Beautiful Disaster

Chapter 1 Corey Evans stared into the darkness of the hotel room and wondered if he had even opened his eyes. He didn’t remember waking up. Maybe he was still asleep, and this warmth he felt curled against his back was just part of a vivid dream he would forget in the morning. Then shadows resolved themselves on the far wall, dim light slipped between the curtains and illuminated the blank TV screen, and he knew he was awake. And the breath that fanned his neck couldn’t be ignored. He tried to picture her face in his mind and couldn’t. All he saw were the lights from the stage, blinding him during the performance. All he heard was the roar of the crowd, the screams that somehow grew louder every time he opened his mouth or wiggled his hips or flashed his pearly whites in a sincere smile. She had been an anonymous face among a group of anonymous fans, all reaching out to touch him, to hold him, to grab him as if he were Christ and their only savior. She had had the prettiest eyes, a light shade of brown he knew he had seen before but couldn’t place. She had curly hair the color of chestnuts—he remembered that much. And a round ass that screamed to be entered. So he singled her out and let her believe tonight she’d be one of the lucky ones. He had meant to kick her out of bed when he was finished, and he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t. Now she breathed against him, her body uncomfortably warm beside his, and he needed out. He needed to get away. Just a breath of fresh air, he told himself as he tumbled out of the bed. He tugged on his boxers and a T-shirt, and didn’t glance back as he navigated the dark room, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he squinted in the bright light and stumbled toward the floor lounge and the promise of a stiff drink, something harsh that would steel him when he woke her up and told her to leave. Something, anything, to dull the ache inside him at the thought of seeing her tears. God, how many of them cried when he turned them away? He didn’t know, didn’t care anymore. They only wanted him because he was pop sensation Corey Evans, one half of 2ICE, the biggest pop duo on the radio at the moment. Pronounced “twice,” they were number one on the Billboard charts this week with their latest single. And number one in download sales, with two albums that had already gone platinum, to hear their manager tell it. And currently on their second U.S. tour, which had sold out stadiums across the nation. These fan girls didn’t give two shits for who he really was, who he thought he was, who he wanted to be. So f**k them. f**k them all. He’d get drunk and kick her out, and tomorrow it would be another pretty face, and maybe this time he would remember not to fall asleep beside that one. The floor lounge was dark and Corey slipped through the doorway, a shadow among shadows. He opened the small fridge and found it empty. Fuck. It was late—too late. And he was alone, and cold, with nothing to warm him. A large window ran along one wall, and another nameless city stretched away beyond the glass. Where was he again? Had he ever even known? Closing the refrigerator door, he stared out at the city lights that sparkled like stars set in the dark buildings behind the glass, as unmoving as a painting. Without realizing it, he moved closer to the window, arms crossed before his chest to still the small shivers running through his body. The night loomed enormous out there, the city huge; in it, he was nothing more than one tiny soul. One person amid the lights and the darkness and the night. He wanted to lose himself in a bottle right now, curl up in warm alcohol, and forget about everything until the sun shone again. Behind him came a soft cough, and he whirled to find his band mate Ian Coltraine slouched on the loveseat, staring at him with bright eyes that burned like embers in the darkened lounge. In his hand was the bottle of Jack Daniels Corey had been looking for, and from the level of drink left, Corey thought Ian had been nursing it for some time. “You’re blocking my view, sunshine,” Ian said, his deep voice low and more than a little slurred. Corey sighed. “You want to share that?” When Ian held out the bottle, Corey sank to the cushion beside him and took it eagerly. Ian’s hand was hot beneath his, and Corey realized how cold his own fingers were from the brief touch. Then Ian let go, and Corey almost dropped the bottle. “Careful,” Ian said. “That’s all there is.” Corey nodded as he sipped at the warm liquor. It coiled around his tongue and slipped down his throat, blazing a heated path in its wake. When it folded into his stomach like a flannel blanket, he wiped his mouth and handed back the bottle. “How long have you been here?” Ian shrugged and took another swallow. “Long enough to wish I wasn’t.” Corey watched his friend’s throat as he drank, and suddenly the cold fell away from him, leaving him hot and sweaty as he noticed for the first time just how close Ian sat. Mere inches away. Heat radiated from him like a small fire. How can he be so warm? Here in the dark and the cold and the night, here alone. What keeps him burning here? One strong hand rested on a denim-clad leg, the fingers curled slightly, and Corey wanted to take that hand in his own, feel those fingers in his. Just to see if Ian was really beside him, here in this hotel room. Just to make sure Corey wasn’t the only one alive tonight, awake in the darkness. But as he reached for Ian’s hand, his friend asked, “What’s her name?” Corey’s hand froze in mid-air. “I don’t remember.” He frowned at Ian’s hand, so close yet so far away, out of reach. He sighed and, lowering his hand to his own bare knee, bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. “Jesus, Ian, I don’t even know if I asked her.” Ian barked a short, humorless laugh. “She gone?” “No.” Corey rubbed at his eyes. “Can I have another drink? Please?” Ian’s face was an unreadable mask. His eyes burned like twin flames of light; Corey suddenly felt sad and alone and afraid. Of what? he wondered, but he took a deep, hitching breath and tried to concentrate on the bottle in Ian’s hand and not the intensity of his friend’s stare. He didn’t want to know what Ian might be thinking about him right now. He didn’t want to care. At length Ian asked, “You think you might keep this one?” “No,” Corey whispered. He blinked back the sting in his eyes and shook his head for emphasis. “No, Ian. The bottle? Please?” With a resigned sigh, Ian handed him the whiskey and watched as he gulped down a mouthful of the liquid fire. Corey let the liquor bite his throat and wash away the horrible taste in his mouth, the tumult of images in his mind. When he handed the bottle back to Ian, his friend asked, “Are you going to be okay?” “Maybe.” Corey doubted it. Right now there wasn’t enough alcohol left in that small bottle to give him the courage he needed to go back to his room. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he rested his feet on the edge of the couch and curled into himself. He’d stay here. Right now he just wanted to snuggle into the warmth of the couch and the alcohol and forget everything else but the city shining beyond the window. He started to lie down when Ian said, “You aren’t staying here.” “Why not?” Corey didn’t need Ian to tell him what to do. He could stay here if he wanted. He could lose himself in the night and the lights and the stars if he wanted. “You don’t want to go back?” Ian asked. Corey shook his head. “I can’t. I just…I can’t.” Ian sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Swaying a little, he held his hand out to Corey and frowned down at him. With wide eyes Corey looked up at his friend, at the offered hand. “Come on,” Ian said, his deep voice gruff with drink. When Corey didn’t move, Ian motioned for him to get up. “Come on,” he said again. “You aren’t staying here.” Cautiously, Corey let his hand slip into Ian’s. The fingers were warm in his; they were real. And soft, softer than he had imagined they would be. “Where…?” Ian hauled him off the loveseat and stumbled back. “You can sleep in my room.” Corey tried to pull his hand out of the hot grip but found he couldn’t. He didn’t know if it were because Ian wouldn’t let go, or if his own fingers refused to uncurl. “Don’t worry,” Ian slurred. “I don’t bite.” Corey laughed. “You promise?” Ian finished off the rest of the whiskey and dropped the bottle into a nearby trashcan. The barest hint of a smile curved his lips, and Corey felt flushed and hot again because he had been the one to put it there.