Abuse

Stan gave him a tentative smile but found he was still so scared he was unable to speak. Instead, he just nodded and began shakily walking around the yard.

  Important people want to keep me safe. And they want me to keep out of jail. Thanks dad. Amen to that.

  His attorney was brokering a deal about the Chester Wilkinson murder. Stan knew about the common hypnotic that had been slipped in his drink. It was a drug that would prevent Wilkinson from stopping someone, intent on pushing him to his death.

  A coroner wouldn’t routinely test for that drug. The killer only knew about it because he’d watched a murder mystery on TV where it had been used.

  Stan was lucky he’d recalled the drug’s name: scopolamine. It was used for motion sickness. The side effects were a slightly dry mouth, mildly dilated pupils and drowsiness. It also had a hypnotic effect, so a person tended to become suggestible. They wouldn’t resist, regardless of consequences.

  Once they found scopolamine in Wilkinson’s body and Stan told them what else he knew, the police would have a reason to prosecute. In that case, the DA agreed they’d let him off with minor conditions—a mere slap of the wrist.

  The police had started proceedings to get an order to exhume the body for testing. They also agreed to release Stan on bail with house arrest and an ankle monitor until his trial.

  Hopefully, there would be no trial.

  As Stan’s grandma used to say, Keep a few pokers in the fire… one will heat up.

  The DA had demanded to know the name of the murderer, but Stan knew how to keep his mouth shut. He wouldn’t give up a name until the deal was sealed. There was a time and a place for everything.

  Negotiating was a little like fishing. You had to be patient. Make them hungry for it and hook them. Then reel them in and save yourself.

  First let them exhume a drugged corpse. Once the D.A. knew a murder had been committed, then Stan would have leverage. They would beg for details

  He never doubted Chester Wilkinson had been murdered.

  Stan would have to pay for the cocaine the police had taken from him—Skinny wouldn’t forgive the debt. But first, he needed to get out of here. Then he’d discuss his outstanding financial issues with his father. Dad would be pissed, but he’d come through.

  His mother had died two years ago and that’s when all his problems had started. The judge should cut him some slack. After all, there’d been a death in the family. Stan did miss his mom.

  This was an election year for the sheriff. His father had pledged funds for his campaign... provided his son was set free. Dad also had connections with a wealthy oil baron in Odessa, Texas, who owed him a favor.

  The murder, his mother’s death, the sheriff’s campaign, the wealthy oil baron. There may even be other people his dad would be negotiating with. So many possibilities.

  Stan could almost hear his grandma speaking: Put lots of pokers in the fire, honey child. That’s the way. Don’t rely on just one. Something’ll get hot.

  Stan sure hoped so.

  His best friend, Alex was going to hate him, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no way he was going to go to jail. He came from a wealthy family with connections. Surely, he could buy his way out of this… somehow.

  Stan never once considered that others—people who didn’t have money or connections—perhaps they, too might deserve a second chance. This idea never crossed his mind.

  Frowning, he shook his head. Sweet baby Jesus, he’d sure screwed up. Still, it seemed as though he’d get through this. He’d be out on bail come Monday.

  With a bit of luck, and by using the leverage of a murdered man, he’d stay out of jail, too.

  An image of Mindy came into Stan’s mind then. If he asked her, would she come visit him at home this week?

  There were a few positions they hadn’t tried yet—like reverse cowgirl. Stan liked the idea of staring at Mindy’s firm, round ass as she rode him hard. He could imagine how hot she’d look and feel, those sexy buttocks of hers moving up and down on his cock while he watched the muscles of her back, butt and thighs work.

  He could almost hear her gasps of arousal; he could almost smell her; he could almost feel her scorching pussy tighten and pulse around him, milking his cock. The thought of it made him instantly hard.

  Stan shook his head.

  What I wouldn't give for some alone time with Mindy… and just a few small lines of cocaine.

  PART THREE—The Monster and the Mouse

  Chapter 1.

  “Many times karma comes from inside—with each individual creating their own Heaven or Hell.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  Even after taking a sleeping pill, I didn’t manage to sleep a wink last night.

  I’m so worked up, I didn’t eat breakfast and can’t eat much lunch. I promised André I’d have a session with a sexual therapist he recommended. Just the idea of it has me on edge.

  I’ve gone back and forth from, “No way can I do this,” to, “OK, maybe just this once.”

  I’m supposed to meet them both at 2 p.m. at André’s place but, unable to deal with waiting, I arrive an hour early. Gustav escorts me into André’s study. Every muscle in my body is strung tight.

  “Bonjour!” André greets me cheerfully, standing up from his desk and holding out his hand. I take my right hand from where it sits, jammed deep in my jeans pocket, and give him a perfunctory shake. My nerves are shot to hell and gone.

  “My friend, you are very early. Are you well?”

  “No, I’m not well,” I say. I probably look fine on the outside, but inside I’m bordering on panic. “I didn’t sleep for shit. I don’t want to do this thing with the surrogate, André. It’s too soon. Can we do something else today? I swear to God, I’m just not up for this.”

  “Very well. It shall be as you wish.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m stunned by his reply. I don't believe it. I was all worked up and prepared for a fight. How easy was that? Is that all it takes? If so I should’ve told him this last night. I could have gotten a decent night’s sleep.

  “It would please me if you would at least meet Renata.”

  “OK,” I say.

  What harm could there be in that?

  He opens the backdoor to his study and I follow behind him as he moves down the hall, through another living area, a dining room and another lounge. When he arrives at a closed door, he knocks.

  “Renata? You are there?”

  There’s no reply, so André opens the door and walks inside. I follow him. We’re in a massive bedroom with high ceilings, decorated in different shades of blue and white. The bed’s king-size and the covers are pulled back.

  I hear the distinct sound of a shower running. André calls out a string of words in French, but I have no idea what he said.

  A feminine and somewhat musical voice shoots something back, also in French. The language is beautiful. Spoken by a woman, it’s even more appealing.

  “She has been hard at work this morning, you understand,” he explains.

  What?

  I frown. For all I know, the woman’s had sex with three other people before noon—not that it bothers me. I suppose she has to make a living.

  I look around. Like everything else in André’s home, the room is filled with expensive European furnishings. It’s light and airy, too. My previous sexual liaisons always took place at night in dark alleys.

  Sex in a room like this is would certainly be a step up for me.

  The shower switches off. I expect to hear her speak again, but instead the bathroom door opens. A curvaceous young woman walks out in a confident stride, bringing with her a subtle hint of vanilla.

  She’s spectacular!

  I must be imagining this.

  I blink—more than once—but nope, she’s still there.

  She isn’t shy or in any way disconcerted at finding two men in her bedroom. Her long blonde hair’s wet from the shower and she’s
toweling it dry. Wearing a luxury bathrobe of some sort, the plush blue material matches her eyes.

  Her eyes are what attract me first, drawing me in. They’re crystal blue with a vivid dark rim around the iris. Huge and hypnotic, they’re extraordinary.

  I stare at her, stunned.

  SHE is my sexual therapist?

  I feel as if I’ve just taken a bare knuckle sucker punch to the chest.

  This is not an older woman, a mature and homely therapist with years of experience. This is a young and beautiful girl standing here in front of me. With wet hair and no makeup, the woman barely looks old enough to be having sex—much less to be skilled and knowledgeable on the subject.

  In disbelief, my gaze takes her in. She’s slim and tall, at least 5’9” or even 5’10” with a warm golden tan. She has full lips, high cheekbones and delicate, feminine features all set in a heart-shaped face. There’s a slight dusting of freckles over her straight thin nose and not a wrinkle in sight.

  She’s perfect.

  This is a healthy, wholesome woman who no doubt sleeps well and is not burdened by demons of conscience like I am. She’s everything I’m not.

  Me with her? It’s wrong, so wrong on so many levels.

  But I want her, oh how I want her.

  To my astonishment, she looks at me and doesn’t even appear to notice my scars. Instead, there’s nothing but welcoming pleasure in her expression. Her friendly, open smile takes my breath away.

  Sweet Jesus. Even her fucking teeth are perfect.

  The woman peers up at André and grins. He grins back and they exchange knowing glances in some form of silent communication.

  “What did I tell you?” he says, and they both laugh joyously, like a couple of children eating cake and ice cream at a birthday party.

  Confusion dulls my ongoing anxiety—closely followed by annoyance that these two are so damn happy. I’ve just had an agonizing twenty-four hours of near panic, and here they are, laughing? At me?

  “What’s going on?” I say, and the words come out unnaturally harsh.

  “I beg your pardon,” the woman says holding an outstretched hand toward me. “My name is Renata Koreman.” Soft and feminine, her voice flows over me like a caress. There’s a sweetness in the sound that anyone would fall in love with. It’s incredibly appealing—just as she is.

  “Renata,” André says, “This is Grant Wilkinson. Grant, meet your sexual therapist, Renata Koreman.”

  It’s rude, but I’m too frozen by shock to respond. I take her hand automatically, but quickly let it go. Fresh out of the shower, she has clear, healthy skin. No perfume, no jewelry, no makeup… no clothes?

  Stark naked underneath that bathrobe, I bet.

  My body heats and my throat is dry as I swallow. What would it be like to take her? I imagine how her skin would feel, smell and taste under my hands. An image of covering her with my body and burying myself inside of her makes me instantly hard.

  Damn it to hell.

  Aroused, confused and completely off-balance, I drill André with an angry glare. “You told her about my scars,” I say roughly, my jaw set and fists clenched. “What else did you tell her?” I can barely see through the instant rage and betrayal I’m feeling right now.

  “I did not tell her,” he says calmly. “You place too much importance on the scars. I spoke to Renata of your history, exactly as we both agreed. She knows nothing more.”

  If I’m sure of one thing in this world, it’s that André is not a liar.

  My blazing anger is irrational and misplaced but the passionate, heated energy of it won’t go away. I’m embarrassed by my ill-mannered accusation. To discover I was so completely wrong only fuels the flames. I’m in a fury, but now I’m angry with myself.

  Added to that, I also have a raging hard-on that’s throbbing and demanding attention.

  Why am I being such a jackass?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Tense from stifling a fresh flow of rage, I can barely speak or move. I’m acting like a child—or a Neanderthal, but I can’t seem to help it. My natural Southern courtesy towards women is eclipsed by my defensiveness.

  I stare down at her. Renata. Such a perfect name. Man, she’s a stunner. I can hardly take in a breath with her in the room—and look at me! I’m acting like the monster that I feel I am.

  I turn my gaze to André, a much safer target. “Then what were you both grinning about?” I ask.

  “André told me I would like you,” Renata says, answering the question. “As usual, the extremely annoying man is always right. Don’t you just hate that about him?”

  “You don’t even know me!” I protest.

  “You have a nice face,” she says confidently.

  This kind of bald-faced lie is not only hard to take; it's insulting to my intelligence. Of all the things she could say... Frowning, l give her a dirty look.

  “No, really!” she adds. “I know people and I know faces. Yours is a good one.”

  I can’t help my snort of disbelief.

  “Seriously. Those scars don’t bother me. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  It’s what’s inside that counts? Really? Did she just say that?

  The woman’s such an innocent. What is this? The Disney Channel? I’ll add Snow White’s comment to my list of other useless platitudes like, ‘That’s life,’ ‘You’ll be fine,’ ‘It’s God’s will,’ ‘Look on the bright side,’ and, ‘What’s done is done.’

  It must be my lack of sleep because I’m having trouble taking all of this in. I feel so irritable, awkward and out of place. What am I doing here anyway? I told Andre I didn't want to see her today.

  “Renata,” André says, “Grant has arrived early.”

  “So I see.” She laughs and the sound of her laughter does something to my heart… and my fully aroused cock. The woman’s presence seeps into me like some kind of magic. So beautiful, so naive, so cheerful and kind.

  And her and me? So, so, wrong.

  “Mon ami,” André says to me, “I will leave you now to make arrangements as you wish with your new therapist. Au revoir, mes enfants.”

  The sneaky bastard’s gone before I can stop him or even think of a single thing to say.

  Chapter 2.

  “Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

  — Martin Luther King, Jr.

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  André bailed on me, the ass hat. What do I do now? I’m alone with this beautiful, barely clothed woman—my therapist, of all things! I feel as if I’ve jumped out of a plane without a parachute.

  Or more accurately… I’ve been pushed.

  Renata’s eyes never leave my face as she steps nearer until she’s standing right in front of me. She's so close; I can almost feel her body heat. My chest rises as I inhale her scent.

  Even with my boots on and her barefoot, I’m only a few inches taller than she is. Her lips are near to mine. Unable to even blink, I stare at them. They’re so inviting. I can hardly believe it, but I feel the urge to kiss her. I never want to do that.

  I don’t kiss. It’s a courtesy, really.

  Monster! Pervert!

  She raises a hand toward me. I should back away, I should stop her but I honestly find I’m unable to move or speak. Just the sight and scent of her causes every muscle I have to tighten.

  I’m dumbfounded when her fingers carefully feather over my facial scars. They brush along my eye and cheek, trailing down along my jawline and chin.

  Soft. So soft and gentle.

  I simply can’t believe she’s touching me.

  I’m hypnotized by her.

  In awe and wonder, I try to make sense of her expression, but I can’t. Is it kindness? There’s understanding in her eyes. When I look at her, all of my anger fades away.

  What’s going on? Something’s happening here. Whatever it is, it’s constricting my chest and making it difficult to breath.

  The unbelievabl
e sensation of her tender caress upon my scarred skin is intense, powerful and well beyond divine. How can someone so lovely accept something so ugly?

  A fine tremor begins in my body. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. A tight knot deep inside me—one I didn’t even know I had—begins to loosen.

  Other than doctors or nurses, no one except me has ever touched my injury.

  Damn it all to hell.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? A kind and beautiful woman is willingly caressing my face. She’s tenderly stroking my hideous scars without an ounce of revulsion.

  She sees me.

  She’s touching me.

  Why then, do I feel like crying?

  Our eyes meet and I bite back a groan. This woman is killing me. I can almost read her thoughts behind those amazing blue eyes, I see her emotions—there is no pity, no horror. She isn’t hiding anything. Renata isn’t disgusted. What does she see that I can’t?

  Too good for me. Far too good for me.

  A burning fist of sexual desire coils deep in my gut and groin. I imagine opening her robe, moving my hands down her body and over the curve of her butt. I long to throw her down on this bed, and thrust myself inside of her. I want to take her again and again, until frustration, guilt and angst disappear.

  God, I want her.

  I want to bury myself until I’m mindless—until I’m purified by her goodness. I need to drive into her body until the raging voices of conscience, hate and self-loathing are gone.

  God, I need her.

  My cock aches and my blood boils with hungry, burning desire. Heat. Longing. Lust. Our eyes lock and a blast of sensual energy passes between us. Wordlessly, everything I am demands to know, will she have me? I read her answer in the naked desire that shines in her blue, blue eyes: “Yes.”

  My whole world stops. The stillness is profound. I’m only aware of her.

  Why does she want me? Doesn’t she see how broken I am? How can she stand my scars? It’s then I notice that she’s trembling.

  I don’t believe it.

  This can’t be real.

  With shaking fingers, Renata opens her robe, pulling it off and dropping it down at her feet. I manage to curb back the moan that comes from deep within me. As I suspected, she’s buck-naked. She has a classic Scandinavian figure; slim arms, large, high breasts with soft pink nipples—luscious curves in all the right places.