Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (54 page)

“Shame
derives its power from being unspeakable.”

― Brené
Brown

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Mitten gives us
his soft meow, giving me a chance to regroup. It’s his way of saying,
“Thanks
for dinner, do you want to play?”
He jumps down from the chair and chases
out of the room, madly pouncing and bouncing as though he’s a kitten.

I doubt we’ve
seen the last of him.

Studying me, Renata
smiles. “And that kiss?” she asks, looking at me meaningfully. “What was that about?”

I shrug, unable
to explain how much I want her and
need
her. It's too intense. I swallow
hard and avert my eyes. I stare at the wall, a vase of flowers, anything but her
face. Damn these raw, overpowering emotions. I can’t talk about this.

I feel too much
for her.

Renata longs for
passionate kisses, but the mere thought of kissing disturbs me, filling me with
fear and shame. I can’t forget the things my father said, or what I did
with
him.

Pretend it’s
a lollipop, that’s my boy.

How can I kiss her?
I know where my mouth has been.

Despite my inner
conflict, I’d wanted to overcome my reluctance—
for her
. When I saw how
hurt she was, I couldn’t find the words to explain why I lied. I needed to kiss
her, to at least give her that. From that one intimate act, I hoped to show her
exactly how I felt.

Kissing turned
out to be much easier than I thought, especially as I was focused on pleasing Renata.
Sometimes worrying about doing something is much more difficult than actually
doing
it.

She was pissed
off and prepared to fight, but I knew how to stop her. I had to
show
her
how important she was to me.

The moment our
lips touched, I thought, felt, smelled and tasted only Renata. Shame and
triggers from my past had vanished, while my senses became enveloped by
her.

What a wonderful
feeling.

“Just so you
know,” she says in a teasing voice. “I was very impressed with that incredible
kiss. You’ve got skills! Thank you. That was worth waiting for.”

“Well… good,” I
manage to say, pleased and surprisingly embarrassed.

Mitten returns, the
ball gripped in his teeth. He knows Renata’s busy feeding Briley, so he drops
it at my feet. I rub the back of his neck, but he doesn’t want that kind of
attention. Right now, he’s ready to play.

“Go get it,” I call,
throwing the ball so it bounces off a wall, and rolls near the sofa.

Renata and I
both laugh as Mitten jumps high in the air, following the trajectory of the
evil spherical monster he must savagely stalk and kill. Seemingly, the fate of
the universe hinges on this very chase.

“Can I tell you
something I realized today?” she asks. I’m thankful she’s changing the subject.

“Of course.”

“You know how
fear kind of rules my life?”

I nod, a slight
downward jerk of my chin.

“It’s so
embedded. It’s who I’ve been for as long as I can remember. I can be myself
with you, probably because when we first met I knew you needed my help. But being
around other people, particularly strangers, kind of freaks me out. When I go out
anywhere, I honestly feel the weight of people staring at me. I’m usually so
tense under what I imagine is the overbearing scrutiny of people I don’t know.”

Mitten retrieves
his ball and returns to me. He fetches and plays 'catch' as well as any dog
I've ever seen. I pat him effusively and throw the ball again. We both smile
when he snatches it mid-air, falls to the floor, and with unrestrained violence,
proceeds to bite, scratch and
kill
the innocent object.

“Today,” Renata
continues, “I met everyone’s gaze. People smiled at me, and I smiled back. I
know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a huge improvement for me. I’m proud
of myself.”

I take her hand
with both of mine and kiss her palm. “That’s wonderful. You should be proud. It
is a big deal.”

“Thank you,” she
says with a smile. “Naturally, I wondered what changed. Why did I feel so brave?
I think I’ve changed and improved because of you.”

“Me?”
I
ask, genuinely surprised

She squeezes my
hand. “Yes.”

“I think the
shoe is definitely on the other foot.”

“No, you’re good
for me,” Renata says, passionately. “I don’t care about your bitchy sister or
whatever problems your mother might cause. It doesn’t even matter you might be
tried for a murder you didn’t commit. Whatever the issues are, I’m here. I’ve
signed on to be with you.”

“Even if the
police come to arrest me again?” I tease, warmed by her determined
faithfulness.

Undaunted, she regards
me through raised brows. “Hey, desensitization baby—a diminished emotional
response to negative stimulus, due to repeated exposure. I’m studying for my psychology
degree, remember?”

“I remember,” I
say with a smile.

“So, the police
turning up at our door again might actually be good for me in the long run,”
she says with a wry smirk. “I can’t possibly react as badly as I did the last time.
Once they arrest you three or four more times—no joke—it’ll make a serious dent
in my fears.”

We both laugh,
but I don’t really think it’s funny.

Frankly, the
idea of finding her, only to lose her by going to prison for a crime I didn't
commit, scares the crap out of me. I don’t want to lose her through languishing
my life away in a maximum security prison.

“Let's not and
say we did, OK? As effective as it sounds, I'm not thrilled with that idea.
Maybe you can just watch some police dramas. Try to master that particular fear
in a less painful way, please?"

She grins. “No
problem.”

When I grip her
fingers, I glance down, suddenly noticing her shiny pink nail polish. I smile. “I
like your nails.”

“I never paint
my nails.”

I frown. “Why
did you paint them today?”

“I thought you
might like them like this.”

“Really?”
I
say, flattered Renata wanted to do something special, just to please me. In this
case, she made a change
for me.

“Really,” she assures
me, her lips curve into an alluring, mischievous smile.

Our eyes lock
and the air sizzles between us. There it is again, that tingle of awareness that
courses through me, body, heart and soul. It’s a sense of closeness and
connection; half lust, half love and
all
need.

“Your nails are
beautiful,” I murmur. “Just like you are.”

“Charmer.”

“So, you’re
definitely not mad at me anymore?” I have to ask. I need to be sure that she’s
OK. That
we’re
OK.

Smiling a
mysterious half-smile, she shakes her head.

Hallelujah!
A weight is lifted, leaving more enjoyable sensations in its wake. It’s
ridiculous how often I imagine having her naked in my bed, taking her hard and
fast, or slow and sensually. I could fuck her right here on this table, or on
the floor, or against the wall. Anywhere.
Everywhere.
With Renata in my
life, I’m stuck walking around with a constant hard on.

“So, do you
think we should tell people we’re together?” I ask.

“Yes, why not?”

I shrug. “What
if the police want to question you?”

“I don’t care,” she
says. “Your lawyer can be there to advise me if it comes to that. What could
they possibly ask me? I don’t know much. Besides, I’m not actually afraid of
policemen, per se. I panicked that day because seeing them there all at once
triggered terrible memories, like what happened to my little brother, and the
day Jamie died.”

“And my sister?”

She frowns, then
shrugs. “I’m going to have to face the dragon someday. I’ll figure it out.
Besides, I didn’t like hearing you deny our relationship, in fact, I hated it. I
don’t like lying and I don’t want to pretend you’re not important to me. Why
should we hide how we feel about each other?”

“Why indeed?” I
say with a wry smile. “You know, I’ve never had a girlfriend before.”

“Really? Well,
isn’t that funny. I’ve never had a boyfriend, either.”

“You haven’t?”
This warms me, head to toe. “What about Jamie? I thought you loved him.”

“I did love him
and he loved me, but he preferred men, if you recall.”

“Oh, right,” I
say. I stare at her hungrily, amazed by this turn of events. “You’ll be my
first. You’ve been my first already, in so many ways.”

I consider
wiggling my eyebrows at her, making a teasing, sexual joke out of the ‘first’
comment, but I can’t. My heart is too full. I feel too much.

Renata’s
beautiful, understanding and through some incredible twist of fate, she
genuinely cares about me. I shift restlessly in my seat, making room for my
aching erection. I feel like a teenager, in love with the prom queen.

“You’re my
first, too,” she says quietly.

Her blue eyes
darken, dilating with lust. Sitting there in her sexy blue dress, with her long
blonde hair down, she’s pretty as a picture. And I’m damned sure she’s thinking
about sex.

God, I want to
kiss her again. This surprises me. At least for now, the idea is exciting and intoxicating.
The princess has healed this prince wannabe with a single kiss.

Renata’s so
good for me.

“I just have one
more question,” I say, my voice low and husky, raw with lust. I fight to rein
in my need to take her
now.

“Oh?”

“How soon before
Briley goes to sleep?”

“The thing
about a hero is, even when it doesn't look like there's a light at the end of
the tunnel, he's going to keep digging, he's going to keep trying to do right
and make up for what's gone before, just because that's who he is.”

— Joss Whedon

~~~

Edgar
Gates

Edgar Gates loved
his job at the Dallas Police Department. He enjoyed the interesting work he did
there and he was respected for his abilities. The steady paycheck was also
nice, allowing him to live comfortably.

What was I
thinking by risking it all?
he wondered.

Edgar was aware that
trouble would find him if he wasn’t careful, so he took every precaution as he
drove to different parts of the city to mail his untraceable letters. The
circuitous routes he took would be difficult for even a seasoned detective such
as Roman Bronowski to follow.

So far, he’d delivered
only one photo by hand, and that was four days ago, when he left the first
letter in Danny Berdeaux’s mailbox.

After attaining a
full academic scholarship at UT, he completed his degree in computer forensics
and digital investigations.

He was exceptionally
good at what he did.

A stocky computer
geek, he had hundreds of
‘World of Warcraft’
friends online. He was a combination
of limited social experience, joined with an extremely high IQ. The fact was,
at the age of twenty-seven, Edgar Gates was still a virgin.

He wasn’t
unattractive and like any young man, he suffered from his share of lust. In
truth, he’d had ample opportunities to lose his virginity, yet never took
advantage of any of these possibilities.

He felt casual
sex was disrespectful toward women.

Raised by his
single mother, with enthusiastic support from a devoted grandmother, he valued
women almost to the point of worshiping them.

When Edgar was ten
years old, his mother finally fell in love, married and found her happily ever
after. That was what Edgar hoped for himself.

His stepfather adopted
him, which is why his last name was Gates. His stepfather was honorable and more
importantly, he made his mom happy. Edgar’s three half-siblings, ages six, eight
and eleven, loved their big brother.

Edgar adored his
mother, Celia. Even as a child, he was aware there was a story, and perhaps a
tragedy behind his birth. For years, his mother suffered bouts of inexplicable
depression, guilt, and shame—yet she was always extremely proud of her son.

Edgar had no
idea who his father was, but then, neither did his mother. In his teens, his mom
finally explained that as an innocent sixteen-year-old, he had been the result
of her frightening rape at knifepoint.

Despite immense pressure
from her father and complaints about the cost, she refused to give her child up
for adoption. Terminating her pregnancy never entered her mind.

Young as she
was, Celia had a stubborn streak. She loved her baby from the instant she
discovered his existence. Celia saw Edgar as a blessing, a lovely silver lining
that made the hideous trauma she suffered a gift, rather than the curse it
originally seemed to be.

It was perhaps
not surprising that Edgar’s earlier years were his most formative. His
grandfather openly disapproved of him, as though it was his fault he was
conceived and born out of wedlock. Grandpa Lovett was a miserable and hateful
man.

Eventually, his grandfather’s
nastiness stopped bothering Edgar. The unconditional love he had from his
mother and grandmother more than made up for his grandfather’s disdain.

“There’s no
smoke without fire,” Grandpa Lovett used to say in a tone of scornful
condemnation and pious religious zeal. “Women shouldn’t tempt men ‘to stumble’
through immodest behavior.”

Celia’s father
blamed his teenage daughter for the violent rape that destroyed her innocence
and left her ashamed and pregnant. Edgar’s mom had been attacked while wearing
a fast-food uniform, while on her way home from an afternoon shift at her
part-time weekend job.

Her outfit had hardly
been an attempt to draw male attention.

These facts
never interfered with Grandpa Lovett’s ‘blame the victim’ mentality. Celia’s
father disparaged the friends she kept, the clothes she wore, and her ‘loose
morality.’

Yet, her son
never once doubted his mother’s devotion. The fact that his father was a
monster, a rapist who never paid for his crime, rarely disturbed him anymore.

Edgar knew he
took after his mom and he shared her belief that
he
was meant to be. One
day he hoped to find a woman of his own to love. Someone like his mother who
was brave, caring and determined.

He grew up
longing to right his mother’s wrongs. He hated that a criminal who had hurt his
mother, was free to possibly injure others. He wanted his violent rapist father
to be held accountable, to face the consequences of his actions.

Edgar was
convinced his career in forensics would, in time, fulfill that need. His mother
reported her rape to the police, but nothing ever came of it. It was an old,
cold case. Unfortunately, DNA from her attacker had not been taken at the time.

Consequently,
Edgar regularly checked his own DNA against the national criminal database. So
far he hadn’t found any familial connections, but there were years ahead of him
to try.

He long ago
decided to never be
anything
like his father. Edgar was respectful and
protective toward women. Violence was not in his nature. Violence toward the
abusers
of women however, would be a totally different story.

That was why
when he saw pictures of children being molested on Wilkinson’s computer, he
felt the need to take action. He personally knew some of the children who
suffered from that abuse. His mom may never find her rapist, but at least
these
children—now adults, would know. They would have photographic evidence of
their molesters.

From the
pictures he sent them, he hoped they’d have sufficient proof to convict these
men, bring them to justice and obtaining closure for themselves. Their actions
may even prevent other children from being abused.

Edgar ate his
dinner at a local diner and returned home after dusk. As usual, he parked his car
in the single spot behind his property then walked through the backyard to his
house.

Bang! Bang!

Both shots came
from a .300 Win Mag Sniper Rifle with night scope and silencer, at a distance
just over 700 yards. The muffled noises were quieter than a car backfiring, but
louder than a hand clap.

No one noticed.

In classic
sniper technique, the first bullet hit his heart, the second his head.

Quick and
painless, Edgar Gates never knew he was going to die before he hit the ground dead.
Since his body was in the backyard, it was two days before he was found.

By then, a
domino effect of life changing events had already been set in motion.