Page 3 of Sight Unseen

I’d been filled in on the basics of Nate’s condition and was devastated at the thought he might lose his sight permanently. Not my Nate, my irascible, moody, generous and passionate best friend. The Nate whose hands sculpted magnificent works of art enjoyed the world over.

Apparently, there was still some hope it might be temporary, but reading between the lines, that hope was bleak.

“I sold all your pieces,” I murmured, hoping he could hear me. I owned an art gallery in L.A. called Artisana, and Nate’s pieces were always in demand. “They’re desperate for more, so when you’re up and about, bud, I need you to get busy.” I nudged him softly. “Hey, maybe you can wake up now and we’ll talk about it.”

The doctor had told me Nate was resting well. It had been half a day since they’d delivered the life-changing news, and Nate had decided to sleep most of that time away. I understood. It must have broken him. At least in sleep he didn’t have to deal with all the ramifications of knowing what his future held.

I tried to smooth away the creases on his forehead. His eyes moved restlessly in his sleep and I shushed him softly. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you. And I promise I’ll be there every step of the way.”

We’d been inseparable since we’d met at a school swim event when we were eight. Nate had knocked me into the pool in his rush to get to the podium for his race. He’d immediately dived in to save me, even though I was probably the better swimmer. Seeing that determined, water-flecked face with eyes the color of warm chestnuts, and the unruly lock of dark hair falling over his broad forehead, I’d been lost. To this day, Nate drew people into his orbit with his smile, warmth and determination.

It was also the reason why, at seventeen, during one long weekend we’d planned on fishing in the Florida Keys, our friendship had turned into something else. Something heated, intimate and real. Memories of that time warmed my body, bringing back that which we’d both agreed never to talk about. Moans, groans, flesh against flesh and the slow slide of one cock against another.

I sighed. Neither of us talked about that time. Ever. It was like Voldemort, something about which we could never speak.

To Nate, that weekend had only been about sex and as soon as it had ended, so had my hopes of anything deeper. We hadn’t exchanged undying vows of love or anything; we hadn’t progressed that far, and to his credit, he’d been honest with me. We were both young, off to college, and he’d wanted to be able to pursue his sexuality freely. But it was more than us being too young to commit. After that weekend, Nate had withdrawn, distancing himself, and I’d had to deal with losing hope, and I forced myself to get on with my life.

After college, we reunited as best friends. As if time hadn’t passed, and as if that amazing weekend had never happened.

The old familiar ache of longing started in my chest and I pushed it away. Thinking there’d ever be anything more between us was emotional suicide.

“No time for that sort of thinking, is there, Clayman?” I muttered.

Clayman had been Nate’s boyhood nickname, coined when he’d begun to fashion small animals out of the clay-like mud in the river winding through the fields down the road from where we’d lived.

Beneath my palm Nate’s hands moved on the white coverlet, forever in motion like the man himself when he sculpted. His long fingers twitched and I could still see traces of the dark materials he sculpted with under his nails. No matter what he did, he could never seem to get rid of the evidence of his genius and his passion.

Art had always been one of the things cementing us. I had a love of art and the business acumen to recognize what would sell, but I had no discernible talent for creating it. I had a BA in Fine Art from CalArts in Valencia and had scraped through. Nate had aced his studies, graduating top of his class at the California College of the Arts in Oakland. Those four years apart had been tough, and while we’d gotten together from time to time, I’d wished it could have been more, but Nate kept his distance. To this day, I didn’t know why.

I gazed at a face I adored, and knew better than my own. Nate’s freckles stood out against his pale cheeks, long eyelashes resting against the skin. His mouth was slightly parted, as if he was on the verge of saying something. Soft exhalations of air echoed in the quiet room.

Under the covers, Nate’s lean body twisted, and he muttered something I couldn’t make out. As I leaned over to hear what he was saying, there was a noise behind me; I turned and saw Jon and Caleb staring at me. They looked in sync in a way Nate and Jon had never been.

Caleb, dark, olive-skinned and broad-shouldered, was a stunning contrast to Jon’s blond, tanned, boy-next-door look.

I sighed. I might not like Caleb but I could see his appeal.

The challenging look on his face was to be expected as he stood close to Jon, who moved over to Nate and placed a hand on his chest. Not protective, more possessive.

“When did you get here? I thought you were abroad.” Jon fussed around Nate’s covers, tucking them around his body. “I didn’t think you’d make it here that quickly.”

“I flew in a few hours ago from Rome, came straight here. A friend at the airline owed me a favor.”

Caleb raised one eyebrow. “Really, you were in Rome and got on a plane dressed like that?” He motioned in my direction.

Even in these circumstances, I grinned. Caleb was such a clothes snob, as was Jon. I guess that’s what happened when you were both fashion models.

“Yep. Why, what’s wrong with faded blue jeans and a chambray shirt? And these flip-flops are comfortable.”

Caleb shuddered. “God, Cody, you’re such a flower child. You should have lived in the sixties. Even your hair and face stubble suit the period.”

“The period? Bro, you sound like someone out of a cheesy historical novel. And what’s wrong with my hair?” Instinctively I raised a hand to the short ponytail at my nape.

“I hate to tell you but bleached-blond ponytails went out a long time ago.” Caleb sneered.

Jon stepped forward and touched Caleb’s arm. “Stop being such a bitch, Caleb. This isn’t the time to debate what Cody looks like. There’s more important things to think about.” He directed his gaze at Nate.

While I appreciated Jon’s sentiments, I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment. To be fair, he looked tired and stressed, and he was Nate’s significant other, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And my bleached-blond hair was natural, colored so by sun and sea. Damn, he could check my pubes if he wanted confirmation. I’d whip them out right now.