by Nikki Sex
How did she get here? Why is she on the floor? The memory of seeing her panic-stricken and in a similar position slips uncomfortably into my thoughts. I wince at the thought. That was when the police arrived at my door the first time.
“What happened?” I demand anxiously, zeroing in on her face, searching for clues as I kneel down before her. “Are you OK?”
Renata gives me a faint smile. “Your sister didn’t react well to… er, something I said. Mitten stopped her from strangling me. 'Killer Kitty' had my back. He jumped on her head just like a furry hat. You should’ve seen him, he was so impressive.” Her smile broadens.
I grin. “Yeah, I saw Betty Jo running out the door wearing Mitten as a ‘Cat Hat’ and honestly, I could not stop laughing.” Suddenly I notice the damage to her slim throat. “Christ, your neck is bruised!”
I lean in closer, peering at the discolored strangulation marks along her injured skin. The clear shape of each finger is a well-defined bruise on her slim, delicate throat.
“Yeah, well, your sister was furious.”
“Everything all right in there?” Detective Bronowski calls from the front door.
“Come on in, Detective,” I say.
When she regards me with wide, wary eyes, I murmur, “He’s OK.”
I’m pleased to see the tension in Renata’s body immediately relax. Her trust appeals to something deeply primal. It feels so natural. So right.
Of course she trusts me. She’s mine.
Renata’s essential. She brings out feelings I’ve never had before. Fiercely protective. Possessive. She's a salve to my soul, helping me heal, filling the aching emptiness within. I'm connected. I’m in love. I need her more than I’ve ever needed anyone or anything before.
Her injury terrifies me. She could have died!
I’d be lost without her.
Forcing myself to remain calm, I help Renata up and set her down on the sofa. Maria brings in a cold pack for her neck, takes charge of Briley and brings everyone coffee. Maria also puts out a plateful of chicken livers for Mitten as a well-deserved treat. They're his favorite.
I fuss over her for a time, aching to strangle my sister for putting her hands upon her. While my sister punched me a few times during our teens, I’ve never known her to be particularly violent—except for her vicious, cutting tongue.
Bronowski clears his throat, attracting our attention. “Ma’am, it appears you’ve been the victim of assault. Do you wish to press charges?”
Lifting her chin, she meets my eyes uncertainly.
I shrug. “Let’s hear what happened first,” I suggest.
Sighing deeply, she explains my sister came to the house looking for me. Apparently, Betty Jo had arrived upset over the infidelity of her live-in boyfriend. She also accused her of gold digging.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask, masking my scowl of anger and irritation.
Renata winces. “Not anything worth repeating.”
I become aware my fists are clenched and carefully loosen them. “If I know my sister, she didn’t hold back.”
“No, she sure didn’t. Betty Jo was on a bit of a roll, but… I said something that upset her,” she confesses, keeping the ice pack against her neck. “Your sister really lost it when I did.”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. Renata is extremely perceptive. Generally speaking, she’s a kind, sweet sort of girl. On the other hand, Betty Jo could drive even a saint to violence.
If Betty Jo pushed Renata past her limit, I wonder exactly how my darlin’ girl would retaliate. Apparently, I’m going to find out.
I arch an eyebrow. “What did you say to her, or should I ask?”
She cringes, her expression sheepish. “I told Betty Jo I felt sorry for her because she’s such an unhappy person. I also told her she made me feel sad because for all of her beauty, wealth, connections and education, she was very, very empty inside.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God. Did you nail it or what? Wow! That’s my darlin’ girl!”
I can see it all now. Betty Jo would’ve been maliciously calling her trailer trash or a tramp. The normal, cliché insults. Then my sweet Renata hit her right between the eyes—not with creative nastiness. Nope. She used the truth.
“Is your sister likely to press charges concerning your um… guard cat?” the detective asks. “If so, I’d better take a statement from Ms. Koreman, just to be safe. Your pet’s actions were justified. If your sister sees her doctor about those scratches and files a complaint with the police,” he gestures toward Mitten, “they could order your …ah, friend here to be put down.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh no, I hadn’t thought of that. Can you take a statement but not use it unless you have to? I’m not excusing her aggression, but I did provoke her.”
My brows shoot up. “A walk in the park, an unexpected gift, or a sunny day can provoke Betty Jo,” I observe dryly.
Renata’s features brighten with amusement at my wicked humor. “Well,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t want to cause trouble. Maybe she’ll forget the whole thing.”
I snort. “That’s extremely unlikely. But don’t you worry, I’ll deal with Betty Jo,” I growl. “She will treat you with the respect you deserve.”
“I won’t file unless you ask me to,” Bronowski offers. He takes a statement, finishes his coffee and gives a polite goodbye. I walk him to the kitchen.
“Here’s the envelope those photos came in. The mailman, Renata and I all touched it, but you can have it if you like.”
Bronowski takes the envelope, has a good look at the postmark and nods. “Thank you.”
I escort him to the front door and out to his car. “Thanks for your help,” I tell him.
“No problem.”
“Listen, Detective,” I say. “As you can appreciate, I’m beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I don’t know if I just make a good patsy, or if someone is specifically out to get me. I didn’t kill my father. You’re more liable to believe that now that you know I also didn’t kill Edgar Gates.”
“Yes,” he says, with a wry smile that makes the lines around his eyes crinkle. “It’s a good thing you’re blind in one eye.”
I laugh. “Isn’t it?” Bemused, I shake my head. “I never thought I’d feel that way about losing my sight. Look, I’d like to be kept in the loop as much as possible concerning the Gates and Wilkinson murders. There must be a connection between the two, but whatever it is—I’m not it. Danny Berdeaux and I are trying to locate other people who my father may have… photographed.”
“Why?” he asks, surprised.
Thinking about Renata and not wanting to leave her alone, I glance back at the house. “That’s a story for another time. Danny Berdeaux has brought to my attention my father wasn’t only interested in me. You may not know it, but he was a Boy Scout troop leader for years.”
“I see.” The detective’s eyes narrow. Distaste and disapproval shows on his tight lips. He opens his wallet and gives me a few of his business cards. “Please ask Mr. Berdeaux to contact me.”
“Of course.”
Our eyes meet and something passes silently between us… understanding, perhaps. Or respect. Our relationship has definitely shifted. We meet on a more equal footing now.
What a relief.
Chapter 25.
“All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you, it is how they need to act—from their perspective. I do not justify or rationalize an individual’s behavior—non. I simply tell you there is always a reason.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
After returning from seeing Detective Bronowski off, I reenter the house. I ask Maria to continue caring for Briley, then quickly return to Renata, who's still reclining on the sofa. She doesn't seem quite her normal self yet.
I kneel beside her, looking her in the eye. “Do you want to take a bath to help calm you down?” I ask her. “Maybe you’d like
to go on your swing for a while?”
“I think I want to lay down on your bed and have you hold me. Would that be OK?”
“Of course.”
I immediately stand up and slide one arm under her knees, one circling her back. Then I sweep her up into my arms, and kiss her on the nose. This makes her giggle as I carry her upstairs.
I place her on my nicely made bed then join her, lying on top of the covers. I gather my girl into my arms. Her head is on my shoulder, her leg hitched over mine, her arm on my chest. I’ve grown to love this intimate position.
Merely the sight or scent of her affects me. I’m here to comfort her, yet while holding her close, memories of sex fill my thoughts. The erotic sounds she makes just before climax, the feel of her inner core squeezing me, and the amazing sensation of her lips around my cock.
Dammit. I banish these images and try to ignore my swelling erection.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask.
“Much better, thanks,” she murmurs, “Honestly, I was so proud of myself for standing up to her. I didn’t panic, I didn’t back down and I didn’t run from confrontation.” The soft chuckle that leaves her throat thrills me. “It was surprisingly empowering. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“I’m very impressed,” I say, running my hand up and down her back. “My sister can be a real dragon. Not many people stand up to her.”
“Thank you! And yes, she is. It was hard at first, but then I stopped and really looked at her. Have you ever simply and objectively just looked at your sister?”
I shake my head and say nothing. The truth is, I try not to look at her. Betty Jo has been a thorn in my side all of my life. From tattling on me from the minute she could talk, to expecting me to fight her battles, while bitching about me to my face and behind my back—I really don’t have time for her at all.
Jealous, hostile and utterly incapable of being friendly—that describes the youngest child of the Wilkinson family, my sister, Betty Jo.
She pauses for a moment, thinking. “You know, I don’t hate your sister.”
I make an involuntary, strangled sound of disapproval at these words. If not for Mitten… I shudder, unable to even think about what might have happened.
Yet, Renata’s been injured and she wants to talk. There’s no point in me throwing my hat into this ring. With real effort, I manage to hold my tongue.
“Honestly, I simply can’t hate her,” she repeats. “While I can’t claim to enjoy her company or even say I understand her, it’s hard to take all of that vitriol she spews personally." She takes a deep breath. “Something must have caused her to be so unbelievably bitter. I’m not excusing her behavior, but she really isn’t a happy person.” She shrugs. “I can’t help but feel sorry for her.”
“Sorry for her!” I exclaim astonished. “I’d like to kick her ass for what she did. It's bad enough she upset you, but risking your life while throttling you in front of the baby?” I pause, gritting my teeth. “I can’t even tell you what I want to do to her for that.”
Silent for a number of minutes, I can practically hear gears turning in her mind. This long pause to process or absorb what I’m saying is unlike her. Usually, she communicates so easily, saying exactly what she thinks, when she thinks it.
The events of today must've disturbed her more than I thought.
There’s no need to push. She’ll speak when she’s ready. I’d happily wait forever, as long as I can hold her in my arms like this.
Moving restlessly, Renata shifts around and climbs on top of me until she straddles my thighs. I place my hands on her hips, steadying her. I stare at her, drinking her in.
I love the way her silky hair swings above me, and the long, firm, yet curvy shape of her figure. I adore the feel of her soft, womanly flesh in the palms of my hands. Most of all, I love her face. I could look at her all day.
I know why she placed herself up on my thighs. If she sat a bit higher on me, her hot little clit would rest right on my straining erection. Typically, this closeness would be a prelude to sex, but there’s an odd expression in her features I can’t read.
Curious, my eyes narrow as I study her. “What is it, darlin’?”
“I want to ask you a question,” she says, her thumbnail between her teeth. “No pressure. Just, you know… tell me the first thing that comes to mind. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
“All right.”
Absently, Renata bites her nails. Damned if I don’t think she’s nervous. Now, I’m worried. Apprehensive as I am, I’m careful not to show it. I hope my bitchy, murderous sister hasn’t screwed everything up between us.
What if Renata feels she has to leave? Maybe to return to Las Vegas for the sake of my family or something?
I can’t lose her. God, no.
Clearing her throat, she pulls me from my now increasing anxiety. I tense, steeling myself for the worst.
“Grant Wilkinson,” she says, blowing out a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”
Renata asked me to marry her.
This incredibly welcome request is the very last thing I expect. I’ve been trying to figure out the best way ask her to marry me.
For once, I don’t sift through possible answers, or sift through exactly what I want to say. If I did, I’d probably tell her to think about what she’s doing for her sake. With no filter, I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head. My brain is reeling, but on this subject I have no doubts, no reservations.
“Yes,” I reply instantly.
Her face lights up. “Really?”
My chest is tight, my heart euphoric. “Yes. Absolutely. You’re the only person in the world I want to kiss, to love, laugh and to spend the rest of my life with.”
Her pupils flare with pleasure, yet her pensive look surprises me. “Er… do you want children?” she asks.
“I want exactly as many children as you want.” I reply confidently, happy to agree to any conditions, anything she needs from me.
“I was thinking maybe four or five.”
My smile broadens to ridiculous, madman proportions. I feel my facial scars stretch as far as they can go, but I don’t care. “We can have ten or twenty kids if you want. I’ll love them all.”
The idea of being a father doesn’t scare me anymore. With her constantly telling me how good I am with Briley, I’m beginning to believe it. I’m not a monster. I’m someone who an amazing woman like Renata, wants to share her life with.
But wait—why does she seem so preoccupied and anxious? She’s biting that nail again, yet she seemed happy a second ago. My anxiety begins to rise all over again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you have doubts? Are you unsure if you want to marry me or not?”
She takes a deep breath then blows it out slowly. With the determined look of a weak swimmer about to dive into deep water, she says, “I told your sister we were engaged.”
My eyes widen. “You didn’t!”
She shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m not exactly sure how it happened. One moment she was in the other room talking on the phone and I was playing with Briley. I was in a happy place, imagining what our kids would look like. Then, out of the blue, she blasted into the living room, called me a slut and told me you would never marry a penniless babysitter who stutters.”
“She’s a bitch all right,” I say, not at all surprised by Betty Jo’s bad behavior.
Renata glowers. “I’m sorry, but she just made me so mad. Especially, when all I could think about was how much I wanted to marry you.”
I study her intently, noticing her every move and expression. She’s so incredibly beautiful. Also edgy, remorseful and apologetic. She needn’t be. Her confession warms me. I carefully hide my utter euphoria.
My lips curve. “You were imagining what our kids would look like?” I tease, awed by the possibilities.
She nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“And you were thinking about how much you wanted to ma
rry me?”
Her eyes crinkle as she grins. “Yes.”
I feel as if I could melt just from seeing her smile. “I’m glad you told my sister we were engaged, and I’m overjoyed you asked me to marry you,” I tell her.
Her brows shoot up, but she says nothing.
I continue, “Actually, it takes the heat off of me. I been trying to work up enough nerve to propose to you.”
“Oh.” Her wide-eyed look of surprise is so damn cute.
I pause for a moment, then say evenly. “I have a few phone calls to make for work, but if you're up to it, we can go shopping for an engagement ring later this afternoon.”
This calm, sensible pronouncement apparently breaks the barrier holding back her emotions.
Renata gives an adorable, ‘all female’ little squeal of joy, throws herself into my arms and kisses me passionately. Overpowered by love for her, I firmly wrap my arms around her and return her kiss.
My urgent need to contact Betty Jo in order to promise fury and retribution for her actions, the mystery of the photos, my father’s murder and the murder of Edgar Gates—even knowing somebody out there is trying to frame me—all of these problems vanish.
Renata is all I’m aware of as the rest of the world disappears.
Chapter 26.
“Truly successful decision-making relies on a balance between deliberate and instinctive thinking.”
― Malcolm Gladwell
~~~
Detective Roman Bronowski
Roman Bronowski took his time driving back to the station after leaving the Wilkinson’s house. His mind preoccupied, the detective was suffering from an unfamiliar state of indecision. He hadn’t felt this uncertain since his first couple of years on the force.
Where to now? Roman wondered.
He needed to sift through the information he had on these two intertwined murder cases. As he drove, he went over the sequence of events, right from the start.
It all began when Stanley Huber’s attorney brokered a deal to get Huber’s cocaine possession and trafficking charges dropped.
