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By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
This story is included in the print book Flashed! by J.M. Snyder.
Visit http://www.jmsnyder.net for more information.
Copyright 2010 J.M. Snyder
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
Cover Photo Credit: Inga Marchuk
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: The characters in this short story appear in my novella, Beautiful Disaster. To read more about Corey Evans, Ian Coltraine, and their band 2ICE, visit my website at http://jmsnyder.net/books/beautiful/bdisaster.html.
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By J.M. Snyder
The medical gauze was hot and itchy, and Corey Evans kept picking at it, pulling long threads from the sides where it rested above his ears. The gauze covered the bandage hiding his eyes and encircled his head, forcing his short, dirty-blond hair into spikes. He felt so damn invalid, and he promised himself he wouldn’t cry, not again, not now. When he cried, the bandage got wet and his eyes stung, and fuck if he was going to ask the band’s manager Dean Summers to come in and change the wrappings for him again.
Dean said he didn’t mind, but Corey didn’t want to deal with him right now. The wisecracks, the jokes, as if this was funny somehow. And he wasn’t about to ask Dean’s wife Kate, either—she was worse, with her sympathy and concern. She cooed over him like a mother hen and insisted on taking his hand whenever he stepped out of his hotel room, no matter how often he shook her off and said he could find his way using the wall. He had bodyguards who were paid big bucks to stand less than a foot in front of him, and if the fans saw him leaning on Butch’s broad back, they’d think nothing of it, but if the paparazzi caught a shot of him and Kate? God, how would Corey get anyone to share his bed after that?
It had been a stupid accident, nothing more. How many times had they practiced the routine? Hundreds, millions even. And it was harmless, completely safe, the lights and the lasers and the flames. The fans loved it. It made 2ICE’s sexy stage presence so much more than it already was, suspending everyone’s belief for the hour or so performance, and it rocked. They had never had a problem before, never.
Until three nights ago when something happened, something went wrong. During their final number one of the lasers slipped half a degree at the exact moment Corey looked up. Suddenly the world had burned out around him like a supernova. It didn’t hurt so much at first—just a blinding and the world blinked away in a flash of white light that made his teeth ache. He still didn’t know how he finished the song—his feet just kept moving, his mouth kept singing, but his band mate Ian Coltraine knew something was wrong and the moment the music stopped, he was at Corey’s side.
Ian. If it hadn’t been for him, Corey would have never made it off the stage.
With Ian’s strong hands on his back and arm, Corey found himself bowing, blinded by the laser, deafened by the crowd. Ian’s touch had never disappeared as Corey was led backstage. The first thing he’d heard as his mic was ripped away was his oldest friend calling for a medic. Dean rushed over, but Ian shielded Corey from their manager, blocking him from view. “Where’s a goddamn doctor?” Ian wanted to know, elbowing Dean aside. “He can’t fucking see.”
Three days was an eternity without sight. Corey hated the fact he couldn’t see, couldn’t read, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t dance, couldn’t do anything but sit in his hotel room in the dark and pout. If it was dark. He didn’t know. He assumed it was because his eyes were closed, and with the bandage over them, there was no ambient light seeping through his eyelids to give him any reference to his surroundings. What time it was, whether the light was on or off. He told himself he didn’t care.
* * * *
The doctor said it was just a bruised retina. She said the stars he saw behind his eyelids would fade, and they did. Today he hadn’t seen so much as a sparkle, and he was beginning to wonder which was worse—the flashing lights that had hounded him like overeager fans in the beginning or the current darkness that plagued him. He didn’t like the dark. It made him think he might never see anything else ever again.
He had to keep the bandage on—for a week at least, the doctor said. He had drops he hated because he couldn’t see to put them in, and he felt so damn helpless and weak when he asked someone else to do it for him.
Meaning Ian.
Somehow or other, Ian always seemed to get stuck with the chore. The bodyguards were out of the question—big, hulking brutes who’d probably crush Corey or stab him in the eye if they tried to be gentle. For all her mothering, Kate always found something better to do, and Dean had told him straight up he wasn’t about to lean over Corey to put them in. It turned his stomach, Dean said, which made Corey wonder just how bad the scars were. Lasers burned, right? They bruised his retina. What had they done to his face?
Sadly, he’d already forgotten who he used to see looking back at him from the mirror. Now when he thought of himself, all he saw in his mind were still photos, poses from magazines or slices of videos, but that wasn’t him. He didn’t remember what the real Corey looked like anymore.
Even the faces of his friends were fading, the edges of their features eroding away like sand eaten by the tide—their voices were bright streaks that barely matched the fuzzy images in his mind. Ian told him Dean had shaved his goatee, and Corey wondered what that looked like. With the concert on hold until Corey recovered, Kate had cut her hair into a pixie cut, and though she’d let Corey run his fingers through it, he couldn’t picture it. And Ian said he’d pierced his ear, though Corey thought his friend might be joking, because every time Corey tried to feel the stud, Ian twisted away. “You know what earrings feel like,” he’d said, the hint of a grin in his whiskey-tough voice. “It’s just a little diamond stud like yours.”
“You’re lying,” Corey said. “Let me see.”
Ian reminded him, “You can’t see. That’s just it. You have to believe me.”
“You’re just teasing me.” Despite the bandage covering his eyes, Corey closed them tight and frowned as hard as he could, hoping his sorrowful appearance would melt his friend’s heart. “If you did it, let me feel and see.”
Leaning down close beside him, Ian purred into Corey’s ear, “Are you asking to feel me up?”
Corey’s cheeks burned at the suggestive tone of his friend’s voice. “Shut up,” he muttered, punching Ian in the knee. Unable to see, he misjudged and struck a little too high, dangerously close to Ian’s crotch. His hand burned the rest of the evening, matching the ringing in his ear where Ian had breathed into him. Damn him.
When Ian wasn’t a glass or two into his whiskey and played nice, he tried to explain to Corey all he was missing out on, but Corey still felt left out and alone and afraid. Alone because he wasn’t a part of it, not right now, and afraid because what if he never was, ever again?
* * * *
At the soft knock on the door to his room, Corey sighed. He couldn’t even navigate the unfamiliar hotel room to answer it. “Come in,” he called—the door was unlocked. He heard the knob turn, heard the squeak of hinges that needed to be oiled, then quiet footsteps entered the room. Even though he hated asking, he had to. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Ian said. The door closed softly beneath the sound of his voice. Corey heard the faint swish of shoes over carpet, then a gentle hand touched his arm. “How are you doing?”
“How the hell do you think I’m doing?” Corey replied, his voice childish. It was petty, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the pout on his lips or the petulance in his voice. “I can’t see, Ian, remember?”
With a rustle of denim, Ian sat down beside him on the couch. Corey could feel his closeness like a shotgun, his hand warm on Corey’s arm. “I know.” There was no pity there, not in that deep voice.
Corey felt tears prick his eyes and he willed them away.
“But it’s not going to last forever,” Ian reminded him. Corey felt strong fingers slip down his arm to his wrist before they traced tiny patterns into the back of his hand. “A week, at the most. The doctor said it’ll just be about a week or so. That’s all.”
Corey knew that. A week and he’d see again. He didn’t think he could live that long, though, in this darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. He tried to picture Ian’s face, the concern written there for him, the ruddy cheeks, the flushed lips, those light brown eyes, but the image wouldn’t come—it was gone. Even the sepia toned memories were foggy, everything dissolved like watercolors running in the rain. “I’ve forgotten what you look like,” Corey whispered suddenly. He felt Ian’s fingers entwine with his and he squeezed them tightly. “Jesus, Ian, I don’t remember…”
“Shh,” Ian admonished, his voice barely a whisper between them. He raised Corey’s hand to his face and rubbed the back of his friend’s hand along his cheek. “Don’t think about it too hard, Corey. Don’t force it to come.”
“But what if I don’t ever remember?” Corey asked. The thought terrified him. What if he never remembered what Ian looked like? Or any of his friends—what if they were erased completely like chalk on the blackboard of his mind?
“You will.” The confidence in Ian’s voice bolstered Corey’s own courage. “And hell, if you don’t, it’ll only be for a week, you know?”
He laughed lightly, and Corey smiled in spite of himself. Ian’s skin was slightly rough against his hand, the bristles of an unshaved chin brushing against his knuckles, and then a damp caress…a kiss? Corey didn’t know, but it felt like Ian’s lips, just the tiniest of touches, before it was gone. And Corey’s skin tingled, wanting more.
“It’s time for your drops,” Ian said, releasing Corey’s hand. His fingers began to unwind the gauze. “You’ve been picking at this again.”
“Yeah.” Corey leaned forward as Ian unraveled the bandage. He waited until Ian pried the pads from his eyes before asking, “Is it bad?”
“Horrid.” When Corey frowned, Ian laughed. “I’m kidding. You look fine, Corey.”
“Really?” Corey kept his eyes closed, waiting for Ian to tell him it would be okay to open them. He wouldn’t be able to see, but he didn’t want to make his eyes worse.
Ian laughed again. “Really, Corey. You look…”
His voice trailed off, and Corey waited, long moments where the only sounds were their breaths and the far away traffic beyond the hotel and the clatter of something dropped down the hall. Corey felt gentle hands on his brow, smoothing down his hair, and then tender lips touched his—tentative, unsure, but strong, impossibly soft.
A kiss this time, definitely a kiss. Corey melted back into the couch, hands reaching blindly to caress Ian’s chest and shoulders and neck. He pulled his friend down to him, opening his mouth as Ian’s tongue licked inside. Gently, Ian touched Corey’s face. “You look beautiful,” Ian murmured, kissing Corey’s cheeks, damp with tears Corey didn’t know he had cried.
Then those velvet lips kissed his eyelids, barely touching the wounded flesh, and Corey sighed shakily. Suddenly he saw again, saw Ian’s eyes behind his, chocolate and endless, staring back at him, seeing him.
“I remember what you look like, Ian,” Corey whispered. Ian kissed him again. “I won’t forget again, I promise.”
THE END
ABOUT J.M. SNYDER
A multi-published author of gay erotic/romantic fiction, J.M. Snyder began writing boyband slash before turning to self-publishing. She has worked with several different e-publishers, including Amber Allure Press, Aspen Mountain Press, eXcessica Publishing, and Torquere Press, and has short stories published in anthologies by Alyson Books, Aspen Mountain Press, Cleis Press, eXcessica Publishing, Lethe Press, and Ravenous Romance. For more information, including excerpts, free stories, and monthly contests, please visit http://www.jmsnyder.net.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. We are an invitation-only small press. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at http://www.jms-books.com for more information on our latest releases!