Abuse: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  “Naturellement, yet it is for me to pay her, from the fees I charge you.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. I pay André a small fortune from the income I get from my father’s business. It seems an elegant sort of karma, really. My father created the ridiculous and pathetic mess I’m in. Ultimately, he’s paying for it with his company and money, so I can hopefully figure out how to live a somewhat normal life.

  In terms of my family and myself, the cost has been very high. The vast sums of money I’ve spent in rehab and counseling have been the least of the price.

  Gustave pulls up to my hotel, his head staunchly faces forward. I’m sure he’d wait right here all day, unless André gives him a signal to get out.

  “I will oversee Renata’s work with you, but I trust her,” he reassures me. “She is kind and she is clever. She will understand. You will be able to be yourself with her.”

  I say nothing.

  “She also adores sex,” he adds with a wolfish grin.

  Just thinking of sex makes me a nervous wreck, but I give him a faint smile at his comment, as André knew I would.

  “Do not look so serious, my friend. All will be well. If you are comfortable with her, she can take over your case, I think. Of course, my door will always be open.” His dark eyes gleam teasingly. “But a woman can assist you in ways I cannot, no?”

  He’s wearing the “we are both men and we both love sex” look. It’s a traditional male bonding kind of thing. Just us men here.

  I ran into shit like this in the Army.

  Not being a ‘normal’ man, I can’t really relate to the sentiment. Yet, I like André, so again, I attempt a smile.

  “The vacation is finished. Sleep and eat well tonight. You will meet the sexual therapist for your first session tomorrow afternoon.”

  What?

  Instant lightheadedness and the strange sensation of blood draining from my face is not a pleasant feeling. My heart skips a beat and then begins to pound madly in my chest and throat.

  Christ on a fucking crutch! Tomorrow?

  I’m going to meet a sexual therapist.

  For sex.

  Tomorrow.

  I swallow hard. A bizarre mixture of longing and dread causes a spike of adrenaline to surge through my veins. I think of another lifelong compulsion, one that has never been as problematic as my compelling need to “look” and “not look” at dicks.

  It’s the overpowering desire to have sex with a woman—and overpowering desire not to have sex with a woman.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This’ll be much different from a quick in and out against a wall in a dark alley. I’ll actually be able to see the body and face of the woman I’m fucking. Sweet Jesus, will she want to talk about it afterwards?

  As a recovering alcoholic, I think of having a drink from time to time—in fact, almost every day. At this difficult moment, the smooth, comforting taste of malt whisky sounds not only good to me, but almost essential.

  I want to lose myself in alcohol, drinking myself into an unconscious stupor. I crave the delicious, soul numbing oblivion I can only get from the heavenly golden liquid that comes out of a bottle.

  Sight and sound; everything seems to dim into a cottony haze, as shock and dread freezes me in place.

  Shit.

  I feel so damn lost.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  Gustave finally gets out of the car. I have no idea what the signal was, but he goes to the trunk of the limo, pulls out my bag and opens my door for me. After five days away in the wilds of nature with only an occasional dip in the ice-cold Colorado River, my clothes are dirty and I badly need a shower.

  Dirt will wash away.

  But the monstrous filth I have buried inside me? Not so much.

  André puts out his hand for me to shake. It looks like a gentlemanly goodbye, but it’s really an agreement about tomorrow. A pact that I’ll be available to meet this new therapist. Meet her… and have sex with her.

  With trembling fingers that refuse to hold still, I take his hand.

  Composed and serene, I feel the solid strength of his grip while he ignores my obvious case of nerves.

  “Call me if you get, how do they say? Ah, the cold feet,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.

  The man speaks perfect English when he wants to. I know him so well. André’s attempting to set me at ease.

  Yeah, right. As if that’s going to happen.

  His eyes soften with sympathy and understanding for my plight. “I admire you, Grant. I vow this is true. You have reason to be proud. For you, each day is a triumph. You have come so very, very far, and now? Now you shall go even further.”

  His expression is earnest and heartfelt.

  I give him a half-smile, lower my gaze and shake my head. The man doesn’t lie—he never does. If anything, he’s brutally honest.

  André’s sincere praise warms me, giving me the strength and the courage to face my screwed up self. He’s the only one in the whole world who actually knows who I am. Despite my past, this clever Frenchman genuinely likes me.

  In a weird way, I can almost imagine André loves me. I’ve shared my darkest secrets and he accepts and understands them.

  If that isn’t love, what is?

  André treats me as if I’m a normal guy, when we both know I’m far from it. He doesn’t think I’m a monster. Maybe, just maybe… he’s right.

  My throat feels dry and thick. I don’t trust my voice.

  “Thank you,” I murmur quietly, and my eyes are beginning to sting with strong emotion.

  I can’t help but despise myself. I wouldn’t do this surrogacy thing if my counselor wasn’t recommending it so strongly. In actual fact, it feels more like he’s making me.

  I remember what he told me earlier: I could never successfully fight against your indomitable will—even if I wanted to—which I do not.

  André isn’t making me do anything. I trust him and this is what he recommends for my next step.

  But I’m nervous as hell at the thought of having sex with a woman. Has any man ever been so pathetic?

  André will pay her. No doubt, she’ll be much older. Maybe she’ll even have warts or something and be as ugly as I am. That’ll be fine—better, in fact. And she’ll have done this kind of thing before.

  Facing myself and my past is intense… and tough as hell. I’d so much rather have someone shooting at me.

  At least then I could shoot back.

  I slow my breathing in an attempt to gain control of myself. I’m tough, I’m stubborn and I’m a determined man, but these emotional highs and lows while facing the guilt, fears and confusion of a lifetime are sometimes just a little too much.

  Once more, I feel like crying.

  Chapter 17.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

  — Stan Huber

  ~~~

  Stan Huber

  Saturday morning, Stan “The Man” Huber felt sick and terrified. He’d never been in in trouble with the law—he’d never even had a parking ticket before. Yet, here he was, locked away in jail.

  Stan hadn’t been able to sleep. That wasn't possible in such close proximity to all the other men, with all the unfamiliar noises and angry voices—not to mention the uncomfortable bed.

  He was so frightened and nervous. One little line of cocaine would chill him out, but that wasn’t possible.

  It was 11 a.m. His father and lawyer were in an interview room with him. They’d been arguing and questioning him for well over an hour. Even before they’d arrived, he was already wired and overwrought.

  Stan’s arrest report stated Officers C. Ortega and L. Stratton observed Stanley Richard Huber commit a traffic violation for failure to stop at a red light. A traffic stop was conducted on the Fergus Road in Dallas, Texas at approximately 12:20 a.m.

  Mr. Huber was the driver of the car. Dallas police officers Ortega and Stratton viewed white powder on the defendant’s face, and
an open plastic bag on the console of the vehicle. A field test of the contents, tested positive for cocaine. The car was searched on probable cause, and the amount of cocaine found had a weight of just under 8.0 grams.

  It stated that Stanley Huber did knowingly and intentionally conspire to possess with intent to distribute 8 gm of a substance containing a detectable amount of cocaine, a Schedule 1 controlled substance, in violation of 21 U.S.C. 846.

  Stan was arrested early Saturday morning and incarcerated in the Dallas county lock up. Unfortunately, arraignment wouldn’t occur until Monday. He had all Saturday and Sunday in jail to consider his situation before seeing the judge.

  His lawyer doubted the possibility of him making bail.

  His lawyer, Mr. Tomas R. Leary, was supposed to be the best in his field. He was also the most expensive attorney that could be found. He was charging double for coming in on a Saturday morning. As he had extensive loans with Mr. Jack Huber’s bank, Leary believed that assisting him and his youngest son was a worthy cause in his own best interest.

  The three men sat around a table, each with white, Styrofoam cups before them. Their coffees had been finished long ago.

  Jack Huber, despite his quiet manner, was an aggressive bull of a man who was not used to excuses or failure. He wanted Stan out of jail now.

  About fifty years old, the lawyer wore a silk, tailor-made suit. He was a pear-shaped individual with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of red face that displayed a familiarity with fine liquor.

  “I’ll talk to the DA, protesting unlawful search and a case of a young man not properly Mirandized,” Leary said gruffly, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. “But that dog won’t hunt. Your boy was caught red-handed and with just under 8 gm. They want to charge him with a Class ‘A’ Felony, which would give him ten years in a US Federal Prison.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Stan’s father repeated in a soft, menacing voice. “They can’t prove it. My boy had no money on him and has none in his bank account. There’s no evidence of him selling cocaine. He has a habit, that’s all. We’ll get him treatment for that.”

  Stan knew how impossible it was for anyone to go against his father’s wishes. Somehow, his dad always got his way. Intimidating this lawyer was easy for his dad, but the law was the law. On the other hand, his father had lots of people who owed him favors. Maybe there were a few running the court system.

  There was a long silence.

  “Well, he has no priors,” the lawyer said with a sigh. “I’ll push for a misdemeanor. At best, he’d get six months in a low security jail and a few years probation, but—”

  “No jail time,” Mr. Huber growled.

  “I can’t do that—not with that amount of cocaine in his possession! I’m a lawyer, not a magician.”

  “How can you make that happen?” Mr. Huber asked.

  “I need something else. Stanley needs to give up some names. The police want the guys who sold him illegal drugs.”

  Stan shrunk back in his seat as both men turned glowering eyes on him.

  “I can’t,” Stan choked out, his voice almost a whisper. This was a nightmare. His head ached and he longed for his own bed.

  “You will,” his father demanded.

  “They’d kill me, dad. You know the saying. 'Snitches end up in ditches.’ I’d get out of going to jail, but I’d have to go into witness protection or something or I’d be dead.” He took a deep breath in. “There must be another way.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “Not unless you know of some other high profile crime you can give up. If you did? Well, then I could plea-bargain you down to a misdemeanor. Depending on what you know, I might be able to get you off with probation and counseling.”

  Stan blinked.

  In that fraction of a second, when he re-opened his eyes, the whole world seemed different.

  He thought of the scary characters here in county lock up. Federal prison would be so much worse—it would be total hell. Stan knew that if he did real time, he’d probably die in jail—or maybe he’d just want to die.

  He was young, slim and physically attractive. He’d heard stories of what went on with violent inmates when they were locked up.

  Survival is a powerful motivating force. It’s inborn and hardwired right into a person’s DNA.

  There are incredible tales of the things people have endured in the cause of self-interest and self-preservation. They’ve survived in the wilderness or in the ice cold. Humans have gone weeks without food and have even been known to cut off their own limbs in order to escape death.

  There’s no limit to what one might do when their life is on the line. When they’re desperate to stay alive.

  Stan wanted to live.

  He thought about his best friend, Alex’s father, Chester Wilkinson. He’d been a well-known ‘man of the people’ who’d ‘accidentally’ tumbled to his death. His would be considered a very high profile case.

  Chester Wilkinson had been murdered. Other than the killer, Stan figured he was the only one who knew about it.

  Ordinarily, he’d have kept his mouth shut. Stan wasn’t the kind of guy who went running around flapping his gums just because he could. But this was different. Stan was in real trouble.

  His friend, Alex would never forgive him. It was too bad and he was sorry for it, but he simply couldn’t go to jail.

  “I have an idea,” Stan said.

  PART TWO—The Mouse

  Chapter 1.

  “It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to.”

  —W.C. Fields

  ~~~

  Four years earlier…

  Renata Koreman

  “She’s a fucking retard, that’s what she is!” the stranger shouts wrathfully.

  “Monsieur!” the other man raises his voice in protest, as his dark brown eyes flash with fury.

  I flinch, freaked out by loud, angry men. This guy has a very strong French accent. He told me his name as I entered his apartment. I heard it, but I was so frightened that every sound seemed like incomprehensible white noise.

  There’s a terrible knot in my stomach. I can barely remember my own name, much less anyone else’s.

  The Frenchman doesn’t like the man who says he’s my uncle. He probably is my uncle, but how would I know?

  I only met him yesterday.

  Hospital staff told me ‘Uncle Bob’ is my mother’s brother. I didn’t know my mother had a brother. I do know her family wouldn’t have anything to do with her after she married my father.

  I can’t blame them for that.

  “My mother must be rolling over in her grave!” my unfamiliar uncle says. “The dirty little slut is three months away from her eighteenth birthday—she’s not even an adult! My mother’s only grandchild opens her legs to anyone. It’s a wonder the little whore isn’t pregnant!”

  Ouch. He’s so mean!

  I’ve apparently found my only living relative… and he hates me.

  My uncle’s round face is bright red and his eyes are huge behind his glasses. Shorter than the French guy, he’s got to be twice his weight. He looks as though he’s probably in his early fifties. I wonder if he’s going to have a stroke or a heart attack, he’s so upset.

  “Monsieur, may I ask who gave you my name?” the Frenchman asks. His voice is polite, yet I can tell he doesn’t like my uncle. I’m not surprised.

  “Jay Hamachek said you deal with people who are messed up,” Uncle Bob says. “He told me you have a reputation for results and confidentiality. I don’t care what it costs! You have to take her off my hands, Chevalier. God knows, I don’t want this story to get out. Not when I’m running for office! I get a call from a Psychiatric hospital that my niece had been admitted! My niece! I just couldn’t believe it. Do you have any idea of how embarrassing that is?”

  Uncle Bob’s thunderous aura fills the room.

  I sit in the far corner of a couch across the room, as far away as possible from everyone. Clasping and unc
lasping my hands in my lap, I struggle to remain still. I wish I were invisible. I’d run if I thought I could get past all these men.

  My heart beats wildly as adrenaline surges through my veins.

  A rush of incomprehensible noise fills my awareness. The inside of my mind is like TV static when it’s picking up interference because of electrical disturbance.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t think.

  I’m beginning to lose it.

  Any analytical capacity I have, shuts down completely as the two men shout at each other. Everything is distorted. I crouch lower and place my hands over my ears.

  Yelling.

  Anger.

  Terror.

  When this kind of crap begins, I know what happens next. The urgent need to run and hide burns through my veins. My body begins to shake uncontrollably.

  I have to get out. I can’t be here!

  Unreasoning panic suffocates me. I feel like I’m drowning. Right at this moment, right now, I’m going under for the last time. My rib cage moves up and down rapidly. I can’t control it.

  Panting in short, fast gulps, I gasp for breath.

  My muscles tighten. Everything I know tells me to move—to slip away as fast as I can. I’ve been in situations like this before.

  Will I live? Will I die?

  No. This is different, I reassure myself.

  I draw my knees up against my chest, hugging them against me to make myself small. I’m tall, so it’s hard to do, but I’m skinny and that helps. I pull as far from the noise as possible.

  My eyes, which I keep lowered, discreetly and rapidly slide around the room.

  I take mental inventory, seeking out every exit, hidey-hole and possible escape route. I scouted them out, the moment I entered this incredible penthouse apartment.

  Expensive furniture, pretty paintings, a soft rug, leather chairs and a heavy wooden desk fill the space. Dark wooden beams decorate a white ceiling, giving the room an old world appearance.

  This opulent apartment looks safe. It’s cultured and civilized, like something out of a Regency romance novel.

  My hands and feet begin to tingle—I know this sensation, I’ve been here before. It means I’m breathing too fast. I hold my breath.