick twitches.
I’d like to get her over my lap again. We’ve been so busy and overwhelmed
emotionally and otherwise, since that momentous night, we haven’t managed to
revisit the whole ‘anal experience’ idea.

After my
meltdown, she's going out of her way to be extra patient, waiting for
me
to
bring up the subject (so to speak). She let me know loud and clear she's more
than just OK with the idea.

I still haven’t
told her the details of exactly what I want to do. Will she be disgusted? I
wish I knew.

So, now the
figurative ball's in my court, where it's remained for a while. With so much
stress and raw emotions running high with my complex family situation, I
haven't been ready to take that plunge.

I’ll get up the
nerve eventually.
Maybe...

Renata hasn’t
given up on becoming a psychologist, she’s only doing this real estate gig on a
temporary basis for me. She says she pretends she’s counseling her clients. Not
surprisingly, they love her. That works for me as long as she doesn’t get
counseling and sexual surrogacy mixed up!

Meanwhile, she’s
indispensable, not only for support, but as a first contact saleswoman.
Memorable to prospective clients through her fresh approach, people are drawn
to her honest charm. Still relentlessly ‘helping’ she doesn’t think of her
commission. She sees her job as ensuring the right home ends up with the right
client.

I couldn’t be
more proud of her. She's proud of herself, too. She should be with all she’s
achieved.

“Darlin’, you
sure are something. We should go out to dinner to celebrate. How does that
sound? I’ve booked a place for us at
Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek.
It’s
pricey, but perfect.”

And romantic…
which is what I want tonight.

“Wonderful. I’m super
hungry because I skipped lunch.”

“I’m hungry,
too,” I agree, slanting her a look, but I’m not talking about food.

I pull her into
a warm embrace. God, she smells and feels so damn good. I could eat her up. Not
surprisingly, physical contact with her gives me an instant hard on. It’s a burning,
pulsing need I attempt to ignore.

Today is October
3
^rd
, Renata’s birthday. I’m pretending I ‘forgot.’ Maria, our
housekeeper, has decorated the house, as per my instructions. A heady thrill of
anticipation runs through me as well as an inner chuckle. I can barely wait to
get her home and see her in her birthday suit.

Not to mention
the surprise I have for her.

“Hmm,” she says,
placing her hand on my cock, rubbing it through the cloth of my suit. “It sure
feels
as though you’re ready to celebrate.”

“Hell, yes.”

We’re
interrupted by my phone ringing; it’s my brother.

“Hello?”

“Grant, are you
in my office?” Alex says, slightly breathless, clearly excited.

“Yeah.”

“Is Renata
there?”

“Yes.” I grin at
her.

“Good. Close the
door and put me on speaker phone.”

“OK.”

I promptly ask
my secretary to hold my calls, and I shut the door. “Right, we’re both here and
alone,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Did I ever tell
you how my lawyer sleeps?”

“What?”

“First, he lies
on one side, then he lies on the other.”

My brother
laughs uproariously over his silly lawyer joke. Renata’s eyes light with
amusement, while I shake my head ruefully. I admit it’s an improvement on the joke
he texted me earlier. It said something like,
‘Quick, send an alligator… and
make it snappy!’

His laughter is
so light hearted, I can’t stop grinning. Always the corny jokes with my little
brother. I glance at Renata, who has her hand over her mouth, trying not to
laugh too loud. Alex’s breezy, untroubled sense of humor has always tickled
her. It's the opposite of my own tendency to be too serious.

“Alex you goof!
You called to tell us a joke?” I finally ask.

“I have news.”

“So I gathered,
smart ass. Get on with it already.”

“I just found
out the police dropped my case.” His voice is full of delight, so excited.

“Seriously?
This isn’t a joke?” I ask, filled with hope.

“No joke, honest,”
Alex says, “but it sure as hell made me laugh and put a smile on my face.”

“That’s
fantastic! Did the D.A. tell you why?”

“They’ve
arrested Betty Jo instead,” he says this sounding not quite as cheerful, but
not upset or distressed.

“Ah.” My gaze
meets Renata's in a moment of clear understanding. My sister must've finally
done the right thing and turned herself in.

“Betty Jo called
last night and told me her strategy,” Alex says. “She didn’t want you to know anything
about it until it was a done deal.”

“OK.”

“Would you
believe that yesterday our sister sold her story to the
Dallas Morning
Herald
for $250,000? She says it’s to offset her legal fees. Consider
yourself forewarned and be prepared to run into gangs of nosy reporters. The
Herald’s
going to run a series of articles about child abuse, incest and… um, our father.”

“Wow.” I’m floored
by this news.

Like all
Wilkinsons, Betty Jo was taught to be secretive. Never one to share her
feelings, her experiences or any aspect of her life, this is a total departure
for her. Did André put her up to this?

Jesus. I hope my
mother is able to cope. With Mother’s constant prattle about how important it
is to come from a ‘good family’ and her concern about her social standing in
the community, how will she ever live
this
down?

“Sky must be
really happy,” I say. Now no one can complain about her public schooling or her
‘trailer park trash’ pedigree anymore.

“Oh, we both
are,” he assures.

“This morning,
Betty Jo went in and confessed to manslaughter to the District Attorney, with her
psychiatrist and lawyer in tow. Her lawyer told the D.A. he’s not interested in
a plea bargain. The man wants Betty Jo to explain what happened with her father
at trial—he believes the jury will be sympathetic. Her lawyer came on so strong
the D.A. is even more determined than ever to settle out of court. If it keeps
on like this she’ll probably only get community service.”

Alex begins to
laugh. “Man, I wish I’d been there.”

“Sounds
amazing.”

“One last bit of
good news,” he says. “You don’t have to do my job forever. Stick around for a
few days to hand things over, but I’ll be back to work tomorrow.”

“
Yes!
Thank
God.” I clear my throat. “How do you think all of this negative publicity will
affect the family business?”

“Honestly?” Alex
laughs long and loud. “I predict that our sales are gonna skyrocket.”

“Love is not something we give or get; it is
something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated
between two people when it exists within each one of them—we can only love
others as much as we love ourselves.”

― Brené Brown

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Tonight Grant
and I go out for a long, leisurely dinner at
Rosewood Mansion on Turtle
Creek.
Candle light, great food. It’s intimate. Perfect. We’re both
overjoyed Alex is coming back to work.

That will relieve
the pressure Grant’s been under.

We take over
three hours to eat—which feels like maybe thirty minutes. Why? Because it was fun!
We were both utterly absorbed in each other, laughing, teasing and simply
talking.

I asked Grant
what would be a perfect day for him. Of course,
I
was a large part of
his long, interesting answer. We discuss things we are proud of. I name three
things I admire about him; he does the same for me.

We chat about
skills we’d like (him, to speak French; me, to get up the courage to speak well
in public.) Then we discuss silly supernatural abilities. I’d like to be able
to be invisible, he’d rather be able to fly. We discuss mind reading at length.
Do we really want to know what other people think of us?

Grant says he
would rather not know, which surprises me. He’s the courageous one. For me, I
think it would be fun… but then again, maybe not.

Our open conversation
is a subtle pleasure; it slips up on me, building into true joy. We both speak
without guarding our innermost thoughts, or censoring our ideas. Such lack of
inhibition is rare for me.

It’s a
tremendous relief to be with someone, where it feels safe to be totally myself.

We finish by
asking each other, ‘If you could have dinner with anyone in the world since the
beginning of time, who would it be?’

This runs into a
ridiculous list of possibilities. I tell him I’d like to meet Princess Diana, but
I wouldn’t be up to hearing any sad stories.

Grant says he’d
like to see Hitler, just to ask him what in the hell was he thinking? He admits
he’d also like to beat the stuffing out of the guy. He certainly has no thought
of sitting down to dinner with him.

In the end we
both opt for the fun people who'll make us laugh, or stun us with their life
experiences. We decide on Gandhi, Martin Luther King, or David Attenborough,
Shakespeare and Jane Austen would also be interesting and entertaining.

Grant would like
to meet Abe Lincoln and Daniel Boone, an American folk hero. Also Leonardo da
Vinci. I think of J.K Rowling, Albert Einstein, Benjamin Franklin and Mark
Twain.

“What is it?” he
suddenly asks, his eyes softening with concern.

The pensive look
on my face must give me away. I sigh and finally say, “I’d really like to have
dinner with my mother. If I did, I'd ask her to forgive me.”

His eyes flash.
“Renata—”

I raise a hand
and cut him off before he can protest. “I know, I know, Timmy’s death wasn’t my
fault, but in my little heart of hearts I can't help but feel guilty. Mom
always told me to look after my little brother. I'd like to talk to her anyway,
to ask her why she never left dad.”

“I suppose she
felt trapped.”

“But why didn’t
she ask for help from her brother, Uncle Robert? I’d also like to have a chance
to say goodbye. I’d love to see Timmy, too—but if I saw him I’d never be able
to let him go.”

He grips my
hand, thoughtful and sympathetic. “I’d like to meet your mom,” he says. “I’d
tell her that her daughter is the most amazing person in the world. I’d let her
know that even if I could choose from every single person, living or dead,
there’s
no one
I’d rather have dinner with than you, Renata.”

I burst into
unexpected, happy tears at his earnest pronouncement.
Jesus, when it comes
to one liners, Grant really has the goods.

During dinner,
we laugh, we tease, flirt, smile and surprise one another. Casually touching
each other here and there, with innumerable small glances, each one
communicating more than words.

When our words
run out we simply look into each other’s eyes and say nothing. Hopelessly sappy,
every moment we seem to fall more deeply in love.

Simmering sexual
need builds between us throughout dinner, buzzing in the background, but it
never takes over. We both want to savor this time together.

After we eat, I
expect the staff to bring out cake and ice cream and start singing, ‘Happy Birthday
to You.’

No one does.

Is Grant aware
it’s my birthday today? If not, I’ll have to tell him. When he finds out he’ll
be annoyed at the missed opportunity. But maybe he’s planning a surprise? Both
André and Dianna chatted to me earlier today on
facetime
. Surely one of
them would have mentioned my birthday to Grant?

“I’ve had a
lovely evening, Grant,” I say as his car purrs into the garage.

“Me too.” He
shifts into park, the engine switches off, and all is silent. He turns toward
me with a huge smile. Reaching out, Grant tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.
When he does a surge of sensual electricity runs thorough me, head to toe.

“You look so
beautiful.” His voice is deep, his smile makes me want to melt into a puddle of
happiness.

“Wait right
there.” He climbs out of his car, shuts his door and comes around to open mine.

I know how to
open a car door, but it’s in Grant’s nature to be a gentleman. As it happens, I
adore these courteous acts of service. It makes me feel feminine and special.

Excitement and
anticipation has built within me to almost fever pitch. Talk about the perfect
poker face! Does Grant know? Or doesn’t he know?

The warm solid
press of his hand slides low, to the small of my back as he carefully guides me
into the house as though I’m a priceless treasure. God, just one touch and he
makes my whole body
burn
.

Whether he’s
aware it’s my birthday or not, happy birthday sex is in the cards tonight.

When I walk into
the kitchen I see a chocolate birthday cake with pink writing on it sitting on the
kitchen counter, a pink envelope, as well as a dozen pink roses. Pink rose
petals are scattered around the kitchen. Thrilled, I throw my arms around him.

“You
remembered!”

His gaze is
intent. “When it comes to you, I remember everything.”

I open the envelope
and shriek in delight. Inside are two business class return tickets to Paris!
We’re going in three days’ time for a whole week! I plaster myself against him,
my breasts to his rock-hard chest, my hips to his thighs.

He’s firm
already, which is no surprise. Grant always seems ready to go. Even after a
climax, his cock barely softens.

“Thank you so
much,” I murmur my face against his neck. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

“I know.”

Lips parted in
surprise, I pull back and look at him.

“You told me
that months ago,” he explains.

He bends his
head down and kisses me. Taking immediate advantage, he claims my mouth. One
firm palm slides to my nape, his thumb strokes my jaw. The other rakes through
my hair, twisting, lightly gripping and pulling. God, I find that sexy!

“Mmm,” I moan,
yielding completely to his demands.

Tongue stroking
mine, he tastes, he plunders, and before I know it, I’m ready to have sex right
here on the kitchen table.

Again.

Grant breaks off
the kiss, his hands slide to my waist. Pulling back from me, he regards me face
to face. His intent, lust-darkened eyes make my stomach flutter.

“You haven’t
seen the rest of your presents,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

I turn toward
the kitchen counter. I hadn’t noticed before, but the sprinkling of rose petals
trails out of the room. Where are they going?

I grin and start
to follow. “Oh, treasure hunt, hey? Neat.” I turn to give him a saucy look. “I
hope this string of pink leads right into the master bedroom.”

He laughs, a
wonderful sound, lighthearted and pleased. There was a time when I never heard
him laugh. Now, such joy comes naturally.

I take his hand
and pull him along the rose petal path. I find them scattered along the carpet,
trailing up the stairs.

“Ah, this looks
promising,” I say in a teasing tone.

He says nothing,
but I swear I can feel him grinning as he follows behind me.

When I walk into
the bedroom, the bedside table lights are both on. The bed covers have been
pulled back—the bottom sheet is sprinkled with rose petals. It’s very romantic,
but that’s not what strikes my eye. It’s the mirror.

“Oh my God,” I
cry out.

Grant has had a mirror
installed in our bedroom. A HUGE mirror, from the ceiling to the bottom of the
wall beside our bed.

I turn toward
him to see his face studying mine. His lips quirk up into a wry smile.

My brows shoot
up. “What will our poor housekeeper think?” I ask.

“Maria likes it,”
he says. “She laid the rose petals out for me today. As I recall, her actual
comment was, ‘
many children will be made in this bed.
’

I laugh. “How
did you know I liked mirrors?”

He gazes at me,
his eyes penetrating, intense. “Darlin’, I remember every single word you’ve
ever said to me. We were discussing sexual fantasies. You told me,
‘I adore
mirrors. Watching you take me would be hot as hell.’
His voice is low and
hungry with lust.

He shakes his
head. “Watching as I fuck you? I think that sounds hot as hell, too. Now, we
can both get our wish.”

“Yes!”

“I hoped to
impress you.”

“Believe me, you
did,” I tell him. I look down meaningfully at the imposing bulge straining
against his expensive slacks. “But if you really want to impress me, take off
your clothes.”

Grant and I both
laugh at my little joke. When he bends to kiss me, I place a hand on his chest.
“I have one more birthday wish—more a request, really.”

“Oh?” He frowns.
“What is it?” He smiles ruefully. “You know I can’t refuse you anything you ask
for.”

“Good,” I say
with a teasing smile. “I figure after twenty-three birthday spankings—not too
hard, mind you—then I’d love it if you’d take me in the ass. Does that work for
you?”

Oh, where’s a
camera when I need one?

The look on
Grant’s face is priceless.