Abuse: The Complete Trilogy Read Online Free

toughen.
    I can’t help but
feel sorry for anyone who is born butt-ugly. I never considered their plight.
How do they continue to walk out into public every day of their lives? I’m just
not used to that kind of rejection.
    I don’t know if
I’ll ever get used to it.
    My badly scarred
features have certainly enlarged my experience.
    For a moment, I
consider all of the crippled, damaged or ugly people who I’ve avoided in
glances and in person throughout my life and I regret my ignorance.
    I know no one is
trying to be mean. Mostly people are simply caught off guard and embarrassed.
They can’t prevent their shocked expressions and don’t know how to react.
    What does one say
to someone who has a face like mine? “Damn, that must have hurt?” or perhaps,
“Shit! You frightened the crap out of me?” How about, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to look at you as if you were a monster?”
    I stare up at the
fourteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the color scheme of white,
black and fuchsia. Wow. This ain’t no redneck sports bar, that’s for damn sure.
I’m glad I dressed in quality clothes, a comfortable sophisticated dark suit
with a crisp, white, open-neck button down shirt.
    I gaze across the
lowered lighting to the corner of the room and immediately spot the man I’m
here to see. I don’t know how I know it’s him—I just do.
    Our eyes meet.
    Confident and
self-assured, the gentleman in question recognizes me too, and stands up.
Something in his manner commands attention. Maybe it’s his bearing, which
almost seems regal. His good-natured smile is welcoming.
    That’s a relief.
    I'm surprised as
his friendly expression doesn’t change. He isn’t disturbed by my scars in the
least. No trace of shock, or revulsion—no pity. Hell, from his lack of
reaction, it's as if he doesn't notice them at all.
    Why is that? I
didn’t tell him about my facial injuries.
    Remaining still
as he approaches, I watch him openly inspect me as he closes the distance
between us. His alert gaze moves from my brown hair, to my slate blue eyes, and
trail down to my clothes right to boots. He boldly studies me with keen
interest and no judgment in his expression.
    I wonder if he
sees the dark circles under my eyes or the lines in my face, evidence of
chronic anxiety, stress and strain.
    I’ve always been
muscular, almost stocky and solid through my chest and shoulders, but I’ve lost
a lot of bulk and conditioning since my accident. At five foot eleven inches
tall, I weigh only one hundred and sixty-five pounds—fifteen pounds less than
normal. My clothes sit loosely on my frame.
    He notices.
    Does he also see
the quick, efficient killer the Army trained me to be?
    With one look, I
can tell that André Chevalier is a man who sleeps well. He’s my age, about
six-foot, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. He looks good. Healthy. His dark
eyes and expression are candid.
    The guy isn’t
what I expected.
    He’s fitter.
Tougher. There’s nothing soft about him.
    Chevalier’s got a
flat stomach, narrow hips and the broad shoulders of a fighter. His hair is
darker than mine is, cut short around his neck and ears and his complexion is
tan. He looks like an athlete, not a psychologist.
    And he
specializes in sexual therapy.
    Recommended or
not, I don’t trust easily. He could be some sort of deviant, after all.
    His
well-manicured hand stretches out toward me.
    I take it. His
palm is warm and dry. We both have a firm grip. This guy is strong, but I’m
stronger. There’s gym fit and combat fit. If it comes to a fight, combat fit
wins every time. But this man isn’t just gym fit. Maybe he plays some sort of
vigorous, aerobic sport, like soccer?
    Either way, I can
take him.
    This impulsive
thought surprises me and I wonder where it comes from. I had a lot of
suppressed rage throughout my teenage years. Tense, suspicious and not much of
a talker, my form of communication back then frequently came from my fists.
    I seriously