Abuse

  “We will gather the evidence needed to expose these monsters. Together, we will hunt down your abusers. It shall be, as you say ‘the sting,’ yes? They shall know nothing as the rope tightens around them…” André closes his hands together as if around a neck. “And then? Voila! Suddenly, for those in this cabal of immoral sin—all is lost. We will ensure they never harm another child again.”

  “Why don’t we just go to the police or the FBI?” Miguel asks. “There's safety in numbers, right? If we all go together, they'll have to help us.”

  “Non!” André snaps sharply, eyes flashing. “Never! The good policemen and policewomen with families, those who seek to help us—they will be killed. This has happened many, many times. And institutions of the government? Such cannot be trusted. Many of those in them have been purchased heart and soul, je vous assure. They are in the pockets of these wealthy, powerful men—or perhaps they themselves are participants, no?

  "I promise you, every avenue for justice is blocked. These men have had many years to foresee and neutralize potential threats and exposure. I am persuaded we cannot succeed by direct means, non! We must be stealthy and even more cunning than those we seek.”

  André smiles suddenly, the curl of his lips seems almost wicked. “But the evidence, oh the evidence! The trick, it is to use the Internet. Individuals may be silenced, but thousands? No. There, multiple posted copies of such clear proof cannot be destroyed.”

  “How will you get evidence?” Carol asks.

  André gives her a very Gaelic shrug. “Through private detective work, facial recognition, listening devices, photographic proof as well as recorded audio and visual content. There are drones, now—oui, oui, drones! With the photos of the abusers in this group alone, we can move forward.

  “These men have friends, who also have friends. They have not been caught before, so now, for many years, they feel themselves to be safe. Make no mistake, they have access to children, we will find where. Oh yes, we shall watch them most carefully, for they will not have changed. They are the leopards with the spots, no?”

  “So, if I’m reading this right,” I say, “you want us to do nothing?”

  “Of a certainty! I warn you, the risk, it is too great. I do not wish for any of you—except Monsieur Bailey, to be involved.”

  He nods his head appreciatively toward Zach, who smiles broadly, like a wolf on the hunt. The idea of being part of André’s plans for vengeance gives Zach a thrill.

  “I’d like to do more, if there’s something that can be done… ” I offer.

  Something that isn’t dangerous to Renata.

  André tilts his head, gives me a knowing look. “I shall keep this in mind, mon ami. As the investigation comes toward the end, there will be things you can do. Oui, oui, those of you who are willing, they may stand and be counted.”

  I sigh in relief. “Oh, that’s good. Really good. Count me in.” I say as I glance at Renata.

  She smiles at me, once again squeezing my hand.

  “Très bon. What we do now, it will be very, very dangerous,” he warns. “Any photos, diaries and evidence any of you have—please take care to place these items in a safe, or better yet, in a bank. Tell no one! If you can find it in your heart to trust me,” he places his hand on his chest, “I vow, by my honor, I will safely find a way to expose these dangerous men, to avenge the innocent and to free the children who have been placed into slavery.”

  As much as I don’t want to be involved in order to protect Renata, I realize suddenly I already am involved. I was recently framed for murder, maybe by the same people that killed my father. What else are they capable of? What will they do next?

  André’s gaze searches the room. I feel as though he is looking and speaking only to me.

  “D'accord. Together, we will avenge those who cannot avenge themselves. And for those that have harmed us personally? Ah, for them we will have our revenge.”

  Chapter 47.

  “Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.”

  — Francesca Reigler

  The doorbell rings then rings again, and again in rapid succession.

  Everyone around the table freezes with wide-eyes. In our current mind-set, with fear and danger at the forefront of our thoughts, the presence of an unexpected visitor scares us shitless. Who the hell would be here now, of all times?

  Maybe one or more of the other guests have been under surveillance. Did word somehow get out about this gathering? Could an assassin have been arranged by some powerful pervert to silence us by killing us all?

  Nobody moves a muscle.

  The doorbell stops ringing, replaced by the brisk sound of knuckles pounding against wood. Then the doorbell rings yet again.

  Whoever this visitor is, they’re impatient as hell.

  Zach and I meet eyes across the table. We both grin as logic overcomes anxiety. What kind of hired gun would make such a ruckus? The others begin to talk to each other, smiling at their fears.

  I excuse myself and jog down the stairs. Maybe there was an accident and somebody needs to use the phone to call 911? Unless it's an emergency, whoever's knocking is rude as hell.

  I open the front door. There on my front doorstep is my sister, Betty Jo.

  Dammit. What does she want?

  “Grant, what are you doing about Alex’s arrest?” Betty Jo demands in her typically accusatory tone, as if it’s my fault he’s been arrested, so it’s up to me to fix it.

  This is exactly how I feel, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna take her shit.

  “You don’t think a phone call might have been the way to get that question answered?” I ask her in an intentionally slow drawl.

  I’m getting better when dealing with my sister—I don’t immediately fly into a rage. Renata helped me realize Betty Jo’s moods have nothing to do with me. The poor woman is unhappy. Renata feels sorry for her, and while I can’t go that far, I’ve learned to count to ten…

  With her I need to count to a hundred!

  On the other hand, I refuse to be her punching bag.

  “Have you talked to him?” I ask.

  She throws up her hands. “You know Alex, nothing ever bothers him. The whole world is a big joke, but he might wind up in jail!” She glares at me. “We can’t let him rot in prison.”

  “Listen, Betty Jo, I have visitors,” I say firmly, hoping she’ll take the hint and go away. “Can we discuss this tomorrow?”

  “No! We have to do something!”

  I frown and regard her uncertainly. Ordinarily I’m unsympathetic to my sister, but the wild desperation I see in her gaze disturbs me. I wonder if our mother has been on her case, or if something else is bothering her.

  “Have you been talking to mother?”

  My sister’s perfect, delicate features, usually so carefully schooled to look their best are flushed and furrowed. “Of course I’ve talked to mom! She’s so upset! I’ve never seen her like this.”

  It seems to me as though Betty Jo is the one who’s upset. Or is she frightened? Now, there’s a disturbing thought. Betty Jo is never frightened—she scares everyone else.

  “What we have to do is find out who really killed our father,” I tell her calmly. “I’ve been working on that.”

  “I had to hire another salesperson,” she whines. “It’s too much work for me. Alex and I have been together for years. I don’t think I can run the business without him!”

  Her features screw up, kind of falling in on themselves. Betty Jo looks as if she’s going to burst into tears and she never cries. This is my hostile, disapproving sister. First she shows fear, now tears? What’s next?

  “We’ll figure this out,” I assure her in my most calming voice, disarmed by her rare vulnerability.

  “What are you going to do?” she wails.

  André surprises me with his arrival. He sidles up beside me and looks Betty Jo up and down with an openly admiring gaze. “
Mon ami, will you please introduce me to your lovely friend?”

  I sigh. “André Chevalier, this is my sister, Betty Jo. Betty Jo, this is André Chevalier.”

  André beams her an angelic smile with a less than angelic glint in his eye. “Ooh là là! You did not tell me you have a most beautiful sister!”

  His comment seems somewhat cheesy, yet somehow André gets away with it. While it sounds like a line, I think it works because he genuinely means it.

  When it comes to women, André can get away with anything. The good-natured Frenchman is openly honest in his praise, but there are no hidden strings attached. He’s not saying it in order to take advantage of her.

  Or is he? God, I hope not.

  The truth is, Betty Jo is spectacularly good-looking—except to me. I know her too well to find her attractive.

  Betty Jo’s lips curve in an automatic smile for a couple of beats, then she frowns. No doubt, she abruptly remembered she makes it a point not to like me or my friends.

  “Listen, whoever you are,” she snaps. “Go away. I’m trying to talk to my brother.”

  “But of course!” he replies cheerfully. “Please, you must call me André.”

  “Yeah, well, André… fuck off.”

  André lowers his head in a gracious half-bow. “Bien sûr, as you wish,” he says with amicable respect, but makes no move to leave.

  “Let me in, Grant, it’s hot out here! I don’t care who you have in your house. Send them all home. This is more important.” Betty Jo aggressively yet ineffectively pushes against me, trying to get past.

  My temper, slowly heating like a switched on furnace, immediately hits flashpoint. Why does she have to be such a bitch? As always, I hide my pulsing rage behind a stony mask. Taking her shoulders firmly in my hands, I shove her back.

  “You fuck off, Betty Jo,” I bite out in a deceptively mild voice. “I told you. I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow.”

  André joins in suddenly and ferociously nails me with a spate of heated, incomprehensible French. I have no idea what he’s saying, but he’s clearly pissed off… at me!

  What did I do?

  “Monsieur Wilkinson!” he complains angrily, when his rapid-fire French diatribe finishes. “Can you not see your most beautiful sister is extremely upset? Oui! Oui! You must treat her better than this!”

  Huh? Monsieur Wilkinson? What the fuck?

  My mouth falls open in surprise. I immediately drop my hands from Betty Jo’s shoulders, shocked by how my trusted friend, counselor and confidant has taken her side.

  “Mon Dieu!” His hands fly into the air in a gesture of disbelief. “You do not know how to treat a lady; this is of a certainty!”

  He indignantly dresses me down, telling me how crass, ill-mannered and uncaring I am. This tirade goes on for some time, with me gaping at him in astonished shock, and Betty Jo watching appreciatively, her expression spellbound.

  When he’s done, André’s dark eyes soften with kindness and understanding as he turns to look at my sister. How did he manage to soothe the dragon? By taking pot shots at her arch enemy, her older brother, I guess.

  Lips parted, Betty Jo stares wide-eyed at her savior. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her at a loss for words.

  “S'il vous plait, venez avec moi. Please, come with me,” André says, placing an arm around Betty Jo’s waist. With seamless ease, he gracefully guides her away from the house.

  “Forget about him, ma belle. Your brother? C'est un imbécile! Speak to me of your troubles, for je vous assure, I will most ardently listen.”

  André’s compelling accent is more French than ever, while his rich velvet voice positively oozes charm. His natural charisma settles over my sister like a blanket, magically changing her from the wicked witch, into a delightful princess from a children’s tale.

  Inexplicably pacified and docile, Betty Jo amenably leaves with him.

  “Do you wish to go for a drive in my sports car?” I hear André murmur enthusiastically to my sister. “It is most agreeable. The top is down and it is very fast, n’est-ce-pas? The two of us? We shall enjoy it exceedingly.”

  My head swims.

  Indignant, perplexed, and puzzled, I feel as though I’ve been hit by a Mack truck.

  The last I see of them both is when André speeds past the house, driving his shiny silver sports car. My sister sits beside him, her head thrown back.

  What? I can’t believe my eyes.

  Betty Jo is always in a bad mood, except apparently she isn’t right now. Is my bitter, hypercritical, contrary sister—actually laughing?

  I blink, astonished.

  She is!

  Chapter 48.

  “Life is more fun if you play games.”

  ― Roald Dahl

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  I collapse on top of Grant’s solid chest, absorbed by delicious, orgasmic convulsions. My heart thuds in my chest. I’m so buzzed with euphoric pleasure, I can’t imagine coming down from this high.

  It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath, much less return to reality.

  “You are so going to kill me,” I finally pant.

  “That was… incredible,” he sighs, nuzzling into my neck.

  “Tell me about it.”

  It feels so good to be on top of him. He feels bigger this way. Deeper. There’s a delicious pressure on my core as his cock, still hard, continues to pulse. I love to ride him while watching his reactions, the sensual tension and strain on his face, the way he looks when he’s wracked by profound pleasure.

  “Hey, I didn’t give you permission to come that time.” he grumbles this complaint in my ear, while he soothingly trails his callused palms up and down my back.

  I laugh and raise my head. “The second I felt you beginning to go over, I figured that was my cue. It’s super-hot when we come together. Did you want to climax by yourself?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Ha. Thought so.”

  He smiles at me. I smile back.

  We really are tragic as a couple. Sensible adults would probably give us both a wide berth. This sweeping, all-encompassing love we have for each other is difficult to hide. It’s almost embarrassing. But it isn’t.

  “Mmm. Ready to go again?” I ask.

  He laughs, an expansive, lighthearted sound that makes my breath catch and my heart fill with joy. “Sure, why not?”

  Grant and I have decided to spend the day together, naked. It’s a little vacation time for both of us. Consequently, we got up, ate a big breakfast and came back to bed. We did the same thing at lunch. We wrestle, we watch TV, we make love and tickle each other. We eat popcorn, cuddle and giggle.

  With Briley no longer with us, all constraint is gone. We’ve made love in every room in the house. Thinking back, I smile as I recall how we christened each surface, the rugs, walls, tables, chairs and couches. Now I can’t walk anywhere through his house without remembering.

  In fact, I’ve had so much sex recently, I’m having trouble walking at all.

  His face tightens for a moment, as though struck by an unpleasant thought. “Where do you think André is?”

  “Seriously, Grant? You ask me this? When he left with Betty Jo and he didn’t come home last night?”

  “I just can’t understand what he could possibly see in my sister.” The tone of his voice is angry and frustrated.

  I shrug.

  “Also, the idea of him fucking her gives me the creeps. I can’t even go there.”

  I stare at him. “Why not? Neither of them is attached to anyone. It’s only sex, a mutual pleasure both can enjoy. I honestly can’t understand what the big deal is. Two adults spent the night together. So what? Maybe it’ll tone her innate hatefulness down. Don’t you think the whole world would be a better place if more people made love?”

  “Love?” he yelps, shocked by the idea. His eyes squeeze closed for a moment, while he struggles to explain why he’s so upset. “It’s just that—” he sh
akes his head. “André is someone I like, while Betty Jo… isn’t.”

  “OK.” I sigh. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  His eyes fly open. “No way.”

  I smile. “Good.”

  I slide off of him, offering him tissues and wiping myself. We’re back to the cuddling part of the day. The subject of André and Grant’s sister doesn’t bother me, nor does it interest me.

  Everything André does, he seems to do for a good reason.

  I turn on the action flick we’d both been wanting to watch, and settle down in his arms. My pussy feels stretched and used. My clit, my neck and my nipples are pleasantly sore—he bit them all earlier, and damn it was hot as hell. But I’m not done in the bedroom yet.

  I’d like to nag him about his secret sexual fantasies, but today isn’t a good day for that. A large part of his mind is still distracted by André’s absence, the events of yesterday, and the anxiety he has over his brother’s arrest.

  Making him tell me shameful secrets is something to do when he’s more settled and on top of things.

  By the time the movie finishes, I’ve come up with an idea. “Do you want to play a game?” I ask him.

  Grant’s brows furrow in a little frown, but his lips twitch in a subtle smile. “You terrify me,” he teases. “What do you have in mind?”

  I giggle. “You’ll have to put Mr. “I’m In Control In The Bedroom,” away for a bit. This game allows me to take charge, then you get to take charge, then I get to take charge again.”

  “How do you win?”

  “Oh,” I snicker. “Everyone’s a winner in this game.”

  I explain to him the basic idea is that I try very hard to make him climax. “I can do whatever I like, and you just have to take it. You say ‘stop,’ whenever you need to, and then I have to stop doing whatever I’m doing—but you must not climax.”

  “That doesn’t sound too complicated.”

  “It’s pretty straightforward,” I assure him. “After that, it’s your turn to try to get me to climax. Then I say stop if you get me too close to orgasm. Once you do, it’s my turn to excite you again.”