Render

Render 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 f**k 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 f*****g 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.