by Nikki Sex
His gaze meets mine. “Yes, but that’s not up for discussion,” he replies in a no-nonsense tone of determination.
“OK.”
Huh. That’s interesting.
Grant obviously knows who killed his father and wants to protect the murderer. I immediately connect the dots.
Merde! Grant and his sister and his mother don’t get along, so it can only be his brother Alex. The obvious truth crystallizes in my mind. Oh hell, of course! Grant’s little brother Alex would have been sexually abused too! Why would an abuser stop at one? Many fathers or stepfathers interfere with the whole family.
Everything makes perfect sense.
Mentally, I swiftly shift gears. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him—not that I’d ever suspect you.”
Grant almost rolls his eyes at that. “I’ve killed people, Renata.”
“Yes,” I murmur calmly. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of killing, I’m saying that throwing a man off a balcony is not your style.”
“No?”
“No,” I say firmly. “And as painful as it is, he was your father and I think you cared for him. You couldn’t have done it. The Army may have trained you to kill, but you’re not a murderer.”
Grant’s face pales for a moment when I mention the word murderer. Shit! What’s that about?
He shakes his head. “No, not really a murderer, just a fool.”
“You’re no fool,” I state calmly. “You’re human, subject to the same naivety, misjudgments, illogical affections and screw ups as the rest of us.” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work.
“Under no circumstances do I want you dragged into this,” Grant says, his jaw tight. “I don't want you to have any more dealings with the police.”
I give him an ironic smile. “Thank you. Believe me, the idea of getting involved with the law doesn't appeal to me in the least.”
He’s frowning now and I wonder if it was wise to tell him what I’d guessed.
“I was thinking about your therapy,” I say. “Now, you no longer need to hold onto that secret or wonder whether or not I know.”
He turns toward me with a stubborn scowl marring his features. “We can’t talk about this ever. It’s not safe. Don’t you see?” He says in a tone of exasperation. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“It’s my choice and my risk,” I explain evenly. “I’ve already made up my mind what I’ll say if the police interview me.”
“The police aren’t going to talk to you!” he says, his features flaring red with anger.
My back straightens and my chin goes up. “I don’t care if they do,” I tell him. “I’ve already decided I’m going to lie to them. Honesty is the best policy—André will tell you that. Yet, he’ll also agree there are no absolutes, thus there IS a time for lying. Only you and I know what is said between us, and I already know you’ll never compromise me.”
“You stubborn woman!” Grant grips my shoulder, which surprises me with his problem with touching. “Renata, we have to be so careful,” he says, his eyes full of emotion. “Don’t write anything down, not by text, paper or email, and never mention this subject on the phone.”
“I’ll be careful,” I tell him confidently. “Nothing bad will happen.”
However, as I’m saying this a little voice inside me echoes the thought, famous last words.
Chapter 34.
“Denial can be a most useful, temporary shield. Unfortunately, such flimsy armor will not last a lifetime. It is best to face your past—and do so quickly, before your past returns to face you.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
A few minutes pass while I wait for Grant to get himself under control. He’s taking a moment to think this over. That’s fine. It’s all a bit of a shock, I know.
I wonder if his abuser actually scared the crap out of him? Grant cared for his father—he loved him, I think—but there is always fear instilled with abuse. Fear of being caught, fear of hurting others, fear of being hurt. As far as I can tell, Grant’s father was really scary. He’d been a very big man, surrounded by an aura of guns and violence, not to mention the power he seemed to have over everyone.
I’m positive Grant was actually afraid of him. I wonder if Grant knows this, or if his subconscious is still hiding this unpleasant and perhaps too painful truth?
Eventually Grant stands up and dusts off his jeans.
I peer up at him, enjoying the look of him and his long, long legs.
When I reach out for Grant’s hand, he’s quick to take it. He helps pull me to my feet, but doesn’t let go. Instead he laces our fingers, binding us together.
I smile, because he’s definitely becoming more comfortable holding my hand.
“Your father and my father should never have become parents,” I say. “Your situation with your father was more difficult than mine in many ways.”
His eyebrows arch as he grips my palm. “You think so?”
“Oh, definitely. Your problems were so much less cut and dried than mine. Despite his inexcusable actions, your father had a good influence on you too. You loved him but he betrayed your trust, and he sent confusing and contradictory messages about love and sex.”
Despite the sensitive subject matter, a comfortable silence hangs between us, while Grant processes my words.
“André said something similar to me,” Grant admits. “My father singled me out. I was the special one, the oldest and the favorite child. I still don’t understand it.” His eyes look haunted. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”
I shake my head. “If you brought him back to life and asked him what the fuck he was thinking, I’d bet your father wouldn’t be able to explain why he did what he did to you.”
He releases me, tucking his hands deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans.
Grant sighs deeply. “Probably not. I never witnessed affection between my father and my mother. We did things together as a family in order to look good, but none of us were close. We never talked to each other. If something troubled me, I ignored it. Denial was a way of life. Having never experienced real connection, I had no idea of what I was missing. Sometimes I wonder if that was what my father was looking for with me, that sense of closeness.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I feel that closeness and connection with you.”
“Me too,” I murmur, barely able to meet his powerful gaze.
When he looks at me, a tingle of awareness courses through my body. I know exactly what he’s talking about when he discusses that rare sense of closeness. Grant sees me and I see him. It’s frightening and thrilling to be so completely exposed, but I can trust him.
Grant isn’t thinking of his father’s betrayal right now. His attention is completely upon me.
“At least nobody killed anybody in my family home,” he says.
I give him a wan smile. "True. My father, well I didn’t love him—especially when he was drunk. He was a mean, violent asshole I avoided at all cost. Your abuse was so scheming and manipulative that you sought attention from your father.”
Grant winces. His sudden frown is one of confusion, then dawning suspicion, followed by a hint of growing anger. It’s clear to me that he’s jumping to all sorts of incorrect conclusions.
“André never told me anything,” I say quickly. “I simply have a good understanding of exactly how pedophiles operate.”
“Oh,” he says, visibly calming.
“That’s what makes your betrayal much worse than mine, in my opinion. Of course, this isn't a competition! The winner would be the loser and hell—we both lost out in the parent department.”
Grant laughs bitterly. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? I think you had a much worse childhood than I did, and you think the same thing about me. Together, we make each other feel better about our own lives.”
“Pretty funny!” I say with a laugh. “In a dark and twisted way.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, it certainly is.”
White Rock Escarpment is formed from chalk and rises to a height of about 250 to 300 feet. The trail narrows and Grant gestures gallantly, so I go first. I can’t refuse him, but I prefer him to go first. That way I can watch his long legged stride and admire his perfect, tight ass.
We cover the hilly ground, climbing back to the top of the cliff. I find myself breathing heavily—but not for the reason I like best!
“You’ve gotten over your childhood so much better than I have,” Grant says.
I stop suddenly and spin to face him. “Me? I’ve been a mess! You’ve only been working at this for a couple of years,” I say, “and you’ve only just begun to practice becoming intimate. Honestly? You’re doing really well.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely,” I reassure him. “Besides you’re seeing me at my best,” I laugh. “Poor André was stuck with a crazy woman for years.”
We continue walking, steadily climbing to the top of the cliff. I can feel Grant going into thinking mode again.
“Thank you, Renata,” he says after a while.
I turn toward him. “What for?”
“For helping me overcome my doubts,” he says.
I wait because he looks like he’s going to say more. When he doesn’t, I tell him that he’s welcome and we just keep walking. When we reach the top, right at the skyline, there’s a mound of rough stones, built as some type of a memorial or landmark.
“Do you know who put this here and what it means?” I ask, indicating the mound.
Grant turns toward me. “Two people died falling off this cliff—they fell from this very spot.”
I move as close as I can and carefully peer over the edge. Yikes. It’s a long, vertical drop, straight to the bottom. I grimace at the thought. I can easily believe one person went over, but how did two fall?
My mind immediately latches onto the idea of double suicide. Maybe two people as screwed up as Grant and I both are, came out here to finally put an end to their lives of misery.
I jump when I find Grant has suddenly come up behind me. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me backwards, letting go the moment I’m in a safer area.
“Jesus!” I gasp. “You gave me a fright!”
“You made me nervous standing so close to the edge,” he explains. “I imagine you’re wondering how both people fell to their deaths?”
“Yes.”
Grant strides to a nearby fallen tree, where a person can see both the memorial and the view from the cliff’s edge. He sits down and pats the log.
“Have a seat,” he says.
“Is it a long story?” I ask with a grin.
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
“I love stories,” I say cheerfully.
Grant smiles and begins, “It happened over a hundred years ago. Some people say the man had taken a mistress. He brought his wife up here, planning to push her to her death. But at the last moment, the woman recognized his intent. As he pushed, she held on to him and took her husband right over the cliff edge with her.”
“I see,” I murmur.
I imagine the scene unfold before me. A woman suddenly realizes her husband's betrayal, and her furious fight for revenge. There are countless examples where couples—once madly in love, grow to violently detest each other. But can love actually turn to hatred that quickly?
I stare at Grant, certain I could never do that to him. I can’t imagine not loving him. If he pushed me off a cliff? Well, I don’t think I’d try to take him with me. Revenge would be far from my thoughts. If I grabbed him, it would be in a fruitless attempt to save myself.
Knowing the kind of person I am, I’d no doubt find a way to blame myself somehow… on the way down.
“OK, what’s the other account of this tragic tale?” I ask him.
“Oh, there are many versions of this story,” Grant says. “As many versions of it as there are people. Some say the woman slipped, and while trying to save her, the two lovers both went over the cliff. There’s even a Romeo and Juliet version, where the two families disliked each other so much their parents wouldn’t let them marry. Thus, the lovers committed suicide together.”
Grant takes my hand, which pleases me. He holds it with one large palm, and traces along the tendons and veins with the other.
“You have such feminine hands,” he says, his thumb caressing my knuckles. “So slim and delicate.”
“And you have such big man hands,” I say, taking his other palm in my own. “Look at these calluses. These are working man’s hands, strong and skilled. You could do anything with these hands,” I tell him.
"Why does that sound a bit dirty to me?” He asks with a small smirk. “Was that what you intended?"
I bat my eyelashes and give him a coy, yet innocent look. "Maybe."
“You’re always thinking of sex,” he accuses.
“Fine words coming from the man with a constant hard-on,” I shoot back at him while checking out the big bulge in his pants.
We both laugh out loud.
I adore the open and carefree sound of Grant’s laughter. Usually so solemn and taciturn, over the last few weeks he’s begun to open up.
“So, what do you think happened?” I ask.
“I’ve come to recognize what I think depends on my mood,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “I used to cynically believe the man betrayed the woman and he never really loved her. That seemed an extremely plausible story, probably because at the time, I was feeling unloved and deceived by my father.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
Grant sighs. “I figured perhaps the man married her for her dowry. Maybe he was actually gay and married her to hide that fact, while keeping his male lover. It’s bad enough now, but no one could admit they were gay back then. I used to think the woman found out and her husband was worried she’d tell someone, so he killed her.”
I tilt my head and study him curiously. “You don’t still believe that’s what happened?”
“No,” he says, smiling.
“What changed your mind?”
“Now, when I’m with you, I see everything differently.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” His steady eyes meet mine. “At this moment, I’m inclined to believe the man and the woman loved each other very much.”
A flush of heat rolls up my chest and face. Grant’s penetrating regard stops my breath. Does he love me?
“Now I think the woman slipped and her lover tried, but couldn’t save her.”
“That’s so sad!” I interject. “So the lover went over with her? By choice?”
“Yes. He loved her very much, you see? And he wouldn’t want to live without her. If you slipped and I couldn’t save you, I’d go over that cliff with you.”
“What!” I straighten, stunned with surprise. “Why?”
“I’d hold you very tightly,” Grant says, almost to himself. He’s looking over the cliff edge, perhaps imagining the scene in his mind.
“I’d be thinking of you and wanting to protect you,” he clears his throat and shifts restlessly in a moment of awkwardness. “I don’t know if I’d be doing it for love,” he adds, shaking his head. “Love is a good word, but it’s a word I’ve never quite felt comfortable using. The whole concept has become so fraught and convoluted in my mind.”
“Then why?” I ask. “Why would you throw your life away if you couldn’t save mine? You dying too would be such a terrible waste.”
Grant turns toward me, his gaze locking with mine. “Because,” he says as his lips curve into a smile. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone and frightened on the way down.”
Chapter 35.
“Instinct is a marvelous thing. It can neither be explained nor ignored.”
― Agatha Christie
~~~
Renata Koreman
My mind is still reeling from what Grant said to me on the escarpment. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone and frightened on th
e way down.”
It was all I could do not to burst into tears. I was never used to being taken care of as a child. My foster brother changed that, then André, and now Grant. I can't believe he'd consider sacrificing his life simply to help me feel better for the last few seconds of mine.
I matter to him, which thrills me. Grant matters to me, too.
So very much.
To my absolute surprise and delight, Grant arranged for Maria to look after Briley until tomorrow, so we can spend the night together at the Omni Dallas Hotel.
Our room is extravagant and the view of Dallas from the twenty-third floor is amazing. The Omni has an outdoor terrace pool and spa, but I only want to make use of the suite's enticing king-size bed. The real luxury is having time alone with Grant.
“No pressure. You set the pace,” I say with a smile as I pat the cushion beside me on the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Grant hesitates, so I add, “I'm only asking you to sit down next to little ol’ me. It'll be easy, you'll see. This isn’t about sex,” I try to reassure him, “that’s why we have our clothes on.”
"OK," he murmurs quietly as he joins me on the couch.
“Isn’t the view wonderful?” I ask, as I point out the Dallas skyline. The sun is setting in colors of pink and blue and a veil of darker clouds move at a dizzying pace across the sky. I ask him about different buildings and try to make small talk.
Grant does his caveman act, saying little or answering in grunts.
I curb my disappointed sigh. We’re not even touching, yet the mere possibility of sex is already freaking him out. Intimacy is such an emotional trigger for him. You'd think he was contemplating undergoing limb amputation without an anesthetic rather than cuddling up with someone he likes.
I turn to him and take his hand. “You picked tonight and this hotel, so you must think you’re ready for this. It’s something you chose to do, for which I’m eternally grateful!” I say in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Sure,” Grant shrugs.
Undaunted, I tilt my head, study his face and grin. “You want to be able to touch my breasts, kiss and hold me while you fuck me, right? That’s your ultimate goal, isn’t it? For us to get into bed and screw each other until neither of us can walk, or until unconsciousness—whichever comes first?”
