by Nikki Sex
I’m not that person anymore.
Mitten is playing with his new friend, a jet black kitten from next-door. He knows Renata’s going out and seems OK with it.
Renata kisses Briley and we wave good bye to Maria. I open the door so Renata can get into the car. Our picnic lunch is already packed. Nervous tension tightens my muscles as I think about the surprise I have in store for Renata, for tonight—unless I lose my nerve.
The woman I adore has been quite direct in expressing a desire to continue my therapy, so I finally booked a hotel room to provide us with alone time. Renata doesn’t know it yet.
This way, I can always change my mind and back out at any time.
Supportive and understanding, she'd let me out of it if I wasn't ready. This gives me peace of mind, yet I don't want to let her down.
I’ve spent the last two weeks reading three different books, each detailing various sexual positions, female anatomy, and how to please a woman in bed. I’ve also watched a ton of YouTube videos.
Sex is a subject I’ve avoided all my life, but I’ve put myself through a crash course. I’m terrified—and electrified, yet I’m determined to try every single suggestion.
Maria is going to stay overnight, babysitting Briley. Tonight, I intend to finally share the same bed with Renata.
I hope I can go through with it.
Chapter 32.
“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche
~~~
Detective Bronowski
Roman Bronowski stood at the entrance to the room, genuinely surprised by the setting, as well as by the man standing before him.
As a seasoned detective, he thought he'd seen it all, yet André Chevalier was nothing like Roman expected. Clearly wealthy and urbane, he had the muscular physique of a fighter with broad shoulders and a flat stomach. Impeccably dressed and well-groomed, he was much younger than Bronowski had anticipated
How did a man his age manage to live like this? Maybe he comes from old money, Roman decided.
“This is quite some place you have here, Mr. Chevalier,” Roman said, as he took in the antique furniture and palatial décor of the man’s home.
He smiled to himself, briefly picturing those two overly-excitable furniture appraisers, the Keno brothers who regularly appeared on Antiques Roadshow. They'd have way too much fun determining the value of the precious objects filling this room.
Roman was sure there were no cheap knock-offs here. Everything he saw spoke of class, wealth and taste.
“Merci, Detective,” André said, in a heavy French accent, as he rose to greet his guest.
Roman took the counselor’s hand and shook it—it was warm, dry and firm. The fellow was dressed in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than his oldest daughter’s braces. André Chevalier had that classy, understated look which could only be achieved with the skill and expertise of a very fine and expensive tailor.
“The counseling business must really pay off, eh?” Roman commented.
The Frenchman laughed and the sound of it was warm and carefree. Roman found himself liking the guy despite his suspicions about the legitimacy of his wealth.
“But yes, of course!” André said. “That is true. I am well compensated for my services.” He gave an eloquent shrug, his dark eyes bright with intelligence. “But, that is because I am the best, you understand.”
Roman found himself smiling. There was an aura of natural humor about the man, as though he took nothing in life too seriously. He oozed confidence. Was it real, or was this part of the show he put on for his clients?
“Please. Call me André,” he said, and directed Roman to sit on his classy, white couch. Roman didn’t share his own first name with André.
Just as they sat down, Chevalier's servant brought in refreshments, a silver service bearing coffee and tea, milk and sugar, fine china cups and saucers and little cakes. The manservant appeared to be about fifty years old and he projected a quiet dignity. If Roman didn’t know better, he thought the man might easily have stepped out of Victorian-era England.
“Merci, Gustave,” André said.
“You are most welcome, Sir,” the servant replied, also in a thick French accent.
“Now, Monsieur,” André said, addressing Roman, “Please help yourself to refreshments and tell me how I may assist you.”
“I flew all the way out here because you wouldn’t talk to me on the phone,” Roman admonished, annoyed by the inconvenience.
"Ah, most unfortunate. I am genuinely sorry for your waste of time and effort, Monsieur," he said calmly, pouring himself a cup of very dark coffee. "I was informed you wished to discuss a client. As you know, I am unable to do so.”
“What exactly do you do, Mr. Chevalier?” Roman said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Don’t be offended, but from the look of this place, I’d suspect that you were into gambling or drugs.”
André grinned. “Mais, non! Such undertakings do not interest me and I am not offended. I am, as my servant told you, a counselor. I specialize in treating PTSD and sexual difficulties.”
Roman narrowed his eyes. “What exactly do you mean by sexual difficulties?”
André tilted his head and arched one thick, dark eyebrow. His features were expressive. There was something about him that made Roman want to smile, but he didn’t. Frustrated by the case, Roman wanted answers.
“It is perhaps exactly as you imagine, my friend,” André said with a shrug, taking a moment to gracefully sip his coffee. “I counsel couples and individuals, relating to sexual concerns, interests and identity.”
Roman stared at him blankly, wondering if Grant Wilkinson had sexual ‘concerns.’ Maybe, just maybe, he had daddy issues? Problems severe enough to kill for? Yet, as a man who had gone to war and returned home badly scarred, it was more likely Wilkinson suffered from PTSD.
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You really make a good living as a counselor?”
The Frenchman placed his hand on his chest. Roman thought his expression was reminiscent of George Washington’s, “I cannot tell a lie,” look.
“Me?’ André said. “I am financially compensated very well. Why? It is because I am very clever.” He gave Roman a smug, yet boyish grin. “I will show you what I do, yes?”
Roman scowled at his lack of humility. Arrogance irritated him.
“Oui, oui, I assure you,” André said. “I have very great skills and with both men and women?” He kissed his fingers, flinging them outward in a gesture of perfection. “I am par excellence. It is a gift from the bon Dieu, comprenez vous?" he said with a wry smile.
"Oh, yeah?" Roman said, curbing his desire to tell the cocky bastard exactly what he thought of him and his over-confidence.
"Mais, oui," André said complacently. "Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you?"
Roman frowned at that statement. He didn’t like the way this interview was going. The judge wouldn’t grant him a warrant to release Wilkinson’s personal counseling files—not unless some additional evidence was found that would justify such an invasion of patient privacy. Unfortunately, the case was at a dead end. He was grasping at straws by coming here.
"You are married and have children?" André asked.
“No surprise there,” Roman said after rolling his eyes. “I wear a wedding ring and I’m certainly old enough.”
“You have been married…” André studied him, “I would say perhaps fifteen years, no longer.”
“OK.”
“You still love your wife, but you are no longer satisfied in the marriage bed.”
Roman said nothing, but he couldn’t school his face in time to prevent André from seeing he'd made a direct hit.
André raised a hand in triumph. “Just so! I do not know you, and I do not know your wife, but I have seen this many times before. Shall I tell you how to correct this disagreeable concern?”
“Knock yourself o
ut,” Roman said, becoming interested despite himself. It might be an act, but the Frenchman had presence. His voice was soothing and his manner was compelling.
André’s dark eyes were bright. “Nothing in life stays the same,” he said. “All things? Either they grow or they decline. Treat your marriage like a living thing, my friend. It must be nurtured daily! The last time you brought your wife a gift or even flowers—it was when? On your anniversary?”
Roman hid his astonishment at this deduction. “Yes,” he finally admitted.
“And when did you last take her out, just the two of you as a couple? A year ago? More?”
Roman felt his face heat. He couldn’t recall when he’d last gone out with Angela without bringing the kids along. Chevalier was right. He hadn’t been focusing his attention on his marriage at all.
André shook his head sadly. “Americans!” He threw his hands into the air. “You are a man who takes good care of your possessions—such as the car—but you do not put the same time and effort into your wife and your marriage! You service your car, as you wish it to run smoothly—yet do you show such thoughtfulness, care and consideration of your wife? Non!”
Feeling terribly guilty, Roman said nothing.
“And, after providing no attention, you then expect your wife to want to make love with you? Why would she wish to do so when she does not feel loved or appreciated?”
Roman sat there in silence for a while, considering what André had said. He often complained to Angela about the fact that she never seemed to be in the mood for sex. Yet, when she did take him to bed, he always felt as if she were doing it merely to get him off her back… (or her front) so to speak.
“Foreplay for a man?” André said. “It is to see a woman smile at him, n'est-ce pas? But for a woman?” He made an eloquent gesture with his hands. “For a woman, desire begins in her mind. Of a certainty, a woman must be wooed! She must feel special, cherished and desirable.”
Meeting Roman’s gaze, André raised a cautioning finger. “You have developed bad habits, monsieur.”
The suddenly somber look on the Frenchman’s face surprised Roman.
“Do you wish to spend your life alone?” André asked, his piercing eyes glaring at Roman. “No? Then you must take care, my friend, for your wife?” he said, a tone of admonishment in his voice. “She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.”
Roman was speechless.
There was nothing to say to that, except it was all too true.
“Become as you were before, when you first were married,” André advised. “Then you were vital to her happiness! For now, you are an irritation, simply someone she must perhaps cook dinner for. How do you propose to do this?”
Roman turned his head, and looked out the window, over Las Vegas as he thought about it. A number of minutes passed while Roman brooded, trying to remember the times he and Angela had fun together.
André didn’t interrupt him.
“Years ago,” Roman said, turning toward him, “before the children were born, we used to go dancing.”
“Ooh là là! Une très bonne idée!” André said enthusiastically, clapping his hands. “This is a very good idea. Mon ami, you have lost what you once had, but with careful thought and attention, what has gone will return.”
Bronowski frowned.
“Do not be unhappy, my friend,” André said. “Your marriage? It will never be as it was. None of us are able to return to the past. Yet as of this moment, you have the ability to make your relationship with your wife better than it has ever been before.”
Detective Bronowski left André Chevalier’s home with his mind preoccupied. The idea Wilkinson had gotten himself involved in something untoward, some seedy underworld-related problem, had disappeared.
Roman now had his attention focused on his relationship with his wife.
It was perhaps for the best the detective didn’t see the file André Chevalier had been reading when he first arrived. It was the summary of an investigation André had commissioned, titled, “Report on Detective Roman Bronowski.”
Chapter 33.
“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose and do something terrible.”
― John Burnside
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant and I walk along the Cedar Break Trail, right outside of Dallas. So far we’ve descended down a steep hill and crossed a picturesque, wooden bridge over a lovely little creek. There are plenty of hills and valleys on this trail as we meander through a thicket of eastern red cedar.
Just before we reach a pond, there’s a comfortable bench near a small waterfall. We sit down to take in the view, admiring the flowering dogwoods.
“Oh, look!” I call out, excitedly pointing toward a tiny white bird with a black neck and head. “A hummingbird!”
“That’s a black-chinned hummingbird,” Grant says, amused by my enthusiasm.
“It’s so beautiful.”
We watch this tiny, perfect creature flit around for some time. Grant hands me a flask of water from out of his backpack and I take a drink. I figure that now is as good time as any to let him know what I’ve been thinking.
“I want to tell you something, Grant,” I begin.
“Sure,” he says, taking a long drink of water. Calm and relaxed, he shows no trace of a premonition about what I’m about to say. From the way we’re usually able to read each other, I wondered if he might have already picked up on something from my tone of voice alone.
I watch his throat work as he swallows.
Fucking hell, he’s sex on a stick!
There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin and man, I really want to lick it off. Already aroused simply by his proximity, seeing him all hot and sweaty, just makes me even hornier. I want to touch every inch of his hot body. I want to ride him like a cowgirl. I want to make him writhe and scream my name in ecstasy.
Jesus. Get it together, Renata! This is important. Focus!
I clear my throat and look him in the eye. “When I was about six or seven years old, my mother had one friend—my Auntie Julia. She wasn’t really my aunt, but I knew her for most of my life. She was a part of almost every happy childhood memory I can recall—not that there were many of those.”
I laugh, but the sound comes out hollow and humorless.
“Auntie Julia had a little girl named Sally,” I explain. “She was a couple of years younger than I was. I think Auntie Julia and my mom took turns babysitting for each other. Anyway, the three of us used to play hide and seek and bake gingerbread cookies together, making faces on each one by decorating them with M & M eyes.”
“What happened to Julia and her daughter?” Grant asks.
“I have no idea,” I reply sadly. “The thing is, one day when Auntie Julia was looking after me, she noticed some of my bruises and questioned me about them. Nobody had ever asked me about my injuries before, so I innocently answered her questions candidly. I told her my dad beat my mom and me all the time. Auntie Julia immediately informed the authorities.”
Grant’s expression turns grim. His jaw tightens and the muscles in his neck flex. We both know the end of this story.
“Anyway,” I continue, “It turned out confiding in someone outside of the family had consequences I was unaware of. I won’t go into the details—as I’m sure you can imagine, it was pretty ugly. In the end my father moved us to another town.”
“I’m sorry,” Grant murmurs, barely hiding the anguish he has for me in his voice.
“Thank you,” I say. “After we relocated, my mother and I never saw Julia again, but this is the relevant point. When my mother said goodbye to her only friend—” I pause for a moment, unable to continue. My eyes begin to sting and I blink back sudden, unshed tears.
“Are you OK?” Grant asks, his expression concerned.
I nod sharply and clear my throat. �
��It’s just that I’ll never forget the look in Julia's eyes and the expression on her face. She was a good person—someone who cared and was genuinely trying to help us. I learned then, the best way to safeguard someone you care about is to keep your mouth shut.”
“Yeah,” Grant says. “I get that. What did Julia do?”
I shake my head and take another sip from my flask as I pull myself together. “It wasn’t what she said or did. It was the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes. She attempted to do a good thing, the right thing, and it ended up badly. You see?”
His eyes soften. “Of course.”
“The point is, I think you’re trying to shield me with silence, Grant.”
He stiffens, but only for a moment. He has a good idea where I’m going with my little story now.
“I know you don’t want to talk about this because of the ongoing murder case,” I say, “but I’ve pieced a few things together.”
Grant peers at me, his expression utterly blank. Man, he's gifted. He’s really good at hiding his emotions. I imagine this ability comes from living with a predator, or possibly in part from his military background.
“Please don’t freak out,” I tell him, “but I think it was your father who sexually abused you.”
“Renata—” he opens his mouth to speak, but I raise my hand to stop him from saying anything more.
I shake my head. “Just hear me out, Grant. I’m only telling you this so you’ll know that I know. You want to protect me. I appreciate that, I do. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place. I understand what happened and why you’re trying to keep it a secret, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”
I can tell I’ve guessed correctly. Grant doesn’t deny his father’s abuse.
“I didn’t kill him,” he says.
“I know. “You already told me that and I believe you.” My brows draw down in concentration. “Do you have any idea who did?”
His gaze meets mine. “Yes, but that’s not up for discussion,” he replies in a no-nonsense tone of determination.
