Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (21 page)

“There is
always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

―
Friedrich Nietzsche

~~~

Renata
Koreman

When I open the
back door to the veterinary office, morning heat comes pouring in. Larger than
life, Grant stands right in front of me all big and strong and male.

I’m stunned by
feelings so powerful I simply can’t deny them. I stop breathing, unconscious of
my instant reaction.

The French call
it,
Le coup de foudre.
Translated literally, it means, “Bolt of
Lightning” or “The Thunderbolt.” Figuratively, it’s an expression used to
indicate the phenomenon better known as, “Love at first sight."

This is a first
for me. I loved Jamie deeply and dearly, but never like this. I love André, but
it took time for him to grow on me. Joshua is sweet and I adore him.

But this with
Grant? This is something new.

Overwhelming
feelings of affection and attraction slam into me. Just like the French
expression—I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning. It’s sudden, electric and
all encompassing. I’m engulfed by his scent, his presence, his utter maleness.

Even though I’ve
never experienced it, I can’t help but know exactly what’s happened to me. I’m
in shock, yet there’s also instant recognition.

I’m love
struck.

I take Grant in
with one long glance: guarded blue-gray eyes, wide shoulders, nice face… even
with his scars. He smells sexy and oh-so-male. He’s dressed for outdoors, wearing
a long sleeved safari shirt, shorts and sneakers.

For some
inexplicable reason I can’t quite understand, my eyes get caught. I stand
there, staring at his hands. They’re big and masculine; strong and… compelling.
I get a distinct electric tingle throughout my body by just looking at those
hands. I want to touch them, and to be touched by them.

What is this
crazy pull I feel, this strong attraction?

Visions of our
all too brief, yet intensely passionate time together flood my mind. I feel my
chest, neck and face heat. I want him to get naked and to use me hard. I want
him to push deep inside of me and press against me, skin to skin. I want to
merge our minds and hearts and bodies together forever and ever,
amen
.

It’s madness!

Le coup de
foudre.

This must be the
thunderbolt—what else can it be? I’m a goner. I’m buzzed by the proximity of
someone who is unaccountably dear to me. I felt it yesterday when I first met
him, as well. I’m drawn to him. Intrigued. Attracted. Fascinated. I’m a
casualty, all right. I’ve been struck by love.

“Hi,” I blurt out
stupidly.

“Morning,” he
says in that sweet Texan accent of his, as he nods. If he was wearing a hat, I
swear the man would tip it.

I try to focus on
him and remain calm, but I’m nowhere near as confident as I was yesterday. I’ve
loved lots of people, but I don’t think I’ve ever really been
in love.
Just
being near Grant has me excited, nervous, confused, and off balance.

I force myself to
meet his gaze. I can tell he’s self-conscious about his facial scars, but
they’re nothing to me. I wonder how he got them. Was it a burn?

“Do you—would
you—um,” I stammer, tripping over my tongue.

I stare down at
my feet for a moment while I try to pull myself together. Shifting slightly, I
look back up, and right into his guarded blue eyes. He’s holding back, he’s
protecting himself. I appreciate his need for a defensive barrier.

“Would you like
to… meet my cat?” I manage to get out.

Once more, I feel
incredibly stupid. What the hell’s wrong with me? Just yesterday, I had hot,
unrestrained, fierce and mind blowing sex with this man. So why do I find
myself inexplicably shy in his presence?

I stare at his
face and his fine long mouth, looking for any sign of displeasure, distain or
mockery. All I can see is that my question’s surprised him. Mitten’s important
to me. Is Grant an animal lover? To my relief, his lips twitch and he looks
pleased.

“Sure.” He
smirks. “I like cats.”

Yay—he likes
cats!

I grin. “Follow
me.” I turn, move back inside and walk up the stairs.

I can hear the
sound of Grant’s footsteps behind me. I have a million thoughts going through
my mind, but I can’t seem to say any of them. Did he ever have a cat? I imagine
him playing with kittens in a barn as a boy.

I open the door
to my apartment and Mitten’s right there and glad to see me. I pat my shoulder
and he gracefully jumps up.

Grant notices my
hand motion as well as Mitten’s compliance. His gaze travels over my cat.
Mitten is all black, except for the patches of white on his chest and on his
two front paws.

“He’s a beauty,”
he says quietly, staring at my cat, who’s now eye level with him.

“Grant, meet
Mitten. Mitten, this is my friend Grant,” I say, treating my Mitten as the
person I feel he is.

“It’s a pleasure
to meet you, um…Mister Mitten?” Grant says, playing along good-naturedly as if
he's formally introduced to cats every day.

I laugh while
scratching Mitten’s ears. “Yes. He’s male.” I turn and walk to the couch.
“Please, have a seat and meet him properly. You’re not allergic or afraid of
cats, are you?”

“Not a bit,” he
assures me with a smile.

I notice Grant
sits down so his scars are facing away from me. I’m sure he’s done this on
purpose. His disfigurement is an elephant in the room—something Grant is
acutely aware of, but tries to pretend isn’t there. What caused them? I’d ask,
but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

When he arrived
he was uptight. Right now, he seems less tense and edgy. I think talking about
my cat has relaxed him. Cats are apparently a safe subject.

Mitten doesn’t
always perform in front of strangers. I look into his eyes, hoping to
communicate how important my visitor is to me. “Mitten, this is my special
friend, Grant. Will you say hello?”

Mitten faces
Grant, stands up on his back legs and spreads his arms wide.

Grant’s face
brightens in astonished surprise.

“Go ahead. Hug
him,” I say.

Grant puts his
hands out and moves in closer, ready to accept Mitten’s embrace. When Mitten
hugs him, Grant scoops him up into his arms for an appreciative cuddle.

“You’re really
something,” he murmurs to Mitten and smiles while holding and stroking him.
“I’ve never met such a neat cat.”

He puts Mitten
down on the couch but scratches up under his chin, pleased when my baby begins
to purr. I’m delighted! Grant’s a cat person and Mitten likes him. What would I
have done if they hated each other?

“He’s really
great,” Grant says, and the ice is broken.

I can talk all
day about my beloved cat, and Mitten’s a subject Grant’s comfortable with as
well. He seems genuinely interested and can apparently listen all day. Before
long, I’m telling him about my YouTube business, showing Grant Mitten’s videos
and talking about my book.

An hour flies by
easily and naturally without awkwardness or tension while we chat. I give Grant
Mitten’s soft rubber ball, so he can play fetch with him.

Dogs love fetch,
from what I understand. They chase the ball, catch it, and return it. Throw,
chase, catch and return.

Mitten, however,
adds a few extra steps to this game. Mitten stalks and chases the ball when
Grant throws it. But then he attacks the ball as if he’s killing it, and as if
the fate of the world depends on its capture and death.

Once the ball is
successfully subdued, Mitten has a smug victor’s glint in his eyes as he brings
it back to Grant and drops it at his feet. Throw, stalk, attack, kill, catch
and return. Throw, stalk, attack, kill, catch and return.

We giggle and
laugh at his antics. Grant’s utterly charmed and I can tell how much Mitten
likes him.

“I’m so glad you
like cats,” I say.

Unblinking, Grant
stares at me intently. “I like you. I think you’re amazing,” he says, and then
he colors slightly. I don’t think he expected to say that out loud. I’m glad
he’s feeling comfortable enough to let his guard down.

“I like you,
too,” I tell him.

Our eyes lock and
we grin stupidly at each other for a long, long moment. My pulse kicks up a
notch. The attraction and energy we have between us takes my breath away.

Grant stands up,
his eyes glancing uneasily toward my bed. “We really should get going, if we
want to go kayaking,” he says.

“OK.”

He’s worried
about us having sex again. Damned if I know why it freaked him out last time.
André told me to keep things light, so as much as I want to ask him about it, I
don’t.

Today is all
about easy, fun stuff. That’s the plan, anyway.

Too bad things
rarely work out as planned.

“One thing you
can't hide—is when you're crippled inside.”

― John
Lennon

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant kindly
stops at a post office so I can mail my letter to Mr. Brand, then we head off
to Lake Las Vegas, a 320-acre artificial lake about twenty minutes away.

Once we arrive,
we find a small marina where we can rent kayaks for $25.00 per hour. As the
more experienced paddler, Grant sits behind me, in the stern. I’m happy about
this as he can get used to looking at me without me looking at him.

It’s lovely here,
so pleasant. A cool breeze over the water, keeps the temperature down.

“This is fun,” I
say, after twenty minutes of moving though the water by using our paddles.

“I’m glad you
like it. I love being out in the open air.”

“What else do you
do outside?” I ask and turn to look at him. It seems an innocent enough
question to ask.

He shrugs. “Just
about anything. I hike, swim, fish and shoot. I also like to garden.”

“Really? No
shit?”

He smiles.
“Really. No shit.”

“What do you
grow?”

“I have a few
fruit trees, but mainly it’s an ornamental garden, with shaded sections, herbs
and cottage garden type stuff,” he says, while taking another rowing stroke. “I
also have a water feature and flowers. I enjoy working in my garden. I find it
relaxing.”

“I don’t know
anything about plants or gardening, but I love flowers.”

His eyebrows rise
subtly and a sweet smile flickers around his mouth and eyes. “I grow lots of
flowers.”

I grin back at
him. I can see flowers in my future. I’m so tuned-in to this guy. I just
know
he’s going to bring me a bouquet next time we meet. Maybe he’ll even buy me
flowers today.

Again, as with
talking about Mitten, I'm glad to have stumbled upon another neutral subject
he's comfortable discussing. Our chat feels natural and easy. We have many long
pauses in the conversation, but they don’t matter. I’m feeling at ease and I
know Grant is, as well.

Grant’s an over
thinker and not much of a talker. At times, I can see him thinking
way
too
hard. Being here with me isn’t easy for him. André told me Grant had been
sexually abused by a man. Why in the world would that make him so nervous
around women?

“I like to
swing,” I say.

He frowns. “Like
on a swing set?”

“Yes. I can’t
remember the last time I did it, but it’s relaxing and exhilarating at the same
time. As a child, I used to get on a swing after everyone went home from
school. I haven’t done that for years.”

Lips twitching
upwards, he says, “If I see one today, we’ll stop.” His expression brightens
playfully. “I’ll even push you, if you want.”

I can’t curb my
broad grin and I don’t want to. “I’d love that.”

Our eyes meet
again and damn it to hell if this isn’t like some sort of delayed schoolgirl
crush. My heart feels tight in my chest and my stomach’s fluttering with strong
attraction. We’re flirting—definitely flirting—and it feels so damn good.

Each of us saying
little, but companionable in our silence, we enjoy a nice lunch and walk along
the lake together. Grant’s strong, silent, and self-sufficient—yet also so
vulnerable. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes I long to banish.

He fascinates me.
I find him irresistible. I swear my panties have been wet since the first
moment I saw him this morning. I seem to fascinate him, as well. I’m pretty
sure he’s had a hard on all day, poor guy.

I can see him
brooding again. He’s preoccupied, working some problem out. He thinks before he
speaks, which is a good thing—but not all the time. He takes everything too seriously.

To my surprise
and delight, he takes my hand. I’m thrilled he feels comfortable and close
enough for this gesture. I squeeze his hand with pleasure but I’m not sure what
to say, so I say nothing. I simply smile up at him.

He also says
nothing, but his palm is sweaty. I watch his throat move as he swallows. He’s
so nervous! He’s all too aware his hand is damp. It’s another embarrassing
elephant he’s pretending isn’t there. I can tell he doesn’t have a clue what to
do about it.

After several
long, uncomfortable minutes, I decide to offer a solution. I take his hand,
step in closer and put it on my shoulder. Then I wrap my arm around his waist
so we can keep pace with each other as we walk.

“This is better,”
I say, but I immediately realize I’ve made it worse.

“Yes,” he says,
thin lipped.

His body is
stiff. Together, we walk somewhat awkwardly. Now we’re both uncomfortable. I
am, because he is. What in the world is wrong with him? I suspect I’m simply
too close. I can feel his mind working, trying to figure out the best way to
get out of this. He doesn’t know what to do or say.

It’s such a
ridiculous problem, I suppress an overwhelming desire to laugh hysterically.

Or to scream.

I decide to try
to distract him with conversation. “Grant, is there anything you’d like to talk
about?”

There’s a long
pause and we keep walking while he searches his mind, thinking up an answer.
“Tell me about yourself,” he finally says. “You don’t have pictures of anyone
in your apartment. Where’s your family?”

We come to a
wooden bench and Grant gestures for me to sit down.
Thank God for small
favors!
However, now
I’m
stuck figuring out what to say.

These are tricky
questions.

My job today
isn’t to question Grant. I’m supposed to let
him
be in charge and do
exactly as he wants. I didn’t consider he’d ask about my life.

Our time together
isn’t supposed to be about me, it’s supposed to be about Grant becoming more at
ease. However, this might help him do just that. Talking about me would
probably help him relax. The spotlight wouldn't be on him, so it might
alleviate some pressure.

Yet my screwed
up, uber-dysfunctional family and past are intensely emotionally charged
subjects. I don’t want to screw him up with the story of my life, and I don’t
want to get into it—not right now anyway. What shall I tell him? How shall I
answer?

For a long
moment, my thoughts return to André, who insists that lies ruin relationships.
“Deceit is a barrier to intimacy,” he’s warned me again and again.

André contends
even the smallest white lies are unnecessary and destructive. When a person
lies, they become accustomed to deceit. The habit of “stretching the truth” or of
telling “minor” falsehoods creep into a person’s life. Lying is soon second
nature, until such “small” untruths become casual and effortless.

And then, small
lies become bigger.

“You ask, how do I
know? I have made these mistakes myself, and oh, how I have paid for them!”
André warned me. “Do not fall for such foolishness.”

“Better to be
silent, than to lie,” he says. “This is important with a client. It is better for
a person to suffer pain from hearing the truth, than to have confidence
destroyed by a loved one. How do
you
feel when you discover someone has
lied to you? When you find they have been false? The trust you once had—it is
lost forever, no?”

Of course, I
couldn’t argue with that. “But how should a husband answer when his wife asks,
‘Do I look fat in this dress?’” I ask.

“The husband may
reply that the dress is too small, and they must immediately buy her a larger
one,” he said. “But what are the woman’s motivations behind her question? Is
she asking how she looks, or does she have body issues? Perhaps what she really
needs is reassurance that she is loved and desired.”

André says these
awkward moments in life create opportunities for dialogue. Honest communication
is the foundation of a relationship. When better to be absolutely forthright,
than with a person you care for?

I care for Grant
and
he’s a client. I have to tell him the truth.

How shall I
answer?

I inhale a deep
breath and tell him the shortest version of my family and my past I can. “My
father’s in jail for life, my mom and baby brother are dead. When I was young I
lived on the street with my best friend, Jamie.”

I tell Grant we
shared a makeshift cardboard box and one morning, when I woke up, Jamie was
dead. He had a congenital heart condition neither of us knew about. I explain
how I was pretty messed up and I totally lost it, ending up in a mental
institution. I tell him André saved me.

Grant looks at me
with strong interest, or perhaps concern. He listens intently, his gaze never
leaving my face.

He isn’t nervous
anymore. He’s so absorbed in my story—I think it’s pulled him completely out of
his head and his own problems.

For once, his
dark secrets and demons are forgotten.

I brace myself,
afraid of what he’ll ask next. I can’t think of any easy questions.
‘How did
your brother die?’
would be a toughie. Or,
‘Why is your dad in jail?’
That would be another.

With forced calm,
I meet his gaze and wait, determined to do my job. I give myself some quick
mental advice. Something that might help me deal with whatever he says next.

Focus on him.
Be in the present. Be the counselor. It’s not about you.

Grant’s turned
towards me now, looking at me square in the face. He’s completely attentive.
For once, he isn’t trying to hide his scars—he’s momentarily forgotten about
them. He heard what I said. As is typical with Grant, he takes his time before
speaking, considering his response.

I study him,
taking his measure. He seems to be processing what I've shared. Grant’s
considering what to say next, but not in an introverted or uncomfortable
manner.

There’s a wealth
of sensitivity and understanding in his blue-gray eyes.

One thing I’ve
learned in life is, people who have survived grief and pain, know all about grief
and pain. People like that can see another person’s agony a mile away. That’s
because they’ve been there themselves.

Grant surprises
me. He doesn’t ask for a bunch of gory details like why I was homeless, or how
I was able to live on the street. He’s not fascinated or hung up by the fact I
was institutionalized. Instead, he goes straight to the most raw and relevant
point.

His expression is
thoughtful, his eyes penetrating as he says, “Tell me about Jamie.”

The question
takes me by surprise—kind of like an unexpected a stab to the heart. Happy
memories of Jamie fill my thoughts. Suddenly, I miss my best friend all over
again.

Damn my
hormones!

To my shock and
embarrassment, I burst into tears.