Part I: Breathe Again
Chapter 1
Golden rays of sunlight streamed
through the sheer, billowing curtains, chasing away the shadows and filling the
room with the light of dawn. In a large
bed in the center of the spacious, sunlit room, a man stirred. He rolled over and sat up slowly, pushing a
fluffy, white down comforter off of him to expose his tanned, bare chest. His head turned to look down at the woman
lying beside him, still fast asleep, the covers pulled up to her neck. He smiled slightly and lowered himself back
down. Propping himself up on one elbow,
he turned to face her. He reached out to
her, lightly running his finger over her face, making a trail down her
porcelain cheek, tracing her plump, perfect lips.
At his touch, her eyelids fluttered,
and she awoke, those perfect lips curving into a perfect smile at the sight of
him.
“Good morning,” he whispered, his
voice low and sultry, and leaned down to kiss her. Her arms rose to encircle his neck, and a
moment later, the covers were swept aside, and he was on top of her. “You know what the best thing about morning
is?” he asked, as he dotted her neck with kisses.
“What?” she moaned beneath him.
He lifted his head to meet her
eyes. “Waking up next to you,” he
answered, and before she could respond, leaned in closer and caught her mouth
in a passionate kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered, as his
lips left hers.
“I love you too…”
“What is this crap?”
The sound of her voice woke him up, or
maybe it was the lawnmower. Whichever it
was, it was enough to draw Nick Carter out of sleep. He awoke with a moan and blinked a few times
as he looked around. He groaned when he
found himself curled up in one corner of the couch. Claire was sitting up at the other end,
throwing disdainful looks at the TV, which was turned on and probably had been
all night.
“What crap?” he muttered, grimacing at
how croaky his voice sounded. He cleared
his throat a couple times as she pointed to the TV.
“This
crap,” she replied, making a face.
“What is it?” Nick asked, as he
watched a happy, perfect-looking young couple roll around beneath a fluffy
comforter in a big bed, their skin glowing bronze and their hair shining in the
morning sunlight that filled the room.
“I dunno, some lame movie. It was on when I woke up.”
He wondered how long she’d been
awake. Apparently not long, he decided
when he took a closer look at her, trying to hide his smile. She was a sight to see; that was for sure. Lost in one of his old hooded sweatshirts,
her light red hair in tangles, her blue eyes still bleary with sleep…
Not that he probably looked any
better. He ran a hand through his
cropped blonde hair and rubbed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was met with the sight of a cluttered coffee
table, hardy visible beneath the grease-stained pizza box, half-empty bags of
chips, beer cans, and various dishes that had been haphazardly set down on
it. He groaned again at the sight of the
mess. Oh well. He’d take care of it later.
The loud buzz of the lawnmower next
door met his ears again, and he scowled.
“Who mows their lawn this early on a Saturday morning?” he ranted in
annoyance.
“Friday,” Claire corrected, “and it’s
not morning anymore. It’s noon.”
“Huh?”
Instantly, his head turned toward the clock on his wall. The stiff muscles in his neck protested the
movement, making him wince. Bad idea,
falling asleep on the couch. Massaging
the crick in his neck, he checked the time and saw that it was indeed just a
couple minutes past noon. What a
waste. They’d wasted the night away,
watching movies and eating junk food, gotten rather wasted themselves, and then
passed out on the couch and wasted the morning sleeping.
But Nick didn’t really care. A night of eating, drinking, and watching
movies with Claire and then waking up by her side the next morning (okay,
afternoon) – that was his idea of perfect.
Well, almost. He had a headache from the alcohol he’d had
the night before, and that stupid lawnmower was only making it worse. Glancing over at Claire, he found her rubbing
her temples and figured she had to feel about the same way.
“Headache?” he asked sympathetically.
She nodded. “You too?”
“Yep.”
“Ugh, we suck. You and I gotta work on building up our
tolerance again. I only had… how many
beers?” She counted the cans on the
coffee table and smiled sheepishly.
“Yeah… never mind.”
He chuckled. They had both had to give up alcohol at one
point or another in the last two years because of chemotherapy treatments, and
even though he hadn’t had chemo since the previous June, he hadn’t drunk much
since then either. A couple beers here
and there, but rarely more than that.
Gone were the days when he would go out clubbing with his friends every
weekend he was home and get plastered.
These days, he was alienated from most of his friends, besides Claire
and the “the guys” – the Backstreet Boys.
They were the only ones who understood him and what he had been through,
the only ones who were not at least slightly weirded out by what had happened
to him. His other friends had drifted
away, and he had let them. It only took
a near-death experience to show you what and who was important, so he’d kept
those who really mattered close, and screw everyone else. If they wanted to hang out, they could call
him, but he was sick of trying to make small talk and listening to awkward
silences on the other end of the line.
He didn’t need that. He had
people who cared about him and who accepted him the way he was, and that was all he needed.
That and a nice big mug of black
coffee.
He stood up slowly and swore under his
breath as he remembered something.
“What?” Claire asked, looking up at
him, puzzled.
He patted his prosthetic leg. “Fell asleep and forgot to take this thing
off and charge it,” he said, rather embarrassed. It was not the first time he’d done that,
fallen asleep in front of the TV and forgotten to take off the C-Leg, which was
battery-powered and meant to be plugged into his computer and re-charged every
night. Usually, it was not much of a
hassle, since he always took the leg off to sleep anyway. But then there were times like these when he
would forget and have to charge it in the morning.
“How long does the battery last?”
Claire asked.
“It’s supposed to last for I think
thirty-six hours,” replied Nick, “but I better go charge it up now. I’ll be right back.”
His whole body rather stiff from
sleeping in an awkward position on the couch, he hobbled off to office, where
his computer was, and returned a few minutes later on crutches, his prosthesis
left charging beside the computer.
“You want coffee?” he asked Claire.
“Sure,” she said. “If you can handle making that, I’ll take
care of clean up, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied with
a nod and made his way into the kitchen.
“Aw, fuck!” he exclaimed when he saw the mess there. Sitting on the counter beside the
refrigerator was a caved in container of ice cream. A sticky puddle of brown liquid that had once
been chocolate ice cream surrounded it, slowly dripping off of the edge of the
counter and leaving a trail of chocolate goo all down the cabinet below.
“We left the ice cream out all night,”
he muttered flatly to Claire, who had come to see what his “aw, fuck!” was for.
She winced when she saw the mess and
bit her lip. “Oops.”
“Yeah, oops is right. Ugh.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean that up; you start on the coffee.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
Glad that everything he needed for coffee was stored in reach of the
coffee maker (since trying to carry a Folgers coffee can and haul himself
around on crutches at the same time seemed sort of impossible), he propped his
crutches up against the counter and set to work, while Claire mopped up the
melted ice cream with a wet dish towel.
“Just throw that out,” he said when
she walked by with the sodden towel, which was now the color of mud.
“Oh, it doesn’t need to be thrown out;
it’ll wash up fine,” she replied, carrying it off toward his laundry room.
“No, seriously, throw it out,” he said
again. “I don’t want it to get my
clothes all nasty, and it’s gonna be all stained anyway.”
She shook her head, looking at him in
disbelief. “Rich people… I swear.”
“What?!” he demanded, raising his
eyebrows. “It’s just a stupid dish
towel! I have plenty of ‘em already.”
“Yeah, but why throw it away? It’s only chocolate, it’s not like it’s dog
shit or something.”
Because throwing it away just seemed
easier, he thought with a shrug. “Fine,
put it in the laundry,” he muttered, waving her off. Let her have her way; this was not something
worth arguing over.
When the coffee was done, he filled
two mugs. Claire carried them both over
to his kitchen table, and they sat down together. He watched in amusement as she proceeded to
dump several heaping teaspoons of sugar and a liberal amount of creamer into
her coffee, stirring it until the once-black liquid was a creamy, light brown.
“What?” she asked sheepishly, when she
saw him grinning at her. She
chuckled. “I don’t really like coffee
that much,” she admitted. “I love the
smell, but not the taste. It’s only good
for staying awake… or for hangovers.”
Smirking, she took a sip, making a face as she swallowed.
He laughed and took a sip of his own
coffee. “Yeah, well, after enough years
of not enough sleep and not enough time, you grow to like coffee. Even black.”
Yes, between jam-packed schedules, early wake-ups, and late night
partying, coffee had always been a necessity for the Backstreet Boys, so he’d
acquired that taste early on.
It wasn’t like that anymore
though. Now he could sleep as much as he
wanted and had all the time in the world.
Whenever he was on the road touring, just one day to sleep in would have
been a real treat. But now that he had
every day to sleep in, he missed his hectic former life, with its jam-packed
schedules, early wake-ups, and late night partying. He missed recording and touring and singing…
hell, he even missed dancing. He
couldn’t look at a folding chair without wanting to pick it up and bust a move
from the “As Long as You Love Me” choreography.
But he knew that would never happen.
There were a lot of things he could still do on his prosthesis – walk,
swim, play basketball… and hopefully one of these days, even run. But he would never be able to dance
again. And as much as he’d once
complained about the cheesy dance routines he and the guys had performed over
and over again for years and years, he missed them. The chair dance, the hat dance, the
“Everybody” dance… never again.
But he was convinced that other things
would happen again. He could still sing,
and that was all that really mattered.
They could still record, and some day, there would be another
album. And, hopefully, a tour. They hadn’t even toured for their last album
yet. After what had happened after the
last concert they’d done, Nick wasn’t sure there would be a tour anytime soon…
but someday there would. Someday he’d be
back on the road again.
For now, he was trying to enjoy his
life at home. And he was. It was easy to enjoy life once you’d faced
the fear of having it taken from you, and although life hadn’t exactly treated
him kindly the last two years, things were all right now. His health was improving, and at home, he had
peace and quiet and plenty of free time.
And, of course, he had Claire. So
basically, he had everything he wanted.
Well, almost everything.
***