Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  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 the 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?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan,” he says with the ghost of a smile that quickly disappears. Discomfort rolls off of him in waves. The man is so powerful he changes the climate of the entire suite with his nervous energy.

  Mentioning ‘bed’ and ‘sex’ was a mistake. We made significant progress during our first night together at his house, only to slide back to square one after the police entered our lives. It’s so frustrating. What a mess.

  Most people seek comfort and safety from touch. Grant’s aversion to physical contact is the opposite of normal human instincts. In his mind, not touching is the safer option.

  What the hell did his father do to screw him up to this extent? When will Grant share details about it with me? More importantly, what can I do to encourage him and make this easier? It hurts to see him suffer.

  “You know,” I say. “I believe once you lighten up and let go, after the initial shock to your system, you’ll get past this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shall I run down to the store in the lobby and buy us a set of cards for another game of Truth or Dare?”

  “We don’t need to resort to that just yet,” he says, amused. Yet, a heartbeat later, his expression abruptly turns grim.

  “What was that thought?” I ask him.

  “What thought?”

  “You were smiling, thinking about us playing Truth or Dare, and then suddenly you looked so serious. I’m guessing that a horrible thought accompanied that bleak facial expression.”

  Grant stands and begins to pace. “You want to know what I was thinking?” His eyes flash with sudden fury. “What kind of man is afraid of being intimate with a beautiful woman he cares about? That’s what I’m thinking! I feel humiliated, ashamed and stupid. I’m scarred, I’m scared and I’m useless. God, I hate myself for being such a freak. It's as if I'm not even a man.”

  “Whoa! That’s wh
at you think about yourself?” I say, surprised and horrified. “That’s not what I see it all! You're wonderful, Grant. I wish you could see yourself as I do. You’re uneasy with good reason, we both know that. But here you are, in a hotel room you arranged, in order to face your fears. When I look at you, I see an incredibly brave man. It’s one thing to know a problem exists, it’s another thing to have the courage to deal with it.”

  “That’s really what you think?”

  I shoot him a broad smile. “That’s what I know. You’re a hero.”

  He gives me a somewhat sheepish half-smile. “A hero?”

  “Absolutely.” I put my hand to my heart. “You’re my hero.”

  This elicits a genuine laugh. “I don’t feel very heroic.”

  “Real heroes don’t,” I tell him. “Self-doubt isn’t such a bad thing. Anyway, I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a hero.”

  He raises his eyebrows at that remark.

  “Sally Ann adores you.”

  “Sally Ann thinks she’s in love with me,” he says.

  “Sally Ann is in love with you—and I think she has good taste! Anyway, you did stick up for her brother when you were kids. She told me how poor Danny was always getting picked on by bullies.”

  Grant snorts. “That was pure selfishness. At the time, standing up for Danny was an excuse. Back then, I just really liked beating people up.”

  “No, really?” I ask, uncertain if he’s joking or not.

  He chuckles. “Absolutely. Those guys deserved it, so it was a win-win.” He gives me a wry grin. “I suspect I’d still enjoy beating people up, but I’ve learned some self-control.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I laugh. “Look, I love being with you, no matter what we do or don't do. Would you rather chat, hold hands and forget about anything else for the night?”

  “No.” Determination blazes in his eyes.

  “OK, then,” I say. “Do you want to stay here on the couch or go lie down on that wonderful big bed?”

  “Bed,” he says quickly, still resolute, but not exactly happy with the idea.

  “Excellent.” I stand up and hold out my hand to him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he folds his palm into mine. It’s warm and dry, but I can feel the tension he’s generating run through me like an electric wire.

  We leave the living area and stroll into the bedroom. I search his face. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yes,” he replies, his jaw taut. “I want to quit screwing around and get past this shit. I’ve managed to put this off for weeks, but that’s enough. It's humiliating, but since you don’t view it that way… I’ll attempt to see it from your point of view. I’ll try to be a hero.” There’s an unmistakable edge of angry derision in his tone.

  I ignore it. “OK.” I pull back the bedcovers, crawl onto the bed and discuss which positions we might start with. “It’s your choice, Grant. Whatever you’re most comfortable with is the best place for us to begin. We can always move around. Let's start out just being close to each other, without touching. What position would you feel most comfortable with?”

  “Spooning—me behind you,” he says.

  “Excellent, come join me,” I say.

  I’m not surprised by his choice to cuddle me from behind. That position gives him the most control and it’s the least personal. We’re starting off slowly.

  The bed shifts as Grant climbs onto it and moves beside me. His chest rests near my back, no more than a few inches away from me. Heat radiates from his big body warming me. I picture him lying there behind me, his body rigid with tension.

  “Well done,” I say. “There’s no rush, but whenever you’re ready, just put your arm around me and try to relax. I promise this’ll get easier.”

  After a couple of minutes, Grant tentatively places his arm around me.

  Our bodies are very close but not exactly flush up against one another. When his arm reaches around me, I slowly wrap my own arm around his. We stay that way for about twenty minutes. I offer a few conversation starters, trying to distract him and lighten the mood, but he doesn’t have anything to say.

  I don’t push it.

  When I hear his breathing calm, I wait a bit and then snuggle back into him, barely touching his body with mine. His breathing rate spikes, so I freeze in place for a few moments.

  Talk about awkward. I feel as though I’m snuggled up against a warm two-by-four. Although I love Grant hard, this is not what I had in mind! Damn it and damn his asshole father!

  I wait until his breathing slows again and then I lift his hand to my lips. Gently, I kiss his palm. “I wish…” I say, but stop abruptly.

  I wish he could relax and let himself go. I wish he'd never been hurt. I wish I could kiss away his shame and his pain.

  I bite back a melancholy sigh and softly say, “I wish I knew how to make this easier for you, Grant.”

  He remains quiet.

  What else is new?

  We stay like this for at least a half-hour in utter silence. There’s no change in Grant, he’s still impersonating a boulder that’s somehow exuding negative energy and wired to explode. Surely, he must've been cuddled in some positive way, at some point when he was growing up.

  “Tell me about your mom,” I finally ask. “Did she ever hug you?”

  “No, that wasn’t her style,” he says.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but I’ve always wondered. She said kissing was 'dirty,' so that was also out.” He shrugs.

  Kissing is a sensitive subject. I’m the first woman Grant has ever kissed on the mouth. He’s kissed me a few times now, but they’ve been rather chaste affairs. For myself, I find deep and sensual kissing to be one of the hottest forms of foreplay. Of course, kissing after sex is pretty sweet too.

  Grant sighs deeply. “The mouth contains more germs than any other part of the human body, did you know that?”

  I chuckle. “No, that’s news to me.”

  “My mom always used to tell me that. Maybe she had a phobia, who knows?”

  “Oh,” I say, as I process this.

  It sounds as though the only touch he remembers from his childhood was from his abuser. To imagine no woman ever hugged Grant shocks me. It explains so much. It’s so sad.

  As if it’s an unpleasant exercise, he’s merely enduring being on this bed with me. Stiff and unmoving, he simply cannot let go or engage.

  “OK, let's try something else,” I suggest. “Roll over onto your other side.”

  Grant silently complies with my request. I curl up behind him, my front to his back. He’s still tense and worked up. It frustrates me, so I decide to try yet another tactic.

  “Take a second, Grant,” I murmur, in as calm and soothing a voice as I can muster. “Just for a second, please close your eyes.” When he does as I’ve asked, I say confidently, “I care about you, Grant and I'm here for you. We’ll get through this, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “The subject of touch has you so jammed up. Concentrate for a moment. Can you tell me exactly what you feel right now?”

  Time passes while he considers my question. I hold him gently and wait for his response, projecting as much strength, love and tranquility as I can in his direction. Finally, he draws in a shaky breath.

  “To touch and to be touched… I find it disturbing, for obvious reasons.” He clears his throat. “Years ago, long before I became scarred—I realized something was really wrong with me. I lived with only two emotions back then—rage and a sense of numb unreality… of disconnection.”

  “Go on,” I prompt him.

  I understand the detached numbness he describes. I know exactly what he means. Psychologists call it 'dissociation,' an involuntarily defense mechanism that results from psychological or physical trauma.

  “Anyway, one day I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I really saw myself. I had a terrible revelation. My eyes were soulless and I felt nothing at all. It was as
if my body was an empty shell. I wasn’t even there.”

  My breath catches. Grant expresses such unspeakable pain. Yet, his voice is calm—too calm. It’s appalling to hear something so disturbing spoken with such quiet certainty. It's almost as if he's telling a story about somebody else.

  “I understood then how detached I’d become from everyone and everything,” he says. “Emotionally, I was shut down and dead inside. I was gone—the lights were on, but no one was home. I’d checked out, switched off… whatever you want to call it.”

  My eyes burn, welling with unshed tears. I understand that dark, dark place created by profound despair. I know the feeling of emptiness he’s speaking about intimately. Honestly, I can feel every agonizing inch of his pain.

  My nerves are on edge—matching his, I guess. “So, is that what you feel when you think of touching?” I ask. “Shut down and disconnected?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  This makes so much sense. When he was very young, he would’ve enjoyed his father’s attention and many of the ‘games’ he and his father played. Yet as he got older and the awareness and reality of his situation shifted, he would’ve had to break away emotionally in order to keep his sanity. Extreme trauma, such as rape, torture and threat of death can create instant dissociation. The mind always finds a way to protect itself.

  “What did you do?” I ask in a low voice and swallow hard before continuing. “You know, back when you saw yourself in the mirror and recognized something was wrong?”

  The hint of an idea niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite grasp it.

  People who self-harm use pain as a safety valve. When emotional pressure becomes unbearable, they will often hurt themselves in order to relieve building tension. It gives them some semblance of control and distracts them from unbearable emotional pain they can't control.

  The idea crystallizes and I bite back a gasp as a terrible thought strikes me. Grant has never told me anything about his scars. I’ve always assumed that he was wounded in the service of his country. I know he fought overseas—but maybe he wasn’t scarred in battle.