by Nikki Sex
I give her an ironic smile. “I did and each time I went through the motions, but none of it was real. I wasn’t a believer.”
“Oh.”
I smile. “Still, there’s something about near-death that makes you think of God, I guess. So I thought, ‘Jesus, this has to be rock-bottom. I can’t get any lower. If I’m going to keep living, I can’t go on like this.’”
“That’s when I made a pivotal decision. If I was going to live, I had to change my life. So, when I returned to the States, I eventually looked for help and was lucky enough to find André.”
“The priest saved your life,” Renata says.
“Yes, he did.” I smile and add, “Twice.”
Chapter 41.
“Prohibition... goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man's appetite by legislation…”
― Abraham Lincoln
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I inhale deeply. “My whole life may have been screwed up, but I had one thing I was certain of: As an American soldier, I was a patriot and one of the good guys. I came to Mexico expecting to do the world a favor by killing a bad guy.”
The thought that I might have been wrong, almost destroyed me.
“The good Father had to know I killed the head of the cartel, yet we never discussed it. When I was well enough, he drove me around, pointing out the good things my Target’s organization was responsible for. Do you know that the Knights prevent drug sales in their own communities? They even offer free treatment programs for addicts.”
Incredulous, Renata shakes her head. “That seems… counterproductive.”
“Not for them,” I explain. “They want the communities that support them to be healthy and happy, with as many family ties to their organization as possible.”
“Really?”
“They’re well-integrated with hundreds of social programs. They employ half the community, providing them with excellent wages and benefits—better than a soldier in the Mexican army receives. They even prevent domestic violence and petty crime.”
“Unbelievable,” she says.
“It’s a hell of a thing. They deeply favor the Pope and consider themselves good Catholics! Do you know what the motto of the Knights Templar is? Every new member has to take this vow, ‘I swear and promise to always fight to protect the oppressed, the widows and the orphans.’ Can you believe that?”
Renata’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “They see themselves as heroes?”
“Oh, yes,” I assure her. “Protectors of the church, family and community. They have legitimate business interests, yet they mainly import and distribute cocaine.”
“I haven’t had much experience with alcohol or drugs,” Renata says.
“I have,” I tell her. “Every party I attended as a teenager had cocaine flowing like a river of snow. Politicians, celebrities, NFL players—people with money use and abuse cocaine. It’s a party drug, but I’ve met my fair share of addicts.”
Renata shrugs. “Addicts often end up living on the street.”
“Of course, you’d know about that first-hand.” I give her a faint smile. “I’m sorry you were homeless in your teens.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” she says.
“Miss Positive.” I grin at her. “Rich and educated addicts often camouflage their addiction,” I say, thinking of my father, brother, sister… and myself.
“Yes,” Renata agrees. “Except sometimes they act like two-year-olds—they want what they want and they want it now!”
We both laugh because it’s funny, even though it really isn’t. Renata’s clearly thinking about her alcoholic father and I’m thinking about mine.
“You’ve got to admire the community business model,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s genius.”
“But they push drugs!” Renata protests. “Look at your brother and sister-in-law, they’ve lost their son. Drugs are the root of so much evil!”
“Good or evil isn’t the issue—the issue is big business. The United States is the largest consumer of cocaine worldwide. This one cartel probably makes between forty and sixty billion dollars a year. Do you know who else makes sixty billion a year?”
“No.”
“Microsoft,” I tell her. “That’s the kind of money I’m talking about.”
Renata frowns. “What are you trying to say?”
I shrug. “Prohibition doesn’t work. Too many wealthy and influential Americans enjoy cocaine and will find a way to get it.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You think public servants and government officials turn a blind eye to the sale of cocaine?”
“I don’t know. Is there another explanation?”
“Human nature?” Renata suggests. “It’s forbidden, therefore people want it?”
“Maybe,” I reply. “But that doesn’t explain the exponential growth in sales.” I shake my head. “No, drugs are actively being pushed. Some companies spend over a billion dollars a year on advertising—that’s one thousand million dollars. If you think about it, you’ll know who they are.”
Renata’s brow furrows in concentration. “Walmart?” she suggests.
I laugh. “Good guess,” I congratulate her. “Walmart don’t pay their staff a decent wage yet they can afford a billion dollars a year in advertising—go figure. Promotion is big business. Do you know why people buy that new car or that brand of insurance? Because advertising told them to!”
“I never see cocaine advertised.”
“Drug pushers don’t promote on TV or billboards,” I explain. “Their promotions are more subtle, yet they still spend millions marketing their product. You know how they sell drugs in schools?”
“No.”
“Dealers find the most popular, good-looking and well-dressed kid in the school and give him cocaine to share with his friends. That’s the kid they recruit to move their product. Why? Because everyone wants to be him. If the popular kid sells cocaine? Well, he makes experimenting with drugs cool. When you’re an adolescent, you want to be cool, don’t you?”
“You really think that happens?” Renata asks with alarm in her voice. She’s probably imagining Briley going to school and being sold drugs.
“Yes.” I pause. I’m trying to remain calm, but I’m not having much success. “Did you know you can send a text and have cocaine delivered to your door in thirty minutes or less anywhere in the United States? Think about it. What organization can meet that criteria? Who are these faceless criminals who distribute drugs? They’re people we know—housewives, teachers, white-collar workers and students.”
“What are you saying?”
“I killed a good man,” I tell her, fisting my hands in a sudden spike of fury. “He was a better father than either of us had. I murdered him in his home around his family. And why did I do this? For my country? No! I don’t know who benefited from his death!”
“But he sold drugs!”
“So did my brother!” I roar, and my rage echoes loudly through the room.
Renata visibly flinches and I feel like an ass. The angry moment hangs thick and heavy in the air between us. I’m mortified that I’ve shouted at her. Breathing heavily, I stop for a long moment to collect myself.
“Does Alex deserve to die?” I finally manage to say quietly. “Should I kill him?”
Her features light with understanding. “Oh.”
I run my hand through my hair, touching the edge of my scars. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s OK.”
I reach over and take her hand. “No, it’s not OK. There is no way on God’s green earth I’d ever believe that losing my temper with you is OK, especially with your history. Are you sure you’re alright?
“Yes,” she says. “The subject is very personal to you.”
“It is,” I admit. “I spent weeks brooding in that damned basement. The same thoughts went round and round my head. Am I a good guy? Killing is a sin. I killed, but it was my job. Yet, it’s OK if I
kill bad guys. My Target was a good father—was he a bad guy? Of course he was a bad guy! He sold drugs. Yet, my brother sold drugs and it was my father that really deserved to be shot. Do you see why I became so damned confused?”
Renata’s compelling blue eyes soften with understanding. “Yes,” she says quietly.
“The Knights Templar are still going strong. Luis is dead and a mother and her three children have been deprived of a husband and father. What was it all for? I always believed I was a monster—I had so little self-respect as it was.”
I drop her hand and avert my gaze. “That one mission took away what little self-respect I had.”
“You’re not a monster and I respect you like crazy,” Renata says.
“Thank you for that,” I say with a sigh. “More and more American kids discover the pleasures of cocaine every day and someone has to meet the ever-growing demand. Meanwhile, soldiers are sent to do jobs that make them doubt everything they ever believed in.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yes,” I agree. “What’s the point in going after Mexicans? Our real enemies? The people who are selling cocaine? They’re Americans and they live next door. In truth, Los Caballeros Templarios are simply providing a product to the American people.”
We both remain silent for a long moment. Finally, Renata asks, “Grant, did you ever write to the priest to thank him?”
“No, that wouldn’t be safe for him… or for me.”
“That’s too bad. I’d like to thank him,” Renata says quietly.
I shake my head, still amazed after all this time. “Padre Sigala really was a saint,” I tell her. “I’m still astonished he didn’t turn me in.”
“Why?” Renata asks. “Because he risked his life by saving yours? That sounds like something a priest would do.”
“Yes,” I say, “but not only that. The man I killed was the chief financial supporter for Padre Sigala’s church. Without fail, the Target went to the priest for communion every Sunday. After services, he always played a quiet game of chess with the good Father.”
Renata’s blue eyes widen in surprise and confusion.
I give her a sad, ironic smile. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. The man I murdered?” I explain. “He and Padre Sigala grew up together. My Target was the priest’s best friend.”
Chapter 42.
"Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are."
— Chinese Proverb
~~~
Renata Koreman
I’m still reeling from the sniper story Grant shared with me. That was intense. He’s such an amazing man. I’m madly in love with him, but I also I can’t help but like him.
Also, it doesn’t hurt that the sexual chemistry between us is off the charts. I don’t know if it’s his hot all-muscle-body, his heady male scent, his pheromones or what. Either way, he makes my knees weak, my nipples hard and my panties wet.
I crave him.
The hotel phone rings and Grant answers it. “Thank you, I’ll be right down,” he says, and hangs up. “That was the front desk, our pizza’s here.” He smiles boyishly and adds, “Right on time. I’m starving.”
My lips part and I gape at him like an idiot. I’m pretty sure my heart just stopped. Who could resist him? Not me! I melt every single time Grant smiles at me.
I follow closely behind him, through the living area to the front door. Damn, that man sure can fill out a pair of jeans. I love the long, lean length of him and his confident, sexy stride.
“Thank you, for listening,” he says, leaning over and kissing me on my cheek.
“It was my pleasure,” I say. “Thank you for sharing. It means so much to me.”
Grant smiles, nods, opens the door to our hotel suite and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I’ve told him my stories and he’s told me his. That’s what really close friends do. Now I just need to figure out how to get them out of his head, and turn him into a confident lover. My lover.
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I want to feel his hands on me. I want to feel my hands on him. I imagine him naked, my nails scratching his back as he pushes inside of me, deep and hard.
Waiting has been agony. For the love of God, will he fuck me now? Here? Tonight? Ever?
I feel as though I’m losing my mind.
I decide to have a quick shower and wrap myself in one of those fluffy bathrobes the hotel provides. Maybe that will give him some ideas.
The smell of hot, fresh pizza fills the room as Grant returns. “You took a shower,” he says, as he eyes me in the robe with my freshly washed and blow-dried hair.
“Sure did.”
“Good.” He nods and looks me up and down speculatively. “You got anything on underneath that bathrobe?”
I give him a teasing smile. “Not telling. That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
He raises an eyebrow, and once more peruses my covered body with a long, leisurely stare. “Now, I really want to see what’s under there.”
Grant is so relaxed at this moment, I don’t feel that anxiety vibe he radiates whenever he thinks of being intimate with me. I’m not sure exactly where he’s getting all of this confidence, but I think he needs to be rewarded.
“As you wish,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.
Under his intense scrutiny, I slowly untie my bathrobe, taking one side of the terrycloth material in each hand, and pull it open—flashing him my naked body while undulating in a slow, sensual dance. It reminds me of my striptease from our special ‘Truth or Dare’ night weeks ago, which puts a big grin on my face.
Grant laughs—he laughs!
“Renata, only you!” he says, then clears his throat. “You’re cruel. Um… pizza, remember?” He shoves the pizza box toward me as a reminder. “Pizza!”
I laugh and cover up. “I get it. Address one hunger at a time, huh?”
“Yes.”
Grant drops the box on the nearby table and we both sit down. A few minutes go by as we eat. The near silence is punctuated with an occasional “umm” or groan of pleasure.
“What’s with you?” I ask him once my initial hunger pangs have eased. “You seem… stress-free.”
Long legs stretched out in front of him, Grant slouches back in the chair. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“You know I’ve never actually slept with a woman, right?”
It still blows me away that I’m going to be his first, yet I keep my features composed. “So I understand,” I say evenly.
“I’ve been nervous about tonight,” he says, “but I’m not nervous anymore.”
“What changed?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, taking another slice of pizza. “It felt good to tell you what happened in Michoacán—I think that may be part of it. It was a huge relief to be able to finally talk about that. I’ve had all sorts of idiotic thoughts running through my head. I’ve been worried about doing something stupid, or of you finding out who I really am, or what I’ve done and possibly hating me for it.”
I want to jump in here and deny I could ever hate him, but André’s lessons hold me back. I need to be the therapist, right now. Grant is still working through something. Opening my big mouth would just interrupt his train of thought.
André says all counselors talk too much.
Every. Single. One.
He confessed he only knows this, because he’s been one of the biggest offenders! Listening is much more important than talking. Dieu nous a donné deux oreilles et une seule bouche, he says. That’s why God gave us two ears but one mouth.
Nothing helps a client more than intently listening in silence. It gives a person time and the headspace to work things out for themselves.
Grant stares at his pizza as he thinks. “I’ve been afraid of feeling sick or panicking and needing to flee like a coward. Fear of failing, too—failing is a big one.”
I pause, waiting to see if he’ll say anything else.
When he doesn’t, I ask, “You don’t feel those things now?”
“No,” he says, lips curving into a smile. “I suspect thinking about something is much harder than actually doing it. It’s strange, but now that you know so much about me, and I know so much about you, I feel… safe.”
I nod. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He smiles back at me and then chuckles. “You don’t scare me anymore.”
I shake my head, laughing at that nonsensical notion. “Me? Scary?”
“It’s true!” he admits. “I always thought of myself as a monster, and you always thought of yourself as a mouse. Yet, I think in a way, I’ve been the mouse. I’ve been afraid of so many things—my secrets, my guilt, sex and women. I’ve hidden these fears from everyone, starting with myself.”
“Wait… does that make me the monster?” I say teasingly.
Grant grins. “Never.”
I grin back at him, but say nothing.
I’ve been wanting to ask him about what happened when we were playing ‘Truth or Dare.’ That was when he first realized he found sex easier when focusing his attention on me rather than himself. Too bad I can’t ask about that now.
André says, ‘The enemy of good is “better.’ Why try to ‘improve’ a good thing? Grant is doing well. I don’t want to risk breaking his current mood.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” Grant says, standing up and glancing down at me, “and I think I’ll come out dressed like you.”
“Does this mean we are going to have sex tonight?” I ask hopefully.
“Absolutely.” He stares at me. “I have a plan.”
His gaze travel from my breasts, to my face. For a moment he focuses on my lips, then higher.
Our eyes lock.
Grant’s piercing gaze makes my inner muscles clench. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to curb an overwhelming need to squirm under his intense scrutiny.
I ache and I’m empty. I swear—his hungry stare is all the foreplay I need. The tension in my core builds, coiling tighter at the thought of finally having his body inside of mine again.
Grant taking me.
Using me.
