by M. Leighton
Moments tick by, moments long enough to die a thousand deaths within. They’re painful and tense and never-ending.
Finally, the man who caught me begins to straighten, slowly settling me on my feet. For one panicked second, I consider asking him not to let go. His hold on me feels so good. So strong. So…right somehow. It’s been years since I’ve been held this way. So many I’ve lost count. However, I know I will need to move eventually.
Two big hands come to my upper arms to steady me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a low, deep whisper.
My chin trembles embarrassingly, but I manage to nod and attempt a smile.
“Can I help you to the front?”
I nod again, forcing my fingers to relax their hold on him. When they do, he slides his grasp down my arms and entwines the fingers of his right hand with my left, then gently turns me toward what I assume is the front of the room. My spill caused me to lose my orientation in space, and I have no idea which way I’m supposed to go.
I let him guide me until he slows to a stop and nudges me to turn again, presumably to face the attendees. I blink against the brightness of the overhead lights as I look out, unseeing, into the crowd. I’m glad for once that light and dark are the only things I can perceive. It hurts to even imagine the pity in their expressions.
I clear my throat. This will be my first speech. Given to patrons who came to see my work on opening night. My first ever opening night. This is one of the most important nights of my entire life and…the words won’t come out.
After long, strained seconds, some finally do, but they’re nothing like the ones I prepared. At this point, however, I just want to welcome everyone and excuse myself to go shrivel up and blow away in peace.
I swallow once.
Then I swallow again, willing the lump in my throat to go away.
“Thank you all for coming. Everything you’ll find on these walls tonight represents something that inspired me when I could see. These images stuck with me, and now they’re all I can see. I hope you find something here that inspires you as well.” After a short pause, I add, “And be careful. The floors are booby-trapped.”
I hear a few hesitant laughs, so I smile, I nod, and then I turn to the man at my side and say, “Would you mind escorting me to the ladies’ room?”
“No, of course not,” he replies, his words nearly drowned out by a second, louder round of applause.
With one hand at my lower back, the other still holding the tips of my fingers, my rescuer guides me away from the electric buzz of people, away toward the quiet. I can hear the way it sounds as we approach, the silence. It has this empty, flat quality about it that can’t be duplicated. Like it swallows up sound, and that sound is never to be heard from again. And, right now, I crave that emptiness, that swallowing like I crave air and sight.
The instant we step into the back room, the coolness of the dark envelops me. In here, there is no hum of florescent lights, there is no humidity from dozens of other bodies, there is no soft murmuring about what just happened. There is only the echo of my own sigh as it bounces off the walls and returns to me in a whisper.
I reach out until I feel something solid, and I sag against it. I take a deep, steadying breath and exhale slowly.
“You can go now. Thank you very much for your help. I’m sure my friend will bring my cane shortly,” I tell the man who’s been kind enough to assist me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be completely and utterly alone in my mortification.
“I don’t mind staying until you’re ready to go back out there.”
“I won’t need any more help, but I appreciate the offer.”
“It would make me feel better.”
I release another breath, half-cry, half-groan, and let my head fall back against the wall. “Please. Just go. It makes it worse to be treated like a frail blind woman.”
“Am I treating you like a frail blind woman?”
“A little, yes.”
“I didn’t intend to. I don’t see you as frail, but… you are blind.”
“No shit,” I snap.
I regret it immediately.
“Sorry. I…I just…I just hate being treated differently.”
“People who treat you with compassion don’t mean it to be insulting, I’m sure.”
“I know, but I still don’t want to be treated differently. I get so tired of it—the stuttering and stammering. I get so tired of being tiptoed around. For once, just once, I want to be treated like every other woman on the planet.”
There is a short pause before he responds, a response I was far from expecting. “Would it make you feel any better if I hit on you?”
Stunned, I raise my head, and my mouth drops open.
“Out of pity? Seriously?” Now I am insulted. “No. I’m pretty sure that would just send me on a mission to find the necessary materials for making a noose.”
“You know how to make a noose?” he asks incredulously.
“Beside the point,” I growl.
“Right. But what if I meant it? What if I wanted to hit on you? What if I’m intrigued by a woman who knows how to make a noose?”
I sigh.
I give up. I’m too exhausted for this.
“I’d say you should wait until she’s had time to recover her wits and piece her pride back together.”
“Is that going to take a while?”
“Depends on how long you stand here arguing with me.”
“Are we arguing?”
“Apparently.”
“Already?”
“So it would seem.”
“Wow. I’ve never argued with a woman before I’ve kissed her.”
“Your kissing induces arguments? Maybe you should work on that.”
His voice drops to a quiet, sensual rumble. “Is that an offer to help me with my kissing?”
“If I say yes, will it make you go away?”
“Probably.”
“Then yes, it’s an offer to help you with your kissing.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that. Later, of course. After you’ve recovered your wits and pieced your pride back together.”
I feel the corners of my mouth threatening to curl up into a reluctant smile. “Fine, but this is a limited time offer. You have to leave now and let me mourn in solitude or the deal is off.”
I hear him draw closer. His body, which must be big and dense, blots out more of the noise coming from the next room. It narrows the sounds to only the ones we’re creating—the rush of breath between us, the thud of my heart, the shift of his expensive tux on his skin. It makes it seem like we’re more alone than we are.
His voice is a mere vibration that resonates in my chest. “There’s nothing to mourn. All those people are here to meet the brilliant artist behind these beautiful paintings. That hasn’t changed.”
I feel his closeness, too. It leaves me breathless with a strange anticipation. The heat from him radiates toward me, causing chills to break out down my arms and, if I’m being honest, it scrambles what’s left of my brain. That’s why I say the first thing that pops into my head.
“You…you smell like the woods after it rains at night.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Like sweet moss and musk and midnight.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. It’s not a bad thing. It’s…soothing.”
He says nothing for a long while, not until I both feel and hear him step back. “I’ll take soothing. For now. See you out there, Ms. de Champlain.”
I make no move to respond as I listen to the heavy thump of his footsteps get farther and farther away.
CHAPTER 2
LEVI
I’VE NEVER really thought about sight. At least not in terms of being glad I have it. Like the rest of the sighted population, it’s just something I’ve always taken for granted. I shouldn’t, but I do.
Until now.
Tonight, I’m particularly grateful for my vision. Not just
because of what happened to Evian de Champlain as she tried to greet the patrons who’d come to see her work. I am glad I could be the one to save her, though. And not just because I get to see her work, which is stunning. The colors are so vibrant, it seems as though they actually pulse with life. They’re vivid and rich and fascinating, just like the artist.
But tonight, I’m most grateful for my vision because I get to see her. The woman herself. She’s a thousand times more intriguing than her work, and her work is pretty damn intriguing.
Watching her, it’s easy to see that Evian is a woman completely without pretense. Everything about her is untouched. Her china doll skin is flawless, her clear brown eyes are wide and free of makeup, her blonde hair is straight and shiny, and there’s not a drop of guile in her expression. Maybe being blind has sheltered her from the ways of the world. Or maybe her guilelessness is the result of being treated so delicately for so long, like a fragile blind woman as she put it. Or maybe this is just the way she is.
I don’t know, but I find her beautiful in a wholesome, real way.
Beautiful and fascinating.
“It was nice of you to save that poor girl,” Julianne, my date, says from my left. I fight a frown as she pulls my attention away from the artist.
I shrug. “I was closest.”
“I hope she doesn’t develop a crush. That would be pitiful.”
I grit my teeth as I turn to look at her.
Julianne is tall and curvy. Statuesque. Long auburn hair, bright blue eyes, lush lips. Not a hair out of place, makeup probably professionally applied. She’s undeniably gorgeous, yet, right now, undeniably unattractive. I’ve known her for years, known of her…shortcomings, too, but this is the first time I’ve seen her in this light. She’s jealous. I’ve never seen her jealous before. Of anyone or anything. It doesn’t look good on her, but it sure as hell turns her into one royal kind of bitch. “Why would that be pitiful?”
“Oh, come on, Levi. You know what I mean. A woman like her… She could never keep up with a man like you. I’d hate to see a handicapped person get hurt. That’s all.”
This time, I don’t bother to hide the frown that plays across my forehead. She’s pissing me off.
I just hate being treated differently.
This is what Evian meant. This is why she hates being treated differently. It can mean extra care in some cases, care she probably doesn’t want, but it can mean extra degradation in other cases, something I know she doesn’t want. It cuts both ways, and I’d say she learned that a long time ago.
“Need a refill?” I ask Julianne, nodding to her half-full flute of champagne. I don’t wait for an answer. I turn and walk away, toward the bar.
Toward the blind woman who shines brighter than everyone else in the room.
CHAPTER 3
EVIE
“YOU’RE AWFULLY brave,” a familiar voice says from over my right shoulder. Goosebumps skitter down my spine, and my skin ripples with pleasure.
I don’t even try to stop my smile.
“I am?”
“You are.”
“And why is that?”
“Drinking while blind. Ballsy. Aren’t you afraid of falling?”
I laugh outright. “That ship has sailed. Gotta give me a better reason than that. I’ve earned this drink.”
“That you have. Continually throwing yourself at me has to make you thirsty.”
“Yes, you’re quite…depleting,” I quip good-naturedly. I hear his soft blow of laughter. “And what about you? Lugging around that ego has to work up a mighty big thirst. What are you having?”
There’s a long pause followed by a guilty, “Oh. I’m having a gimlet.”
I round my mouth, mocking disbelief. “Did you actually just hold up your glass so I could see it?” I get another pause, a longer one this time, and I laugh again. “You did!”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” His tone is sheepish.
“Are you blushing?”
“I don’t blush.”
“Not ever?”
“Not that I know of.”
“But have you ever insulted a blind woman before?”
“Not today, but as you can see, I’ve just rectified the situation.”
“And still no blush?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
“Very true. Well, at least you met your goals for the day. Now you can rest easy.”
“There’s one goal I haven’t met today.”
“And what would that be? Screaming at a deaf man?”
His chuckle disturbs the air around me, like the flick of a matador’s cape, and wraps me in a velvety blanket. “No. For some reason, I was thinking I’d get to kiss a half-drunk blind woman with an ass I could bounce a quarter off.”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. “Wow. I suppose I should thank Cherelyn for choosing these pants then.”
“Where is she? I’d like to thank her, too.”
“I would point her out, but…you know.”
“Right, right. So, do you always torture men this way?”
“Whenever possible, yes.”
“Good to know. At least I’ll know what to expect.”
“Expect?”
“Yes. When I take you to lunch tomorrow.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t. I have other obligations.”
“‘Other obligations’? That sounds an awful lot like a really bad way to blow me off.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
His voice drops, the tone a little more serious. “Is it?”
He stepped closer. One small step, but I can feel it. I can feel his closeness.
My heart thunders along behind my ribs, a bird rapidly beating its wings within the bars of its gilded cage.
“No, it’s not me blowing you off. I, um, I teach a painting class at the Boyd Center. Art therapy. It’s for disabled children and people suffering from PTSD.”
“So you’re beautiful and kind. I’m seriously gonna have to up my game.”
He thinks I’m beautiful?
“Yes, you will. I’m formidable. Highly skilled in the ways of society, as you can plainly see from my flawless entrance and stunning speech earlier.”
“You’ll never hear me complain that you fell at my feet.”
I smile. “So do you always torture women this way?”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m treating you the way I’d treat any other woman on the planet.”
My breath catches.
I know he’s joking, but his words—my words from earlier—warm my heart. He listened. He paid attention.
He.
Remembered.
Most people don’t find me worth remembering at all, but this man…
For some reason, his casual reference lights up a night sky that only I can see on the often dark and lonely canvas of my mind.
“I hope it wasn’t a man who told you to do that. They give terrible advice about women.”
“God! I hope not, too. I’ll need a few dozen more drinks if that’s the case.”
I think of him being duped by a man dressed as a woman and I giggle at how that conversation might go. “So, does this approach ever work?”
“Depends on the amount of alcohol on board. Which reminds me, can I get you another drink?”
I laugh again, feeling lighter than I have in years. Maybe even thirteen years.
“As tempting as that sounds, I’d probably better make this my last. I’d hate to embarrass myself tonight. Oh, wait…”
“Evie. Can I call you Evie?”
I nod, struck temporarily speechless at the way it sounds when he says my name. His voice has this hoarse, smoky quality to it. It’s both exotic and sexy, like sensuous black silk.
“Evie, you didn’t embarrass yourself. You charmed everyone here. Just like you charmed me.”
In my response, I try to sound breezy and unaffected, even though my stomach is doing happy somersaults. “Oh, well, all in a night’s work.�
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Before he can respond, the bartender interrupts, “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Are you sure you won’t have anything?” the tempting stranger asks.
“No, but thank you.”
“A gimlet and a champagne,” he tells the bartender.
A gimlet and a champagne.
Two drinks.
In that one sentence, my hopes plummet. More than I’d like to admit.
He’s with someone.
I don’t ask him about it, mainly because I don’t want to know. This man’s attentions have been nice.
Very nice.
But they’re obviously a diversion for him, nothing more.
It’s never anything more.
I’m blind. It’s a turn-off. End of story.
It didn’t take me long during college to realize that relationships don’t work for me. Dating a woman with special needs isn’t easy, and most men just aren’t up for the challenge. I’ve come to accept it, and most of the time I’m okay with my lot in life, with the prospect of being alone.
But every now and then, it stings.
Like now.
I don’t want to know who this man is with because I don’t want to have to picture a beautiful sighted woman on his arm. I don’t want to have to picture what he might look like when he smiles down at her. I don’t want to imagine what it sounds like when he says her name in that smoky voice of his.
But, maybe most of all, I don’t want to have to acknowledge that he’s been interacting with me out of pity. Throwing the blind girl a bone.
So I don’t.
I don’t ask. I don’t imagine. I don’t think.
I have to take this for what it was, nothing more and nothing less.
And now it’s over.
“Well, thank you again for your help tonight. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
With that, I do my best to walk away with dignity. Well, as much dignity as a woman walking with a cane at a snail’s pace can muster.
I walk away and leave him behind.
CHAPTER 4
LEVI
I’M ONLY in town for a few days. There are a number of things I should be doing today, and not one of them entailed attending a painting class for kids with disabilities and people with PTSD.