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This is a mistake.

Chapter Four

The front door closed with a decisive bang and not long after, Adam heard the engine of Paul’s car lurch into life before it rumbled up the driveway and out of earshot. He slumped into the armchair, bereft of all energy. The last few hours had been fraught with tension. Paul had kept out of his way, which was fine as far as Adam was concerned. No sooner had Paul left the library that had become Adam’s refuge, than he’d berated himself for the abominable way he’d treated his new companion. He knew how vicious he’d sounded even as the words dripped off his tongue like poison, but he’d been unable to stop himself.

Not that he’d treated any of Paul’s predecessors any differently. Adam was still amazed that Paul’s last terse words had been to tell him he would be returning in the morning.

I haven’t scared him off, then.
The thought was tinged with relief.

That gave him pause. There’d been no regrets when he’d sent the others packing, only relief that they were leaving. He didn’t want
anyone
around him. Why he should feel differently about
this
one was beyond him.

Except that wasn’t true. He knew
exactly
why Paul had made more of an impact than all the others put together.
They’d
been all too eager to help him, hovering about him. They’d spoken to him with voices cloyed with sympathy and forced brightness, until Adam had wanted to scream at them. Paul had given as good as he’d gotten, but more than that, he’d made an effort. That compilation of speeches had been inspired.

The phone rang, cutting through his reflections, and he concentrated on the mechanical voice issuing from the machine as it translated a text message into speech.

Hi Adam, Caro here. I trust all is going well with Paul. If you need anything, let me know and I’ll be there.

He shuddered. Caroline coming there was the last thing he wanted. If he had to listen
one more time
to her telling him that there were places on the island where he’d be better off, more facilities, more people around him, Adam was going to….

Yeah? What will you do? What
can
you do?

Adam had never felt so utterly… powerless, but what filled every part of him, what permeated every cell, what choked him when he awoke in the middle of the night, was an overwhelming sense of
loss
.

It had taken him losing his sight to realize what a dominant, integrating sense his vision had been. A little more than two months after becoming blind, Adam had no confidence in his remaining senses. He’d believed the stories that blind people had acute senses of hearing and touch, but it just wasn’t true. Gathering information about his environment was difficult, and had led to several falls, bumps and collisions. It was too much to cope with, and instead of practicing using his other senses as his instructors had suggested, Adam had retreated, until his world had shrunk to the size of the library. For a man who had always been in control, always relied on himself, this…
fear
of venturing forth was anathema to him. And as for having to rely on others…

It just wasn’t him, this
frustration
with trying to accomplish the most basic tasks, a constant reminder that he was blind.

The house itself was an issue. It had sounded like a great idea: to move back to the house he’d known as a child, to leave London behind, with its noise and sensory overload, and hide away from the world. But his lack of familiarity with the house created more problems, and only added to his sense of isolation. What made it worse was recalling memories of his grandparents’ home, the spectacular views, and the rich scenery beyond every window. All he had of those days was the sound of the sea, yet if he concentrated, in his mind’s eye he could still see its movement, see the constantly changing color as it reflected that huge expanse of sky.

Adam sat forward and stretched out his right hand to the side of his chair, his fingers coming into contact with the smooth cover of a paperback. He knew it was the top of a pile of books. Adam picked it up and opened it, his fingertips registering the change in texture, the graininess of the paper. It had the feel of an older book, and when he brought it to his nose and inhaled, there was a mustiness that confirmed this. More than anything, Adam missed reading. He knew he could get audiobooks, but it wasn’t the same. He supposed sequestering himself in a room full of books was a form of torture, but the smell was a comfort to him. In his head he pictured his flat in London, with the shelves he’d built, full to bursting with books of all descriptions. Heaven knew where they were now: Caroline had seen to the packing up of his belongings when he’d moved back to the Isle of Wight, and Adam had no idea where all his stuff had gone. Yet another thing to add to his sense of loss, not that having his own things around him would help him. He could no longer appreciate the beauty of the prints he’d collected through the years. The only place they existed for him now was in his head.

And as for his writing….

A large part of his personal identity was tied to his work and his lifestyle. His writing had filled so much of his life, that without it he was left with a yawning void of time, intellectual stimulation and social contact. At first when he’d been staying in the rehab manor house in Torquay, a couple of people had asked him what kind of work he did… yeah, that had had been really uncomfortable. What was worse, however, was later on when the question wasn’t asked at all. That was very telling, and all it did was to confirm to Adam that people didn’t expect a reply.
After all,
he thought bitterly,
what kind of work could a blind guy do?
He wasn’t worried about finances—not yet, at any rate—but he knew he wasn’t about to rely on Caroline’s assistance. He’d rather suffer torture than do
that
.

That last thought brought him a fresh wave of mental anguish. He missed the club. He missed his fellow Doms—not that many of them had stayed in touch beyond the first month or so after he’d informed them of his loss of vision, the bastards. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. That part of his life was over. Whoever had heard of a blind Dom, for fuck’s sake? Seth still called, but Adam had ignored his messages of late. The one thing he was grateful for was that he had no idea what had become of all his BDSM paraphernalia. Heaven knew what Caroline had made of all
that
when she saw to his packing, (not that he cared) but at least he was spared the possibility of coming across his leathers, floggers, whips, shackles and numerous other devices. Now that
would
have been torture. To have been such a physical Dom and have it all taken away was perhaps one of the hardest things he had to face.

I was the one in control!
Only now that control had slipped through his fingers, no longer in reach.

Adam drew his knees up onto the chair and wrapped his arms around them, gently rocking, unable to hold in the sobs that racked his body.
This
was why he didn’t want Caroline, or Paul, or
any
fucking one, to be around him. The person he’d been was dissolving into a puddle of self-pity, and the person he’d become seemed powerless to prevent it.

* * * * * *

Paul lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, arms folded under his head.

So much for getting out from under Dad’s feet.

He’d arrived home, his bags clutched in his hands, and had to explain that things hadn’t gone according to plan. Once he’d gotten his parents to understand that no, he hadn’t just lost his new job, but that he’d be staying with them for the foreseeable future, his dad had relaxed. After dinner, however, Paul had been subjected to the ‘so when do you think you’ll be able to afford a place of your own?’ discussion. Like he had an answer. He’d retorted that maybe this particular topic of conversation could wait until he’d actually been paid.

This was a nightmare.

His phone trilled. Paul answered when he saw Taylor’s name. “Hey.”

“God, you sound cheerful.”

Paul was
so
not in the mood. “Listen,
you’d
sound like me if you’d had the day I’ve had.” He filled Taylor in on the events so far.

“Aw, that’s crap.” Taylor sounded as gloomy as Paul felt. “What are you gonna do?”

“Consider my options. And if it continues, think about quitting.” He wasn’t sure what else he could do.

“Maybe my news might make you feel better.”

“What news?”

“We’re having a party!” Taylor announced cheerily. “Not sure of the exact date—right now we’ve a couple of dates in mind—but I’ll let you know when it’s all sorted. It’s gonna be soon, though. And you
are
coming, okay? In your best gear, no less. There’ll be alcohol, a barbecue, alcohol, music, alcohol, guys… ” He snickered.

In the back of his mind, Paul heard alarm bells. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

The innocent tone didn’t fool Paul for a second. “Uh uh. Out with it.”

“Well, me, Mark, Sam and the gang
might
have lined up a few guys to invite with you in mind.”

Paul groaned. “I wish you’d all stop trying to set me up.”

“We’re not,” Taylor came back swiftly. “We just wanna get you laid.”

He groaned. “My cock’s trembling in anticipation.”

“It’s for your own good!” Taylor responded. Paul caught David’s chuckle in the background. “And hush, you,” he heard Taylor address his husband. “You’re as bad as us, and you know it. That
was
you, inviting that hottie you met down at the Beach Shack, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t listen to him, Paul!” David yelled. “I’m innocent!” Taylor started snickering.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Hanging up now.”

“Wait!” He caught Taylor’s hurried shout. Paul put the phone back to his ear. “Don’t give up on Adam, okay? From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’s really going through it right now. Yeah, I get that he’s a pain in the arse, but think for a minute, Paul. How would you be feeling if you were in his shoes?”

That was a sobering thought. “I really don’t know,” Paul confessed after a moment.

“You read those links I sent, right?”

“Yeah.” The brutal way Adam had addressed him had forced everything Paul had learned from his mind. “You’re right, of course.” Adam didn’t need people running out on him. He needed people he could rely on. Paul sighed. “Guess I’ll be going back tomorrow, then.” Another day of being insulted and ignored to look forward to.

In the words of the song, things could only get better.

He hoped.

* * * * * *

Three days later, and things were certainly no better, but they weren’t worse, either. Paul supposed he should be grateful for that. At least Adam had curbed his acerbic tongue, to the point where there was virtually no communication between them. An uneasy routine had developed. Paul arrived early, did the shopping, prepared meals and drinks, and kept out of Adam’s way. A funk appeared to have descended over the writer: every time Paul saw him, his shoulders were hunched over, and he was almost huddled in his armchair.

In spite of the way Adam had lashed out at him a few days ago, Paul was concerned. After reading the articles supplied by Taylor, he had a fair idea of Adam’s progress through the different stages following loss of vision. He’d judged the writer to be either still in the withdrawal stage, which would fit with him pushing away all those who came into contact with him, or else he’d already begun to succumb to depression. Either way, it wasn’t good.

He walked into the library to collect the bowl from Adam’s lunch. When he saw only half its contents had been eaten, Paul’s stomach clenched. If Adam wasn’t eating, things were definitely getting worse.

Adam was oblivious to him: he’d fallen asleep in the armchair, his head lolling against the back. Paul gazed at him, taking in the drawn, pale face, the drool at the corner of his mouth, the hands clenched even in sleep. It was then that he noticed the blanket tossed onto the floor beside the couch. Blankets—in August? He glanced around, glad of the opportunity to take a good look while Adam wasn’t aware of it. Between the window and the chair, he saw a pile of clothing, folded T-shirts, sweatpants and underwear.

Why in here? Why not in his room?

On a whim, Paul crept out of the library and up the stairs to Adam’s bedroom. The room lay as untouched as it had the day of his interview: dust coated the bedside cabinets and chest of drawers. The adjoining bathroom hadn’t been touched since Paul had cleaned it on Monday. The tiled floor of the shower was bone dry. The hand towel beside the basin was as Paul had left it, the last time he’d washed his hands.

There was a mystery here.

Paul crept downstairs and over to the small cloakroom near the library. He hadn’t used it thus far, assuming it would be primarily for Adam’s use. He peered inside the door.

Mystery solved.

The basin was covered in water and there were smears of soap and toothpaste everywhere. The mirror was covered in water marks. The tiny room was a mess. Paul stood in the doorway, his mind putting all the pieces together.

Adam wasn’t sleeping in his own bed: he was sleeping on the couch, with a blanket for when it got cold.

Adam wasn’t using the bathroom: he was using the barely adequate facilities of the downstairs cloakroom.

Adam was keeping a change of clothing in the library.

Conclusion: Adam hadn’t ventured upstairs since Paul had started working there.

He went back to the clothing. Did Adam keep all his clothes downstairs? Paul had done the laundry on Monday, but when he’d finished with the tumble drier, he’d folded the clothes and placed them in the utility room on top of the drier, meaning to take them up to Adam’s room. The following morning, however, the clothes had gone. He’d assumed Adam had taken them upstairs.

Apparently not.

Paul entered the kitchen and sat down at the table to think things through. He tried to recall information Mrs. Lambton had passed on to him, the day of his interview. Something about Adam spending a month in Torquay, having one-on-one assistance on how to get by with everyday activities: boiling a kettle, doing the laundry, walking with the cane, basic stuff like that. Surely he’d have practiced going up and down stairs? They wouldn’t have sent him home if he hadn’t gotten through rehab, because that was what it sounded like, a form of occupational therapy.