Beautiful Disaster

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The first thought that crossed Ian’s mind when he became aware that he was awake was, Please tell me I didn’t let him spend the night. Last night was a blur to him—the show, the screaming fans, the bright lights, the girl who had caught Corey’s eye and latched onto him like she would never let go…Ian had seen the triumphant look on her face when Corey led her to their limo.

Once back at the hotel, Ian tried to drown that “I got what I wanted” look in the bottle of Jack he kept in the fridge for that sole purpose. To wash away the sticky residue that always clung to him after a performance, when he had to run through the gauntlet of hands reaching for him, eyes begging to be noticed, hair and nails and girls he didn’t need, didn’t want to see. He always kept his gaze straight ahead on Corey’s back, and no matter how much it hurt, he could never look away when Corey picked his queen for the night. Always beautiful, always young. Always so blatantly female, big t**s and big ass.

Always something Ian could never hope to be.

So he chased the blues with the whiskey and hoped to make it through another lonely night. Only something had happened, hadn’t it? Something he’d dreamed about and ached for but had never managed to put into coherent thought until he’d heard the fridge open and knew he wasn’t alone in the lounge anymore. When Corey stepped into view, arms wrapped around himself, Ian waited for the alcohol to settle and his blood to stop racing before he said anything. Because what if it were just some whiskey dream, crawled from the bottom of the bottle? What if Corey weren’t really there, and when Ian spoke, this ghost of his friend would disperse like the dry ice they used on stage? If it had only been smoke and mirrors, if there had been no reply, Ian didn’t think he could’ve made it through the rest of the night.

But it had been Corey. And it hurt to see the confusion in his eyes, the longing for something he couldn’t put into words. So Ian asked about that girl because he wanted to see just how bad his friend had wanted her. And were you happy with what you got? He doesn’t even remember her name. Does that satisfy you?

In some way, yes, it did. Because Corey knew Ian’s name. He remembered it. And the fact he couldn’t be bothered to remember hers made all the difference to Ian. That was why he had offered Corey a place to stay.

Now, in the pre-dawn light of morning, Ian wondered if Corey had really taken him up on the offer.

Catching his breath, Ian listened, his eyes still closed. There it was, a slow, steady breathing somewhere beside him. So that wasn’t just something he drank up last night. Corey was here, in his bed, next to him. Ian opened his eyes and turned to look at his friend.

Corey’s face was half hidden by the comforter. Ian could see strands of dirty-blond hair peeking from the sheets. The porcelain forehead smoothed and even in sleep. Those straight eyebrows above closed eyes Ian knew from memory looked like the depths of the sea. Long eyelashes, curled and thick like a girl’s, throwing small shadows on pale cheeks. And a hint of those ruddy lips, cast in shadow by the drawn sheets.

Fuck you, Corey. The thought came unbidden, and Ian couldn’t stifle it. Tell me how it is you can be so damn beautiful and not even know it.

“Corey,” he whispered, nudging his friend beneath the blankets. He tried not to imagine where his hand was right now on Corey’s body, because everything was soft and warm and it infuriated him. Anger crept into his voice. “Corey. Get up.”

Corey groaned and clutched the blankets tighter. “Gimme a few more minutes.”

Ian rolled out of bed. As he stood, a wave of nausea washed over him and he pressed one palm against his temple, willing away his hangover headache. He wondered if Corey knew where he was, who he was with, this early in the morning. Did he even recognize the sound of Ian’s voice?

Ian didn’t think so. He clicked off the alarm clock before it could change to 6:00 and shatter the stillness. “Get up, Corey.”

“Ian, please,” Corey sighed, curling deeper into the blankets. “Ten minutes. That’s it.”

“Ian, please…”

The words rang in Ian’s mind, bringing a smile to his lips. So Corey knew who he was. He didn’t think he was still in his own bed, where that girl was waking now and wondering what had happened to her golden idol. “Ten minutes,” Ian conceded.

As he walked around the bed, heading for the bathroom, he smacked at where he imagined Corey’s butt would be beneath the covers. The way Corey scooted into the center of the bed gave him some small satisfaction.

In the bathroom, Ian turned on the glaring lights and frowned at himself in the mirror. Beneath a shock of dark chestnut curls, his light brown eyes were red this morning, puffy and bloodshot. He rubbed at them, then stretched, his undershirt pulling up to expose a sliver of pale skin. “f**k you,” he growled at the mirror, sticking his tongue out at himself. It was white and coated with a bitter taste, and Ian squirted a healthy helping of toothpaste onto it, hoping to brush away the alcohol and sour remnants of last night. As he rolled the paste around in his mouth, he stripped off his boxers and undershirt and leaned his naked butt against the cold ceramic counter.

Sticking his toothbrush into his mouth, he ran the water in the shower. He waited for the hot water to kick in as he brushed his teeth, watching the shower curtain dance beneath the hail of water that hit it. When a healthy steam rose over the top of the curtain, Ian stepped into the shower, the water hot and invigorating as it pelted his body. He let it wash away the sticky sweat from last night’s performance, the caustic stench of alcohol that clung to his body, the memory of lying so close to Corey in the bed with a small no-man’s-land between them as wide and lonely as the Grand Canyon. Turning his face up into the hard spray, he spit out the toothpaste and pretended the hot tears squeezed from his eyes were just water from the shower.

When the water became laced with ribbons of ice, Ian turned off the faucet and climbed out of the stall. He wiped his face and dried his hair, his ungentle touch leaving the curls sticking up from his head in dark corkscrews. He rubbed down his body, soaking up the water beaded on his skin like sweat. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he wiped away the steam from the mirror and looked again at his red-rimmed eyes. It was the shampoo that got into them, he told himself, making them look as if he’d been crying. That’s all it was. Shampoo and the alcohol and the fact that he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

He clicked off the light and the throbbing in his head subsided. Cool air curled around his legs as he stepped into the room, where Corey still hid beneath the blankets and stared at Ian with wide eyes. “Get up,” Ian murmured.

“I’m up.” Corey had the blankets pulled to his chin, and he watched Ian bend to retrieve a change of clothes from the bag on the floor. “Ian?”

“What?” Ian walked over near the window, out of Corey’s line of vision, and let the towel fall from his waist. He kept his back to his friend as he stepped into a clean pair of underwear. Tugging the briefs up over his butt, he frowned. “What, Corey?”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Corey’s gaze in the mirror above the dresser, watching him openly. Ian felt his cheeks flush, and he pulled on his jeans quickly, covering his naked legs. Once they were zipped over the bulge at his crotch, Corey asked, “Can I use your shower?”

“You have to go back to your own room.” Ian pulled on a T-shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.

“I don’t want to,” Corey said.

“Corey, don’t do that,” Ian warned. Turning, he frowned at Corey as he put on his deodorant.

“Don’t do what?” Corey sat up, the blankets falling from his chest to pool at his waist. With his disheveled hair and wide eyes, he looked much younger than his twenty years.

Sometimes it was hard for Ian to remember they were only a few months apart; how could Corey seem so boyish and innocent when Ian knew what went on in his room after their shows?

“Don’t pout.” Ian began gathering his stuff, shoving bottles and clothes into his duffel bags. “What are you going to do, take a shower here and put on the same thing you wore to bed? How smart is that?”

“I don’t want to go back,” Corey said, his voice low. Without looking up, Ian knew he was pouting again. He could hear it in Corey’s voice.

“You have to.” Ian tugged at the zipper on his bag. A sweater peeked through the opening, catching on the zipper, and Ian shoved it down, pulling the zipper until it closed.

Corey sighed. “Will you come with me?”

“Corey…” His friend looked at him with those bright, trembling eyes and Ian was lost. How could he hope to say no?

“f**k. Get the hell out of my bed. Come on.” When Corey didn’t move, Ian slapped his leg beneath the comforter. “Come on, Corey,” he said, perturbed.

Then he led the way to the door, Corey hurrying to catch up with him.