Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  I feel as though I’m going to die.

  I get these attacks on occasion but I haven’t had one for a very long time.

  If I don’t get on top of this—if I can’t break the cycle—I’ll continue to spiral out of control and end up a total wreck. Luckily, from experience, I recognize the symptoms. I know how to calm myself down before it gets worse.

  My practiced response kicks in automatically.

  With my hands on my chest, feeling myself inhale, I concentrate on relaxing my muscles and slowing my breathing. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK, I begin my mental chant.

  The words help me focus. I’m OK… one, I’m OK… two, I’m OK… three...

  I breathe through my nose and concentrate on my mantra. By the time I reach twenty, I know I’ve successfully held off a full blown panic attack.

  I’m so grateful to have regained control.

  But Grant is gone.

  Holy hell, what just happened? I like him so much. How did I screw this up? For the life of me, I have no idea where I went wrong.

  Chapter 4.

  “The actions and emotional responses of others are not your responsibility. You cannot rescue people from themselves. This is for them to do.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  I find André sitting on the couch in his office, reading something on his tablet.

  “André, quick,” I say, pleased to have gotten my stuttering and my breathing under control. “You gotta go find Grant! I’d go, but I have to put clothes on first. You’re dressed. If you’re fast, you should be able to catch him.”

  “Oh? Why would I do this?”

  “Because he’s getting away!”

  “Monsieur Wilkinson is free to act as he wishes. He has broken no laws. In any case, I am not a policeman. I have no desire to stop him.”

  “But there’s something wrong and we have to talk to him!”

  One dark eyebrow arches with interest. “And yet he has chosen to leave. From this, I perceive he does not wish to stay and he does not wish to talk.”

  “I must’ve done something wrong!” I wail, throwing my hands in the air, unable to hide my anguish. “What do you think I did? I’ve never had a client run off like this. I thought everything was going well!”

  “Ma petite souris,” he says studying me for a moment. “All of this passion is most becoming. Your eyes, they are very bright, and your face is flushed a most charming pink.” Smiling, he pats the couch beside him. “Se il vous plait. Sit here beside me.”

  “But we have to get Grant!”

  He sighs and waves a long-fingered hand. “You are, of course, free to do as you wish.”

  He gives me a one shouldered shrug, crosses an elegant leg and resumes reading his tablet. I glance down. He’s reading “Le Monde” the French newspaper.

  Frustrated, I run back to my bedroom. My hair is a disaster because I didn’t dry it after getting out of the shower. It’s mostly dry now, but tangled. I quickly brush it out and twist it into a bun on top of my head.

  I glance at a white porcelain 18th century clock sitting on the bedside table. A little boy is walking with a wolfhound, I think. The dog’s almost taller than he is. I’ve always loved that clock.

  It’s been exactly twenty-nine minutes since I first got out of the shower. How could so much have happened in so short a time?

  I slide into my summery, off the shoulder, dark blue ruffle dress. The tiered elastane fabric is light and breezy and always looks great. Slipping on my heels, I stride back toward my mentor.

  As I walk, I’m recalling everything Grant and I did together, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I can’t understand why André isn’t worried. Why is he so complacent when an important client has disappeared without even a good bye?

  When I return to André’s study, he’s still calmly reading. I’ve had time to think about it though, so I sit down beside him.

  “You’re right, André,” I say. “I could never catch up to Grant by now. But you have his phone number, right? Don’t you think we should call him? Just to make sure he’s OK?”

  “No.”

  “Please André, can’t I phone him?”

  “It is doubtful he will answer. It is clear to me he does not wish to speak to us.”

  “Pretty please?”

  I’m nagging now but I can’t help it. I need to figure out what happened to Grant. I’ll apologize if I did something that upset him.

  With an unexpected trace of exasperation, André takes out his phone and scrolls down to Grant’s number. Muttering under his breath, “A woman must do as a woman must do,” he hands me his cell phone.

  I grab it anxiously and listen to it ring. Grant doesn’t pick up. After a few rings, it switches to voicemail.

  I clear my throat. “Grant, it’s Renata.” A long moment passes. I want to tell him to come back. I want to say how much I enjoyed holding him, how he affected me, and how my heart’s breaking because he ran away.

  Instead, a sudden spike of ice-cold rationality hits my brain.

  I hear André’s voice in my mind. So many times André’s admonished me, whenever my boundaries waver and I lose track of my role. “You are a counselor! Remember who you are. Remember why you are here.”

  What the hell am I doing? Grant is a client. I’m a professional. What would be the right thing for me to say to him?

  “I enjoyed meeting you very much, and would appreciate you returning my call,” I finally say.

  Andre sets his tablet down on the end table. While his face is composed I register a combination of pride and amusement in his eyes.

  “Ma petite, I feared what you might have said to him. Oui, oui, I admit I doubted you, but you did not dishearten me. Now, cease all of these most wonderfully passionate reactions, if you please. Nothing needs to be done at this moment, except for you to compose yourself further. All is well. If you wish, tell me what happened after I left you both alone in the bedroom.”

  I sit beside him, rest back on the couch and relate recent events. I particularly mention the strange sense of connection I had with Grant, and how he seemed so sad and vulnerable. I tell André I honestly thought at one point he looked as if he would cry.

  “Bon! Bon! Très bon,” he says, sitting up and leaning toward me. “Now you speak of things that interest me greatly. Continue, if you please.”

  I go into detail, telling him everything Grant and I said and did. When it comes down to it, very few words were spoken—yet even without them, an inexplicable ocean of connection and communication occurred between us.

  “I really ‘got’ him, André. I felt as if we formed a bond.”

  Unable to sit still, I stand up once more and begin to pace anxiously. “As far as I could tell, everything was perfect. I know something happened. I don’t know what, but… something did. It was wonderful. Magical. And I’m not talking about sex. You’re right. He really does need me. He needs someone, that’s for sure. He looks so sad. I’ve never met a more lost and lonely man.”

  “Bravo! And now you speak like the observant and intelligent woman you are.”

  I stop and face him. “What do you think I did wrong?”

  His eyes widen in quizzical surprise. “Did you do something wrong?”

  “I must have! He ran away! Why did Grant leave like that?”

  Supremely disinterested by my question, André shrugs. “How should I know unless he tells us? Me? I am very clever, and yet I find with all my observational skills, I am not psychic.”

  I exhale in a deep sigh and can’t help but feel bummed out.

  I would’ve felt much worse if I had any idea of how pissed off André was at me.

  Chapter 5.

  “The most eloquent poet could never express with language the trust, respect, selflessness and adoration as one silent act of love.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Andr�
� glances up at me and his eyes flash in what appears to be frustration… or muted fury. “Tell me what you are feeling right now,” he demands.

  I’m used to this “attitude and emotion” game; André’s taught me how to play. For a moment, my thoughts turn inward and I easily reply, “Guilty. Stupid. As if everything is all my fault, and I’m a failure.”

  André’s instant grin is bright and wide. The shadows in his eyes disappear as if a noonday sun’s come out from a cloud. I told him the exact truth and I also told it succinctly. This always pleases him. He pats the couch beside him once more, so I sit down.

  “Ma petite, is it customary for an adult to behave as Grant has done? To share such an intimate act and then to flee without even a simple au revoir?”

  I shake my head.

  “For him, oui, oui, there was a reason, but we do not know it. Nevertheless, people do not typically act in this manner. It could be said to be most unusual. Even irrational, no?”

  “Yes,” I have to agree.

  He nods his head. “Bon. Grant has acted as a crazy man, running away from a generous and beautiful woman.” His dark eyes blaze. “But you! You blame yourself for his illogical behavior. Now, I ask you, which of the two of you is acting more irrationally?”

  Wow. There’s an unwelcome, yet spot on idea.

  I keep falling back into my old pattern of blaming myself for everything.

  André nods when he sees I understand what he’s getting at. His expression becomes grave. “It is a risk, a very great risk to allow you to be Grant Wilkinson’s surrogate,” he says quietly.

  His words surprise me. What risk? What’s he talking about?

  André’s lips thin and he shakes his head. “And still, I have done what I have done. But pay attention, if you please,” he says in a deceptively soft tone that holds an undoubted trace of menace. “It can be undone at any time, yes?”

  Shit. My eyes widen and my breath hitches.

  He’s talking about taking me off of Grant’s case.

  No! I couldn’t bear it!

  Everything I have wells up inside of me in a rush of protest, but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

  There’s an edge to André’s voice. He has that displeased and all-powerful Dom look in his dark eyes, as if he’d like to discipline me for forgetting that I’d been working in a professional capacity. He’s furious and disappointed. After all this time, and his extensive training, I should be able to control myself better.

  “I believe we understand each other?” he asks in a low growl that’s hard as iron. It’s a no-nonsense voice, a tone he rarely uses with me. I find it unnerving as hell.

  “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

  The title slips out automatically and I struggle to meet his eyes. I desperately want to avert my gaze in shame. André’s my best friend and he’s literally, my savior. He means more to me than anyone else in the world. But right now he’s my boss, and I’ve let him down.

  He dips his head subtly, the tiniest nod, accepting my apology.

  I can’t help but consider the manner of it is somewhat regal. I know he’s granting me amnesty—but just this once. He’s the king of his world and I’m merely a pawn. And still, he often treats me with the deference of royalty.

  “Renata,” he says, and I withhold a cringe—he rarely calls me by my name. “Listen to me very carefully. I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope they may heal each other.”

  His eyes glower in sudden, passionate fury. “Regrettably, healing cannot occur unless at least one of you can remain rational!”

  He stands up to make his point. “You cannot both be the client! Non! Such can be of no help to either. It is for you to be the capable, professional woman I know you are. Your attention must be on him!” he raises his arms. “Your focus on him! Listen, look, and learn from him.”

  André’s pissed and I can’t blame him. He’s right. I lost track of why I was there.

  When he speaks again, his voice lowers. “Grant is attempting to communicate with everything he does. He wants your help, yes! Even now, when he has run away, it is a cry for help. Every word, every action—all is a valid form of communication.”

  Hands locked together behind his back, André strides back and forth in front of me. “You did well this morning. You caused a major reaction. This is very good! Something has changed. Did Grant plan to run? No! I do not doubt he has surprised and embarrassed himself.”

  He swings to face me and there is fury in his eyes. “Tell me, if you please. If you take every illogical step he makes personally, who will be there with Grant to help him address his issues? Not the counselor—non! For she will be responding to her own triggers! She will be stuck in her own mind, reliving and repeating her past in a misguided effort to change it! This must not be! Push your own case away while you are with him. Act as the counselor must act. Be the counselor! I expect nothing less from the intelligent woman I’ve trained!”

  We stare at each other for a long moment.

  “I understand, André,” I say meekly. “I screwed up. I see exactly how it happened. I’ll be on guard in the future. I promise.”

  I blink, shake my head, and look across the room toward one of André’s French impressionist paintings. I see the picture, but don’t really see it. My thoughts are with Grant. I don’t think I’ve ever been as engaged with a client.

  My gaze returns to meet André’s dark eyes.

  “I wasn’t prepared,” I say. “Grant…surprised me. There’s something about him. I know he was overwhelmed, but he turned my whole world upside-down too.”

  André nods. “Oui, oui, je comprends très bien, but as the counselor, you do not have the luxury of reacting. You do not have a heart of stone, and I do not ask you to. Do you imagine that I never fight this battle? That I find it easy, at all times, to remain calm and quiet when a client speaks of atrocities? Je t'assure, oh, many, many times I struggle. Why? Because for me also, there is a past.”

  “Oh,” I say weakly.

  I’ve never once considered this—the idea that André might’ve had a less than perfect childhood. For all I know he’s an orphan as he’s never talked of parents or siblings. The man is always so sensible, wise and well-adjusted. How could I guess he might have triggers of his own?

  “If you feel you are responding to your own memories, if you feel you are losing control, excuse yourself as best you can. Come to me and we will address your issues,” he says quietly. “Just remember, your client deserves the best you can be.”

  “I will, André.”

  “You did not fail when you were with Monsieur Wilkinson and for this I am most grateful,” he says in a mollifying tone. “You acted with empathy and love—yes, love!”

  My eyes widen in surprise. How does he know about the love thing, when I’ve hardly begun to figure it out myself?

  He shrugs a shoulder. “You are naturally caring and compassionate. It makes you a most excellent surrogate,” he explains, answering my question before I ask it.

  “Oh.”

  “Grant,” he says, “has never known feelings of love from another without treacherous or self-serving strings attached. You gave to him willingly with no other motive than to help.”

  I nod because it’s true. Is that what happened? Poor Grant. Maybe that explains my overpowering rush of inexplicable love for the man.

  Leaning forward, his dark eyes brighten with sudden curiosity. “You tell me you touched him?” he asks with strong interest. “You caressed the scars?”

  “Yes. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  Face gleaming with pleasure, he kisses his fingers and flings them outward in a gesture of perfection. “Magnifique! Ah! Mon Dieu, I wish I had been there to see it! Our little mouse faced the monster and he was not oh-so monstrous after all. He was very angry, yet under such tenderness, even fury must fade, no?”

  I frown. “I never once considered he was mad at me. Isn’t that strange? When I’m usually so fri
ghtened by angry people, especially big angry men?”

  “But of course! Grant was never angry with you. Intuitively, you knew this.” There’s warm approval in his eyes. “This is one of the many things I adore very much about women. They are born with insight and intuition. It is a sensitivity most men lack.”

  I don’t know what to say about that, so I say nothing.

  André’s brows furrow. “The man dislikes himself. It is a tragedy that with time we shall remedy.” His face lifts suddenly, and he smiles an angelic, self-satisfied grin. “Hate vanishes and walls cannot stand against the strength of love. You disarmed Monsieur Wilkinson with kindness, n’est-ce-pas? That was very well done.”

  “Merci. Merci beaucoup, André.”

  “Il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour,” he adds, and cocks a whimsical eyebrow.

  I smile when I recognize the quote from the famous French poet, Anna de Noailles: Nothing is real but dreams and love. It’s a nice idea, and who knows? Maybe it’s even true.

  “One more thing, ma petite souris.”

  “Yes?”

  “Together, you have forged a connection,” he says. “Grant is an intelligent man, who has endured much.” His gaze fixes on me. “Have you noticed how those who have suffered, recognize suffering in others? As a man with his own scars, Grant will not be blind to yours.”

  Huh. I hadn’t thought of this.

  André nods when he can tell I appreciate what he’s saying. He continues, “Your own issues, at some point will affect him—yes! But they must not negatively affect him.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  If we continue to spend time together, Grant will become aware of my circumstances and my past. André expects this. Yet, I can’t allow my problems to mess up his therapeutic journey. I must remain mindful of this.

  My thoughts go back to something else André said. I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope they may heal each other.

  What did he mean by that? Was he… could he be…matchmaking?