BLIND: A Mastermind Novel

by Lydia Michaels

  “Yeah. Who isn’t?”

  “My friends and I invented it.”

  The man’s eyes bulged. “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly. I’ll double your annual salary for a quarter of the time. I’d want you available, so I’d ask for you to stay in the guesthouse. You’d have use of the pool and the rest of the grounds in exchange for your service. Aside from work, I don’t have much of a social life, so I’d like to work out as much as possible. My three partners at GeekPeek also might take advantage of your services while they’re available. I’ll be hiring a nutritionist and personal chef, so your meals would be taken care of. As long as we had an early work out on the weekends, you’d have the majority of your Saturdays and Sundays off. If you can actually pull this off and make me take pride in the reflection I see in the mirror, we can discuss further investments down the line. Perhaps you’d want to own your own gym someday?”

  “I don’t understand. Why me?”

  “Because you were the first person I found, and I don’t have a lot of time. You also haven’t acted like anything I’ve asked is impossible or laughable.”

  “It’s all possible. You just gotta want it.”

  Asher nodded. “I want this. Do we have a deal?”

  Steve grinned, showing the slight gap in his front teeth. “When do I start?”

  “Now. I’ll grab you a spare laptop and you can use the library. I want you to design the perfect personal gym. I want to get started tomorrow morning bright and early. I’ll set up an expense account and you can order all the equipment you need. Have it expedited. I’m not worried about shipping costs.

  “Tonight I’ll show you the basement where everything will go so you have an idea of the size room you’re dealing with. Everything should be here by the weekend and we can really get started on our training. Tomorrow you can move your stuff into the guesthouse. I’ll have a key made up for you. I’d also like you to sit in on the interviews for the nutritionist.There’s a woman named Carla coming for an interview tomorrow at noon.”

  “This is insane.”

  It was, but it felt right. Asher was riding a tide of adrenaline and his confidence was flowing. “I’ll go grab you that laptop.”

  “Mr. Roan?”

  Asher turned. Steve was likely twenty-five, so he’d have to remind him to call him Asher. “Yeah.”

  “Thank you.”

  Asher grinned eagerly. “If you can do this, I’ll be the one thanking you.”

  Chapter Three

  Stimulation

  Scarlet plopped on the couch with Thor and scooped up the remote. “What sort of excitement lays ahead for us tonight, sweet love of my life?” she asked her cat as she thumbed through the channels.

  “Ooh, a Harry Potter marathon.” Tossing the remote aside, she got comfy and glanced at Thor as he curled into the cushion. “Is it totally pathetic that my Friday night excitement includes young adult movies and my cat? No, don’t be offended. You’re the nicest guy I know.”

  Thor’s eyes shut in contentment as he curled into her hip. Scarlet reached for her laptop and checked her email. Nada. “Let’s see what all the cool people are up to.”

  Signing into her GeekPeek account, she pursed her lips as she scrolled through the feed. Someone got engaged, so-and-so sold their house, there was a new picture of an ultrasound, blah, blah, blah, blah.

  When she saw the post of a newborn from a college friend her vision blurred. Will I ever hold my own? Her knee jerk indifference faded to the honest envy it was and she wrote a heartfelt congratulations below her friend’s post. She then jumped over to Amazon and ordered a gift from her friend’s wish list for the little one.

  “There,” she said, checking out. “They should get that in a couple days.”

  Hopping back on GeekPeek, she “liked” and commented on what she should and was about to log off when a notification caught her eye.

  She had a friend request. Clicking on the notification, she frowned. “Mr. Stone?” The profile picture was just a large boulder bathed in a ray of dusty light with a relic sword impaled in the rock. “Do I know you?”

  It was probably some spammer. Her notifications chimed again. She had a private message. Her brow lowered when she saw the sender was the mysterious Mr. Stone.

  Good evening, Ms. Farrow. Care to chat?

  ~Mr. Stone

  Rather than answer right away, she went back to his profile. There wasn’t much, being that his privacy settings were pretty tight and she hadn’t accepted his friend request yet. Who was this guy? This was GeekPeek, not a dating site. It seemed odd to chat with a perfect stranger.

  Clicking on her messages, she typed.

  Do I know you?

  His message popped up only a few seconds later.

  That’s your decision. Would you like to know me? I find myself very curious about you.

  “Ew. Stranger danger,” she mumbled and rolled her eyes. The guy didn’t even have a real picture. He could be a five hundred pound predator camped out in a shed wearing stained boxers, with Cheetos crumbs sprinkled in his hairy chest.

  No thanks. I don’t talk to strangers. Have a nice night.

  His response again was immediate.

  Pity. I was hoping to have a discussion with you, L.R. Riding Hood. My apologies. Enjoy your evening.

  She froze, lips parted, as her gaze drilled into the name he’d used. L.R. Riding Hood. “What the hell?”

  Frowning, and breathing a little rapidly, she returned to his profile. Was this a joke? Whoever this was, they’d obviously read her stupid letter in the paper and pegged her as the author. How, though? She decided to play dumb.

  I’m afraid you have the wrong person. I don’t know L.R. Riding Hood.

  Her messages chimed.

  Tsk, Ms. Farrow. I assumed a woman brazen enough to ask for exactly what she wants would have the courage to be honest. I’m not interested in games. Enjoy your evening.

  She scowled. Who the hell was this? It was creepy, not knowing who he was, but at the same time, his response provoked her to reply, prove she wasn’t L.R. Riding Hood—which was bullshit—but he couldn’t possibly know it was her. More importantly—

  Who are you?

  She waited.

  You may call me Mr. Stone.

  What’s your first name?

  I’m afraid not, Ms. Farrow. Mr. Stone is all you get. Now, shall we be honest, since we’re sharing names, L.R. Riding Hood?

  Her heartbeat quickened. She was safe in her home under Thor’s protection. Her privacy settings were solid, not giving away her address or too much personal drama. What harm was there in entertaining herself for a few minutes with a stranger? There really was no difference between this and talking to a man she never met on a dating site. Besides, she really wanted to find out who’d figured out she was L.R. Riding Hood and how.

  Fine. How did you find me, Mr. Stone?

  His reply stank of arrogance.

  It wasn’t difficult. I’m quite adept at getting what I want in life. Your letter intrigued me. Care to discuss it?

  Her eyes shot to his picture.

  How come you don’t have a real picture up?

  You should never end a sentence with a preposition, Ms. Farrow. Why are you avoiding my question? I expect an answer.

  She slouched in her seat. Was he a teacher, correcting her grammar like that? Oh, my God, does he work with me? Crap. The idea of someone from work discovering her letter was troubling in more ways than one.

  Everything suddenly became too real as she stared at the screen, unable to move or think what to do. After several minutes the messages chimed again.

  Have your fears gotten the better of you, Ms. Farrow? Pity. I was starting to enjoy myself, hoping we could have a stimulating discussion about all those delicious needs of yours and how I might satisfy them.

  Her breath sucked in and she slammed her laptop shut. Her skin prickled with awareness as she fought the urge to close the curtains. It was a joke. Someone
was teasing her. Probably a friend that read her article. They’d have to know her well in order to suspect she was the author of such a letter. Someone was screwing with her.

  Slowly, she grinned. “Nicole.” She chuckled. “You think you’re so sly.”

  Taking a deep breath, she hunkered down and decided to have some fun of her own. The screen refreshed as she signed back onto her page. Pretty impressive for Nicole, making up a fake account and messing with her like this. She almost got her too. A muffled chuckle slipped past her lips as she wrote back.

  Oh, Mr. Stone, I’d love to discuss you satisfying my needs. How delicious. Tell me more.

  You’re not scared?

  Oh, no. As a matter of fact, I’m intrigued and eager. Please…stimulate me.

  Very well. I’ll give you a word and you tell me the first word that comes to mind. Agreed?

  You bet.

  I’m being quite serious, Ms. Farrow. While the satirical tone of your responses may be cute to some, I have no interest in juvenile defenses. If Ms. Farrow—the woman—would like to step forward, I shall continue.

  She snorted, amused and a bit shocked at the response. Her friend had her thesaurus handy. Talk about being chastised. This guy—or Nicole, to be more realistic—was really playing the part. She toned down her mocking attitude, wanting to see where this was going before she called her friend out on her prank.

  You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m ready now.

  Good girl. We’ll start with the word, benevolent.

  Kind.

  Good, Ms. Farrow. Next word. Own.

  Car.

  Car?

  Yes, car. You said the first thing that pops into my head. Most people own a car.

  I want you to think about the actual word, not the possessions linked to it. Apply the word to yourself. How does it make you feel?

  She chewed her lip. Was this a test? Breathing out an amused puff of laughter, she decided to play the game.

  Sexy.

  Interesting. Why sexy? Is it that you want to own someone, a part of their soul, or perhaps it’s you who would like to be owned, that irrevocable sense of belonging to one person, treasured, cherished? Exactly what makes the word sexy?

  It was an interesting query. She wasn’t sure. Forgetting this was possibly her friend messing with her, she gave the question considerable thought and wrote her honest answer.

  He’d have to be quite incredible to accomplish that, knowing how to reach my mind, treat my body, and touch my soul. Any man able to get to that level with me, could definitely have me—own me.

  The second she hit send, reality crashed over her and she cursed. Nicole was probably rolling on the floor laughing at that ridiculous answer. Unintentionally wrapped up in the game, she’d betrayed her personal secrets. Her eyes searched for any possible way to revoke the sent message, knowing there wasn’t one. As her humiliation spiked, the computer chimed.

  You expressed that beautifully, Ms. Farrow. Indeed, he should be quite a capable male to earn such a gift. The surrender of an intelligent woman is priceless.

  Okay, Nicole didn’t talk like that. Something wasn’t adding up here. His next message distracted her worry.

  Next word, Ms. Farrow. Claimed.

  Hot.

  The idea of being claimed makes you hot, Ms. Farrow?

  Her body heated, nerves coming to life. This conversation was starting to make her hot, which was a really bad thing if this was Nicole. Her face tightened as she did what she had to do.

  Nicole?

  I beg your pardon?

  Tell me who you are.

  Enough messing around. He’d gotten her attention—whoever he was—and now she was intrigued. If he didn’t give her some information she was out.

  I am a man with no connection to your personal life. However, that could change once we’ve finished our discussion. I find you quite intriguing. You asked where all the real men are. I assure you, I’m real. I’m also very private. I intend to respect your privacy, as this has only to do with the two of us, and I expect you to respect mine. Should that be something you cannot do, we shall say goodbye now.

  Her mind rapidly tossed out possibilities of who this man could be. No one came to mind. It could be anyone. It didn’t even have to be a man.

  No longer thinking it was Nicole, she struggled to come up with an answer. The men at work wouldn’t do this. Maybe it was someone from her past. But this guy seemed intelligent in a way the men she dated never were. She pushed for more information.

  Are you saying you’d like to go out?

  That depends on you, Ms. Farrow. I’d like to learn a bit more about the woman who wrote that letter. Should your answers please me, we can make further arrangements. I’m very precise in my comforts and tend to be quite demanding. You may not be able to help me. But I’m certain I can help you.

  Her body shivered with excitement laced with fear. This could be a serial killer. He knew her name. What the hell was she thinking talking to this guy? You’re thinking he might be the answer to your prayers. She needed to get real. Someone was yanking her chain. Maybe he worked for the column and hacked her email to get her name.

  You’re messing with me.

  How so?

  I don’t believe your name’s Mr. Stone.

  You are correct. Anonymity is important to me. While I can help you, I have stipulations, should we reach that point. For all intents and purposes, you will know me as Mr. Stone. My name carries no influence in the end result.

  Help me how?

  Why, Ms. Farrow, I thought I made that clear. I’m the man you seek. Should you please me, I’m prepared to show you exactly what you’re after.

  Which is?

  Absolute adoration.

  She stilled. The joke was no longer funny. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as she carefully catalogued what was happening. A stranger—without a face—approached her online after reading her article and now was possibly offering her everything she wanted. Impossible—and scary.

  You’re being very quiet, Ms. Farrow. Tell me what you’re thinking.

  I’m thinking there are a lot of crazy people in this world.

  Ah. And you’re wondering if I’m one of them. Well, while I insist on a certain level of mystique to protect myself, I can offer you this, whether you trust my words is your decision. I am a responsible American citizen, residing close enough to have received your article in the paper’s circulation. I own my own company and do well enough for myself. I’m very private in my personal life, due to the fact I don’t easily trust people’s motives. The last time a woman captured my interest she fell short of my expectations. My desires are quite defined and I’m patient, believing there must be a cerebral connection before a physical relationship can develop. I have never, nor would I ever, physically harm a living thing. I believe most women are gentle creatures and the praiseworthy ones deserve to be cherished.

  Shallow breaths filled her lungs. The light, teasing mood of the conversation had completely evaporated. In its place was curious caution. He could’ve just made that whole spiel up. Choosing her words carefully, she responded.

  What do you look like?

  I’m disappointed if this is a weighing factor. Based on your letter I assumed you were more preoccupied with the intellectual stimulation of a relationship.

  You can see what I look like. You have a rock as your profile picture. Fair is fair.

  Ah, but appearances tend to make impressions and tempt assumptions. You’re a smart woman. Think of how a sightless man’s senses are heightened by blindness. I want to provoke your senses, Ms. Farrow. Everything you asked for depends on trust. I require a level of trust in order to proceed. My appearance should be irrelevant. I’m not asking for a physical encounter. Rather, I’m more interested in your mind, as you should be interested in mine. However, I understand the sort of ill-favored images you’re probably concocting in that imagination of yours, so I will offer you this. I’m thirty years old. I ha
ve a personal trainer, no nasty personal habits. My hair is medium brown and my eyes are blue. I’m a little over six foot tall and have never been overweight. My health is good and I’ve had two cavities in my life. That should be enough to satisfy your curiosity for now.

  Still, he could be lying. If he wouldn’t show himself he had to show her something. She needed some clue to put her at ease and know he was trust worthy.

  Where are you now?

  I’m sitting in my home office.

  “Hmm…Let’s see how honest you really are, Mr. Stone.” She typed out her next request.

  Can you describe it to me? It’ll put me at ease.

  Of course. The walls are deep sapphire. My desk is glass. There are floor to ceiling bookcases on either side of the marble fireplace. And my drapes are pale blue. Satisfied?