BLIND: A Mastermind Novel (32 page)

Her belly naturally creased at her belly button. Her breasts weighed heavily against her ribs. She appeared completely unnerved by her nudity, which was unexpected.

Refilling her glass, he said, “I see you’re coming to terms with your nudity.”

She chuckled. “That’s a first.”

“I’m staring at your body. Does that worry you?”

Smiling, she leaned back in the chair and lifted her arms, putting her breasts on display. “Believe it or not, I love knowing you enjoy looking at me, Mr. Stone. It’s a sort of attention I’ve never had.
”
Brazenly, she reached for the table and slid her glass onto the surface.

His jaw unhinged. Later, when she returned home, she’d find the souvenir he’d left on her body. The plum blotch his kiss had left showed beautifully against her pale skin. He decided he wanted to leave her with many more, liking his mark on her flesh.

Grinning, he experienced deep satisfaction. He’d claimed her, in a way.
Mine.

His smile faltered as reality came hurtling back to his sex-addled-brain. Fuck. None of this was part of his plan. It was far too personal. Artificial, despite the truth of his affection. It wouldn’t be real until she learned who he truly was. And Asher Roan could very easily pale in comparison to Mr. Stone.

“It’s time to say goodnight, Ms. Farrow.”

Her grin fell and her arms slowly closed over her chest. He sensed the moment insecurity took hold. He could easily reassure her, but he didn’t trust his own words at the moment. He needed to get her out of there, before he said or did something they’d both regret.

Standing, he collected her dress and bra. “Please stand up.
”
She did, keeping her head angled down as he slid the garment back into place and worked to clasp the tiny hooks. Damn bras. Why did they have to be so complicated?

Once her breasts were covered he slid her arms through the sleeves of the dress. Docilely, she allowed him to tie the front, her posture guarded. Once he finished dressing her, he took a moment to fix her hair, and inspect that everything was covered.

“I’ll get your coat.”

As he stepped away he heard her sniffle and stilled. Glancing back, he scrutinized her face. As much as the blindfold protected him, it also protected her. Without seeing her eyes it wasn’t always easy to ascertain her emotions.

Forgetting the coat he stepped in front of her. “Scarlet?”

She sniffled again and nodded.

“Why are you upset?
”
His chest constricted. What had he done?

“I’m fine.”

Sh
e
clearl
y
was not fine. “Don’t lie to me,
”
he snapped, surprised at the lash in his voice. His frustration was with himself. He’d pushed too far and crossed a line.

She flinched. “Did I disappoint you?”

What? He shut his eyes and silently sighed. His need to conclude their evening wasn’t an attempt to be coldhearted in the least. On the contrary, he was trying to reel in his control before things spun out of hand, save her from disappointment, but he was fumbling everything.

Brushing a hand over her cheek, he assured, “No, sweet Scarlet, you pleased me very much. I’m merely reacting to the awareness that we have seven nights left.
”

Which was also true. They were running out of time. He didn’t disclose that he was panicking about what would happen over the course of those nights—mainly, to him. The more she gave of herself the less control he had over his restraint.

She was breaking down every boundary he’d purposefully built to protect himself. He’d been so worried about playing a part he’d overlooked the fact that this woman was the same woman who basically owned him and thrown him to the wolves twelve years ago. He hadn’t thought he’d fall for her again, but he had. And now the fall, should she toss him away, was so much greater he doubted he’d survive.

Stepping away, he went to retrieve her coat and carefully fastened the buttons, as was their routine. Like the last time, she caught his hand on the last button. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”

He smiled forlornly. “You’re welcome, Scarlet.”

This time when he watched Steve drive her away there wasn’t the familiar sense of accomplishment. Rather, there was cold worry. He decided their next encounter he’d reassess the woman. He’d find out more about her personality—there had to be some guarantee available, something great enough to give him the confidence to end this tiresome charade and trust her enough not to reject him again.

Chapter Thirteen

Control

After three days of contemplating the uninvited emotions regarding Scarlet and their liaison, Asher decided the solution rested in maintaining absolute control—of himself and their situation. He’d let his own desires distort his motive to make this all about her and he needed to refocus. If he continued to please her in a way no other man had, her gratitude might overshadow any shortcomings he hid and perhaps there could be something more in the end.

Control was not necessarily taking what he wanted because he simply had the authority to do so. No. It was a tool used to unravel the many wants and desires that made Scarlet Farrow, thereby presenting the answers to her prayers. In order for his intentions to bear fruit, he must be able to deliver. Serving his own needs and desires should not be part of the immediate plan. She should always come first—literally.

“Tell me about your home,
”
he asked late one evening as he had her on the phone.

“It’s small. Yellow siding, a small garden in the front that can’t grow more than weeds.”

The image of her tiring from planting flowers that refused to bloom amused him in a tender way. He could so easily picture her toiling over the stubborn bed, sunhat protecting her fair skin.  His amusement wasn’t facetious. The image of her frustration, how her cheeks would likely flush and her mouth would purse, was merely another appealing part of her charming character.

“Do you like to garden?”

“I love to garden, but these thumbs aren’t the least bit green. I’m lucky if I can keep a cactus alive.”

He chuckled. “Tell me about the inside of your house. Walk me through it.”

“Well, my front door leads into a small foyer.
”
As she spoke he visualized the space, curious about her daily surroundings. It struck him as unfortunate that he couldn’t witness it first hand—another drawback of their untraditional relationship.

As she detailed each space, he quietly coveted what she could see and he couldn’t. How she’d tolerated their relationship blind this far was beyond him.

Her voice silenced. His mind had drifted. “Tell me about your classroom.”

His heart wasn’t in it tonight. The limitations were growing tiresome. He wanted to remove the veils between them, but doing so might end everything. As she described her classroom, he considered the remainder of their time.

At first, the freedom to stretch their relations over a length of time was appealing. Now it was daunting. Six encounters left and he wanted it over so they could begin something genuine. He required confidence, something he’d always been short of, and didn’t possess the patience needed to wait for it’s time-consuming arrival.

“Do you trust me, Scarlet?”

He’d interrupted her, but she quickly answered, her tone heavy with concern. He wasn’t acting himself tonight. Or perhaps he was, but not as Mr. Stone.

“Yes,
”
she answered.

The will of his restraint was fraying. “I want to see you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

Yes, and they usually only met on the weekends, but it was becoming abundantly clear the longer their association went on, the more difficult dragging things out would become. “We will still have the weekend.”

“Oh.”

She sounded disappointed. “Do you not wish to see me?”

“No, I do. It’s just
…
tomorrow would be our sixth encounter and this weekend, five. I don’t like sensing we’re reaching an end. But maybe…”

She, too, seemed irritated with the counting of days. But she wasn’t the one calling the shots. The unexpected could frighten her as much as it excited her, and for good reason. But the reality was, he wanted the secretiveness to end. The more he emotionally invested himself in this woman, the harder it would hurt when she eventually cut him down—
if
that was the way of things, and he found it impossible to imagine a better outcome. There were too many scars of his past emotional wounds marking his experiences with people in general—including her.

“One day at a time, Ms. Farrow. Let me worry about how and when the days pass.
”
Something he was doing a shitty job of at the moment.

“Okay.”

He’d have to think of how they’d spend their evening and being that they were in the last stretch, he’d have to make it count. “Then I think we should say goodnight. Since it’s a school night, I’ll have Pennyworth pick you up at six instead of seven. Have a light dinner and wear something comfortable.”

“Okay. I can’t wait to…
”
She laughed at her slip. “Well, I guess I won’t be seeing you, but you know what I mean. I look forward to it.”

“Me too. Sweet dreams, Ms. Farrow.”

“You too, Mr. Stone.”

He ended the call. It was time to get serious. Cracking open his laptop he searched suggestions for romantic dates. When one recommendation caught his eye, his brain went to work, piecing together a list of everything he’d need. It would be challenging locating certain items on such short notice, but his friends were eccentric enough to point him in the right direction.

Unfortunately, despite Scarlet’s parting wishes, his dreams were far from sweet that night. Kaleidoscopes of images from his past bled into his nightmares, mixing with hallucinations of the present. The disorienting memories built a vivid tapestry of what suffocated him.

“What are you gonna do, faggot?” Westerman’s meaty paws shoved him into the wall of the locker room as his towel fell to the ground, tripping him.

Laughter echoed from those witnessing his shame. “Look at his little dick!”

“How do you even see something that small?”

“Here, give him his glasses!”

Westerman laughed and reached in his pocket. His fat fingers fumbled with his glasses and a small vile. “Hold him down,” he snapped.

Two of the guys on the football team grabbed his arms, pegging them to the lockers. Asher jerked with panic as Westerman shoved his glasses on his face.

Tears immediately burned his eyes as his vision blurred under the intense fumes of superglue. He struggled, but their hold wouldn’t budge. Within seconds the rims of his frames were painfully fused to his face and hair, the chemical burn immediately blistering his sensitive skin.

He stumbled as they released him, his head jerking quickly as Westerman grabbed a fistful of his hair. “Can you see your little dick now?”

He reached for his lenses and winced as he agonizingly tried to remove the glasses, but the plastic might as well have been welded to the soft flesh below his eyes.

He’d been there, saw the moment so clearly in his mind, relived the pain and humiliation, but his dreams added a new layer of cruelty. The images of his past tipped, colliding with visions of the present, embellishing realities to a brutal point of degradation.

“Look at him, Lettie.
This
is what you want?” Westerman taunted.

Asher’s gaze lifted as his terrified eyes met hers. She was an adult, developed and perfectly beautiful in the emerald dress he’d given her, but this time it was a gown. There was no recognition in her expression, no empathy, or anything close to the warmth she showed Mr. Stone.

She laughed. It wasn’t the chill of her voice that gutted him, but the pity in her eyes.  “Poor little Asher Roan. Did you think you could impress me? I can’t even look at you.” Her hands lifted and there was the blindfold—

Asher bolted upright, jackknifing out of bed, his skin drenched in a cold sweat as he shivered and panted. His heart raced as he frantically identified his room and the familiar objects that marked present day.

Adrenaline rushed through his body like an icy avalanche in his veins as his breath echoed in the silence. It was a dream. Part of it had been real, a flashback he’d never forget, but the parts about Scarlet were purely a nightmare.

Shutting his eyes, he let out a reassuring breath that did little to calm him. In the darkness he saw Westerman and the rest of his alumni taunting him. His fingers went to his cheeks, just beneath his eyes, as if he could still feel the torn flesh their brutality had left, and still scent the vitamin E his father insisted he apply for a solid year to the burn.

He’d never forget the look in his father’s eyes the day he tried to painlessly remove the glasses from Asher’s face. His mother had been resting after a grueling reaction to the chemo and that was what his father had to deal with on top of everything else.

The sickening tear of sensitive flesh brought tears to his eyes, but his greatest worry was not the scars he might bare or the pain great enough to cause him to vomit. Applying a cool damp cloth to his face he grit his teeth as his father’s hands shook with the necessity to be gentle.

Asher stilled his father’s hand and whispered, “Don’t tell Mom.”

His father sighed and shut his eyes. “Someone needs to stop this, Asher. It’s getting out of hand. I need to tell someone.”

“No. If you do then Mom will find out and I don’t want her to worry about me with everything else going on. I’ll stay away from them from now on. I’m good at hiding.”

He saw it then, in his father’s eyes—disappointment—not in the son he’d raised, but in failing to protect his son from the world. It wasn’t his job, but his father saw it as his responsibility.

“I’ll be okay, Dad. It’ll heal.”

His father’s mouth was tight with tense rage and Asher needed to relieve his worry. “It doesn’t hurt,” he lied.

Asher had never been strong and had no interest in fighting. He simply wanted to be left alone. He’d learned long ago, telling on people like Westerman only led to a worse fate. He wanted to avoid further retaliation.

As much as his face hurt, as much as the marks and chopped away hair humiliated him, nothing was as painful as seeing his father take responsibility for other
s
’ cruelness .

Ash pushed the painful memory back into the hidden corners of his mind. It had been years since he’d had nightmares. Thinking his habits with Scarlet were bringing such memories back was not something he relished.

His father had begged him to take boxing or karate, but it all seemed too little too late. There was nothing quite as heartbreaking as those moments when his parents became aware of how brutal school could be for him and knew there was nothing they could do to save him.

One evening he’d heard his mother crying, berating herself, saying if not for her weakness caused by the cancer that she might have been able to save him with homeschooling. He’d never hated cancer more, believing homeschooling would have been his saving grace.

But the reality was, his mother was fighting her own battles and didn’t have the strength to fight his as well. He’d made a promise never to let on how bad it got at school after that. Sometimes he even lied, saying he had a great day just to see her smile.

It wasn’t as easy to fool his father, being that he was the active parent when his mother was sick and he noticed a lot more. As the bullying got worse, the telltale symptoms of playing the victim became harder to hide. There were moments his father could simply place a cereal bowl on the table and Asher would flinch.

One day during Asher’s junior year, his father broke into tears. Perhaps it was the overwhelming fear of losing his wife, or the immense pressure to stay hopeful, but it was the most startling sight Asher had ever witnessed. His fear amplified Asher’s, paralyzing him in a daze, an awareness that his mother might actually die.