BLIND: A Mastermind Novel

by Lydia Michaels

  When he spoke, he always kept his voice low and even as if he were softly speaking in an ancient language that required her full attention. It was quite different from the way he casually spoke among friends. But he always had her attention.

  Scarlet wasn’t the only one benefiting from their relationship. Asher was discovering sides to himself he’d never anticipated, sides he truly enjoyed. Every interaction boosted his confidence. He was clearly being stimulated by their relationship as much as her.

  He gave her his undivided attention and she reciprocated, hanging on his every word. It was euphoric having the woman he spent the first half of his life idolizing suddenly under an enchanted spell. But what was most enchanting was that she honestly seemed interested in him. Sometimes he even made her laugh, not at him, but with him.

  Prior to this, he didn’t have spells. He didn’t have moves. And he certainly didn’t have mojo. But all of these things, he discovered, were teachable and he was aptly learning how to play a game that always intimidated him—a game that now provoked darker yearnings for tendencies he never considered unearthing or even knew existed within his psyche.

  If they were to meet, it had to be on his terms. Monday, he contacted his realtor about a property just outside of the city. It was important they had a secluded place to get acquainted that was within reasonable driving distance.

  The mansion wasn’t necessarily his style, being he favored more simplistic ergonomic designs with clean lines and functional layouts. However, it had potential.

  Boasting four floors, a dozen bedrooms and two towers, the old stone house could definitely be an asset at some stage of his life. The windows were original, complete with metal glasswork and custom made hardware. It was drafty, but had a plethora of working fireplaces.

  The white elephant had been on the market for years, and the realtor was more than eager to answer questions about the property. In the end, Asher signed the deed for a steal. He could have simply taken her to dinner, but that wasn’t how he operated. Besides, he had other conditions that needed to be met.

  Once the house was his, the place was overflowing with contractors. He had a very small window of opportunity to get things accomplished if this was where their first meeting would be, so Asher used every resource at his disposal to get the job done as quickly as possible.

  A maid service scoured the mansion from attic to basement. Chimney sweeps cleaned every vent and inspected every flue. Wood was delivered and stacked neatly by each hearth. An interior designer named Sven, recommended by his stylist, was responsible for furnishing the entry, ballroom, and lower bathrooms.

  The other rooms were of no concern. Should they need them, he’d make arrangements to have them dressed appropriately. For now, they had a space to use. What started less than two weeks ago now seemed a firm investment. He wasn’t sure what would come of his time with Scarlet, but he’d basically purchased the mansion for one purpose—her. His friends were convinced he’d lost his mind.

  While he’d been working on the house, he remained in contact with her, but careful not to let his control slip. She didn’t ask him out again and he wondered if she was embarrassed because he’d said no the first time. He didn’t want his response to discourage her, so he reassured her they would meet soon. This seemed to please her.

  As he pulled into the rounded driveway of the mansion, he grimaced at the work still needing to be done. The flowerbeds were horrendously overgrown and in serious need of some new shrubberies, but this wasn’t the time of year to plant. Reaching in his pocket, he removed his key, and took the ten steps to the entrance.

  Two double doors stood the height of two men. A truck pulled in behind his car and he waved at Bruce, the contractor. As his key clicked in the lock the door let out an ominous howl.

  “Mr. Roan,” Bruce greeted as he climbed the porch, his large build filling out his denim shirt.

  “Hi, Bruce. Call me Ash.” The contractor nodded and Asher gave the knob another turn, frowning at the whining hinges. “Can something be done about this squeaking?”

  Bruce produced a clipboard from under his arm. “That’s why I’m here. We’ll do a walkthrough and I’ll make note of all your concerns. When we’re done inspecting the grounds, I’ll send out my guys with a prioritized list.”

  Asher nodded, pleased with his sense of urgency to get the mansion up and running as soon as possible. “Eventually I’ll need a landscaper, but that can wait until the weather breaks.”

  “I have a few contacts I can recommend.”

  They entered the foyer. The fireplaces were unlit so there was a chill to the open space. There were two wingback chairs and a small table at the foot of the twin staircases. The floors were polished and he was pleased with the progress his staff had made.

  “I’d like to order a water cooler. I’d also like a fridge brought in.”

  “For the service kitchen or the master kitchen, sir?”

  “Neither. I want it right here in the foyer for now. I assume you’ll have to fiddle with the electric. The fridge will be an insulated cabinet with a humidifier used for wine. Will you need to see the model?” Money came with eccentricity outsiders tended to easily accept.

  “It should have the same standard wiring requirements. I’ll check with the supplier once you have a model picked.”

  They entered the ballroom. Asher smiled nervously as Bruce’s eyebrow lifted at the sight of a massive four-poster bed in the center. Grand fireplaces, tall enough to fit five men, anchored two of the four walls.

  “Both fireplaces passed inspection?” He asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Another seating area filled the empty space. A tall armoire stood against the far wall. He’d be placing necessities there. Taking a moment for himself, he approached the bed.

  The coverlet was lush, nothing like the one on his bed at home. He’d purchased new furniture when he bought his house, but his home was filled with personal touches and items his mother had suggested. He never gave much thought to beauty, always putting comfort first, but this was definitely a stunning bed.

  His throat tightened at the possibilities. Scarlet Farrow might someday rest here.

  The inspection continued for over an hour. As the contractor pulled away, he held a list of last minute details needing to be addressed. Asher settled into a chair in the ballroom, his stomach tight, and his breathing restricted.

  He was actually doing this.

  Once the restoration of the old home was underway, he’d found himself distracted. Things had moved quickly and in that sudden moment of silence, where all details seemed complete, reality sank in for the first time.

  If she agreed to see him—a big if—she would come here and they’d start the second phase of their relationship. His mind drifted over his experiences with women, voiding out every horrible encounter from his earlier years and remembering those rushed and surprising moments of his adulthood.

  There had been his first, a young woman by the name of Crystal. It was at her house and no matter how much she’d tried to convince Asher her feelings were sincere, the disappointment in her eyes had proved he was a regretful trade off for the money he possessed.

  After Crystal he’d become a bit more guarded. From time to time he’d invited a curious female back to his hotel room while on business trips. Suits worn for meetings usually disguised his unimpressive body more than street clothes. They were more generic, making it easier to speak to strangers.

  All in all, there had been three women. He’d like to think the last was the least embarrassing. But nothing took away the nervousness he always experienced while dealing with the opposite sex. How would he ever deal with Scarlet?

  There was so much emphasis tied to her. She epitomized his shortcomings and was a bank of painful memories, yet she also represented his greatest desires. The pressure to perform with other women was nothing in regards to her.

  Breathing in a deep, calming breath, he forced himself to relax. So lon
g as he continued with the pattern they’d started, everything would work out. Who knew how intimate they’d become?

  His objective was to show her everything she’d wanted—be everything she needed—if that was at all possible, he’d be more surprised than anyone. His intentions were blurred. She clearly had something invested in them, leaving her vulnerable in some immeasurable way. If she proved to be the girl he hated, he wouldn’t hesitate to vanish. But deep down he was strongly starting to hope she’d prove to be the girl he loved.

  That was the terrifying truth he’d yet to share with his friends. God forbid she scorn him again. Keeping his evolving emotions to himself would ensure any pain would remain private as well.

  Swallowing hard, he glanced one last time around the room. He could do this. He just had to keep his calm and not lose his head. Hopefully, all his careful planning would aid him when it came time to encounter her face to face. His greatest undoing rested in those enchanting eyes. He needed to make sure she saw something in him before she actually saw him.

  ****

  “Tell me about a time you were proud of yourself.”

  Scarlet savored the rush of excitement that filled her as she settled onto her bed and welcomed the long awaited sound of his voice. Their nightly conversations had become something she looked forward to, anticipated with intoxicating excitement, and when they finally started she became drunk with a sort of steady euphoria.

  Her voice was low and relaxed. “Hmm… I’d have to think about that one.”

  “Are there not a lot of proud moments in your life?”

  “No, there are. I could tell you the generic ones, graduation, honor roll, buying my house, but I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”

  “Correct.”

  She sighed, her mind drifting over a flow of pleasant memories as she tried to select the perfect one to share. “I have it.”

  “Tell me.”

  She swallowed. “I teach sixth grade and a lot of my kids are considered remedial. At this point, they’ve unfortunately been labeled, not just in their paperwork, but by their peers, and even some of the faculty. There was this one student a few years back. His name was Justin.

  “He wasn’t a bad kid, but he always seemed to find himself right in the middle of trouble and, because he was tall and broody, a lot of times he was blamed for things he didn’t orchestrate. After a while his attitude deteriorated, because even when he made the right choices, he somehow always had to answer for everyone else’s misbehavior.”

  Mr. Stone let her set the background for her anecdote and patiently waited for her to make her point. She loved the rhythm of their discussions. It was different from the way most people conversed, always racing to assume the moral of a story before the narrator had the chance to deliver. Their slow paced dialogue was pleasantly refreshing.

  “When Justin was in my class, he started flunking. His answers were there, but so outrageous I knew he wasn’t even trying. I spoke to my team about my concerns. Justin was a bright kid and he shouldn’t have been struggling with the material to that degree. None of my team teachers seemed to care, assuming it was expected from such a kid. I knew if I was going to get to the bottom of his behavior I had to do it myself.

  “One day, we had a test. The students were all gone for the day and I stayed after to grade the essays. The class did all right, until I got to Justin’s. His test was completely blank. I couldn’t sleep that night, wondering how such a bright kid could simply give up. I hate how cruel life can be at that age for children. My greatest fear was that Justin had heard enough people’s assumptions, and decided to give them exactly what they expected of him—nothing.

  “I refused to believe that was all he had in him. The next day I asked him to stay after class. I showed him his paper and tried to remove all assumption from my expression. I asked him to tell me why he didn’t try.”

  “What was his excuse?”

  Her eyes closed, recalling that moment so clearly. “He said, ‘Ms. Farrow, I haven’t had breakfast. Last night I didn’t eat dinner. Aside from a few chips, I haven’t eaten in days. I’m so hungry, I don’t give a fuck about this test.’ Some teachers would have penalized him for his language, but I saw his hunger the moment he made the confession.

  “I went to my desk, opened my lunch, and gave him my sandwich. He hesitated only a minute before devouring it. I gave him my juice and grapes and went to the vending machine to buy a Tasty Cake for dessert. I told him to come to my room every morning.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, it became customary for us to share breakfast. After breakfast I’d hand him a brown-bagged lunch, just like mine, but with an extra snack since he was a growing boy.”

  It was nice, recalling her kind deed. Rewarding. Telling the story made her appreciate herself in a way she sometimes lost sight of in her normal day-to-day life.

  Smiling, she explained, “You see, our job is to teach, but students aren’t always prepared to learn. Sometimes we’re the ones who have to learn a new approach. I may not be the best teacher, but I think those moments with Justin made me a damn good one. We learn from example and I think I showed him—an already jaded thirteen-year-old kid—what compassion is. He’s in college now and earned a pretty great scholarship.”

  “That’s a lovely story, Ms. Farrow.”

  It was one of her favorites.

  “Did your team ever learn what you were doing?”

  “No. Out of respect for Justin, I kept his situation between us, only letting my principal know so that he could advise the parents about student aide.”

  “Interesting. Many times people are motivated to do good deeds because of the impression it leaves.”

  “I just wanted to help him. I wasn’t looking to impress anyone.”

  “Very nice.”

  They continued talking, always with her lingering hope that Mr. Stone would suggest they meet in person, but she lacked the courage to ask when. He’d tell her when he thought it was time and she liked that she could depend on his direction, seeing it was natural for him to lead.

  Pressing for more than he wanted to give would be like asking for flowers. No one wanted flowers they’d asked for. She’d much rather receive such tokens as a true gesture of affection. She only wanted to see him if and when he truly wanted to see her. So when he announced his desire that night, she was slightly shocked and thrilled.

  “I think it’s time we take our relationship to the next level, Ms. Farrow.”

  Immediately breathless, she agreed, “Okay.”

  “I need you to understand a few things first. One, I’m a very private man. Two, this won’t be like any other relationship you’ve had. I intend to give you exactly what you asked for and I plan on doing so on my terms. If you can’t accept that, you need to say so now.”

  Her heart raced. “I respect your need for privacy.”

  “Can you agree to my terms?”

  Shallow breaths filled her lungs. They’d moved ahead so cautiously, yet things also seemed to be moving fast. “You haven’t asked anything too outlandish so far. I guess it depends what your terms are.”

  She swallowed, struggling to calmly wait out his reply.

  “Next Friday I will have a driver come to your home and pick you up. He’ll have instructions for you. At anytime should you feel uncomfortable, you will only need to say the word and you’ll be safely returned home. I prefer to work with objectives, Ms. Farrow, and my objective is to show you what utter adoration feels like. Is that still what you seek?”

  Her voice was a mere rasp, full of longing and curiosity. “Yes.”

  “Very good. I’ve decided we shall form a liaison of sorts, fourteen encounters spread over the course of our association. Never at any point will you be expected to tolerate anything outside of your comfort zone, but I do intend to push your limits, Ms. Farrow, in order for you to experience the full degree of desire. Still, everything will be consensual or it will cease immediately.”
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br />   Her throat went dry. Already, without even having set eyes on this man, she desired him with an unaccustomed fierceness. “Why fourteen?” What happened after that?

  Pausing for a moment, he spoke his answer quietly, again jarring her with his eloquent handling of language. “It takes fourteen days for the moon to wax enough for its beauty to be bared to the human eye. In astrology, fourteen is the number representative of temperance, the established quality of self-control needed to clearly resolve inner turmoil. Fourteen lines are in a sonnet. There’s no one reason I chose fourteen, only that it seemed appropriate and suitable.”

  Everything about him was unexpected, and she wanted to see him with a yearning so potent it went beyond her previous definition of need. Swallowing in an attempt to quell her excitement and nerves, she whispered, “Okay.”

  “Very good. I won’t be calling you over the next few days.” Disappointment immediately flooded her. “If I need to reach you it will be through private message. I want you to take that time to think about where this is going, contemplate your desires, and commit to them. When you come to me I want you to be absolutely sure you’re there of your own free will. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t like the idea of silence between them, but accepted his logic. “Yes.” Her chest was tight with anticipation, which would only intensify as the days went on. The time between now and then would be cumbersome and torturous, every minute ticking by at the pace of a year. How would she survive until Friday?

  Her mind was already made up. She was going to him, no matter what the risk. This was simply something she had to do.

  “And, Ms. Farrow, I expect absolute discretion.”

  She could never explain Mr. Stone to her friends. “I promise.”

  “My rules, but you have the power to say when you’ve had enough.”

  “I understand.”

  “I look forward to seeing you Friday, Scarlet.”

  “Me too.”

  “Goodnight, Ms. Farrow.”

  Her stomach flipped with longing to move forward and the reluctance to say goodbye. She wanted the future to be now, but she’d first have to let go of the present in order to get there. That and shave her legs. “Goodnight, Mr. Stone.”