The ones who stuck around after that? Some of them might have been the non-ableist unicorn who wanted to love me for who I was, but most of the time, they were just dudes curious about what it would be like to fuck a blind guy.
And I was so over being someone’s experiment. That way always led to pain. And to creeps who didn’t know when to quit or how to take no as an answer.
Turning my head, I waited.
And waited.
After a beat, I reached out, but the air in front of me was empty.
“Don’t make that face,” someone else behind mesaid, voice barely audible above the music. “He wasn’t worth it. And he was ugly.”
I turned my head again and leaned in closer to hear better. “You think that matters to me?”
“I don’t know what matters to you.” The guy’s voice was raspy. I couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or not, but he was still there, so…I guess that meant something. “Why don’t you tell me?”
I had no idea what to say. Generally, I preferred to avoid conversations like this with strangers. Or conversations with strangers at all. But I was out, and I was a little bit tipsy and tired of being stuck at the bar.
“Areyouugly?”
He burst into laughter, and I could smell his cologne, which was oddly familiar, feeling a strange trepidation crawling up my spine as he swayed into my space. “No. Want to dance?”
No. But in spite of my reservations, I answered, “Yes.”
Then I stuck out my hand, and he slid his into mine.
His fingers were rough and calloused, and his knuckles were bony. He clearly had no idea what he was doing, too, because he tugged me off the barstool and into a crowd of people. I knocked left and right into writhing bodies, and a few people swore at me, but eventually, we were in some kind of open space, and he put his hands on my hips.
“Are you a good dancer?” I asked, pitching my voice louder.
“No. But everyone’s drunk, so who cares.”
I wasn’t drunk. But I also wasn’t a good dancer. I’d never bothered to learn. I’d always moved the way the music told me to move, and I got mocked for it a lot when I was out in sighted spaces, so it was easier to stick to the bar to avoid the bullshit.
I kept one hand on his shoulder while his gripped me around the hips, and it was…it wasn’t nice, but for a minute, I wasn’t thinking about all the things that had been overwhelming me lately.
Which were too fucking many things.
Things causing my anxiety to ratchet up, being in an unfamiliar place like this. Things happening I couldn’t talk to my brothers or my friends about. Things that were eating me up inside that had no outlet.
“You’re in my spot,” came another voice. Over the music, I could barely hear him, but I could recognize his voice enough that my blood started to run cold.
It was a person I’d been running from. A person who had been chasing me for over a goddamn year now.
The voice belonged to the guy who’d once pinned me down and laughed in my face when I couldn’t perform the way he expected. A voice that, when I told him to get fucked, started making my life a living hell.
“Who the fuck are you?” my anonymous, rough-handed, skinny-fingered dance partner demanded.
“His boyfriend.”
“Oh shit,” the guy said.
“No, he’s fucking not—” I started, but there was no point. The safe guy was gone, and in his place was the last man in the world I wanted to be in my space. Hunter’s own, much softer fingers grazed a touch down the side of my neck.
I felt instantly sick and tried to pull away, but I realized my mistake immediately. I had no idea where I was, no idea which way I was facing. My drink, cane, and phone were at the bar.
Fuck, I was such a moron. I never let go of those things in public. Never.
But I was buzzing and tired, and a possibly cute guy wanted to dance with me. This was why I never let my guard down. I was now lost at sea, and my only buoy was the man who’d spent the last several months stalking me.
