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.”<
br />
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 others’ 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.
He understood the statistics of breast cancer, knew what the chances of survival were, but he’d never once considered that losing his mom might very well kill his dad. It had been a very difficult year and Asher wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He’d selfishly begun to make arrangements, plans to escape—the only way he could assure the pain and pressure would end.
Seeing his father break was the wakeup call he needed. They were in this together. Family. That week, he went to his computer and opened up his history—so many searches revolving around methods of suicide. He deleted everything, knowing his father needed him there. Finishing school might kill him, but he’d somehow survive it. He had to, because there was no room for any more sadness in their home.
Leaning forward in bed, he scrubbed his palms over his face and reached for his glasses. What had he been thinking, reopening all these doors to his painful past? She’d worn the blindfold, but he was the unseeing idiot. How foolish to think he’d grown enough to face down those demons. Thirty years old and still just a scared little boy pretending he possessed the constitution of a man.
I can’t do this.
The thought jarred him, chilled him, and propelled him into action. So frightened if the pressure continued that he’d back out and lose her forever—something he didn’t want to happen—he reached for his phone and sent her a text. He needed to know she was still there, still with him.
Are you there?
Her response came in less than a minute.
I’m here. Just getting ready to walk out the door to work. How was your night?
He exhaled and shut his eyes, drawing immense comfort from her emotional presence. He wasn’t used to depending on other’s reassurance.
If I asked you to come to me—right now—would you?
Send. Her response was immediate.
Yes.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Then his phone vibrated again.
Is something wrong?
Mr. Stone? Did something happen? Do you need me to call out of work?
Falling back into bed, he sighed and held the phone to his chest. Realizing he was likely scaring her, he typed a response.
Everything’s fine. I just wanted to wish you a good day at work. I look forward to seeing you soon.
His phone chirped a moment later.
Soon can’t come fast enough. xo
Her reply left him with a renewed sense of competence. Six encounters left. After tonight it would be five, he could survive that. He just had to keep her interested and wanting him.
When he and Steve finished his morning workout, he picked the other man’s brain. “What do you think women want?”
“In general, or are you referring to Ms. Farrow?”
“Both.”
Steve wiped down the machines as he deliberated. “Flowers, but you already did that. Some like to cuddle, others like chocolate and teddy bears. Once I dated a girl and had her car detailed. She blew my doors off that night. Never expected a chick to be so grateful about a little Armor All and wax.”
Scarlet had a car. “What kind of car does Ms. Farrow drive?” Steve had picked her up enough to know.
“It’s a little blue thing. Maybe a Dodge or a Chevy, I’m not sure. Why, you gonna fix it up for her?”
He didn’t know the first thing about cars, but he could pay someone to do it. He quickly located his phone and sent her a text.
Hope your first class went well, Ms. Farrow. On your next break, please leave your car unlocked and the keys under the mat. Don’t worry. I’ll have it back by four. Have a pleasant day.
This would be a test of trust. Asher was well aware of Scarlet’s salary, not that it was a deciding factor in anything. He knew where she worked and salaries in the public school system were communal knowledge. If her modest income didn’t often lead her to spas and hotels, the chances of her car getting a little TLC were unlikely as well.
“Is it a new car?” he asked Steve.
“Nah, probably about ten years old.”
His phone chimed and he grinned. So easy, but always a refreshing surprise to hear back from her.
“She’s going to leave the key under the mat on the driver’s side. I want you to take the Mercedes, park it out of sight, and pick up her car.”
“Where should I take it? Do you have a garage in mind?”
He thought for a moment. They had Gus, the guy who worked on KITT and the ambulance, but he worked slowly. Asher still had to make the arrangements for that evening and make an appearance at work, but the temptation of peeking into her space was too much. “Pick me up once you have the car and we’ll take it to a dealership. They’ll likely have everything we need in stock.”
****
Steve drove the small blue car that turned out to be a Ford, as Asher busied himself snooping through compartments. She was very organized. Her inspection was up to date and her registration and proof of insurance were neatly clipped together in the glove compartment.
In the backseat he found an umbrella and a travel trash bag holding only a receipt for produce. Disappointed there weren’t more telling hints of her hiding in the car, he gave up his search.
When they pulled into the garage at the dealership, an attendant wearing an expected jumpsuit stained at the cuff with grease greeted them. Steve handed over the keys as Asher selected from the menu of services. He gave his credit card to the attendant. When everything was finished, Steve would return the car to the school, key inside.
****
Scarlet was on cloud nine. Once again, Mr. Stone had done something no one had ever come close to doing for her before. When she’d left the key
s that morning, only curiosity had her heart racing. There was no worry regarding his care of her property, as Mr. Stone seemed to define responsible.
Never had she expected returning to the parking lot to find what he’d left. Her little blue Ford sparkled in the sunlight. There were no traces of the dent from a runaway shopping cart and all those tiny scratches by her bumper and door were gone.
Four new gleaming tires rested under the frame and the windshield glistened. She expected the surprises to stop there, but, of course, they didn’t. In the dash was a new stereo with an updated auxiliary hookup complete with a tiny red iPod all ready to go. She giggled. He. Was. Amazing.
The scent of polished leather jarred her. He’d had her seats replaced with luxury ones, boasting electronic controls and the much-coveted heated settings she’d always longed for. How would he know she’d always wanted such things?
He couldn’t know. The gift was so extravagant it left her breathless and slightly intimidated. She’d already surmised Mr. Stone had money, but to throw it away on her and her old car… how limitless were his funds? Some women might find that attractive. But for her it was slightly frightening. How would she ever measure up or compete with such openhandedness?
Who was this man and why had he chosen her, of all people? When she located her keys she spotted more additions. Her Ford had an automatic start control now, which would be lovely when winter really took its toll. But, oddly, the most touching gift of all, was the small keychain dangling from the ring.
It was a beautiful silver sword with a garnet stone embedded in the hilt. She turned the jewel, admiring the way the sunlight gathered in the crests, forming reflections of scarlet deep in the stone. Why had he chosen this?
Of course, the sword reminded her of him and his silly profile picture. Was he the sword in the stone? Somehow locked in place, while she was the scarlet light? There was a reason she taught math instead of literature. She sucked at symbolism. Still, this was better than anything he’d ever given her because she could hold it every day, like a secret her heart would always protect.
BLIND: A Mastermind Novel Page 24
