Cinnamon Eyes

By Nell Iris

Cory's had a rough year struggling with severe depression. He's desperate to rebuild his shattered life and break away from his demanding family. When his therapist encourages him to do something for himself, he knows exactly what he needs. I want to see Asher again. The best friend Corey ever had who, at fifteen, held Cory's heart in his hands without knowing it.
Asher's had a troubled relationship with his father since he came out. Now that Pops is sick, he's fighting for his right to help or even find out about his father's health. Then there's the complication of an ex-boyfriend unwilling to let go. 
When Cory and Asher meet again after sixteen years, Cory's feelings are as strong as ever. But does Asher feel the same?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Aug 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781634864404

Nell Iris

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

Book preview

Cinnamon Eyes

By Nell Iris

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2017 Nell Iris

ISBN 9781634864404

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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A big thanks as always to Addison Albright for invaluable input and unwavering support.

Thanks to Joakim Thåström for writing the song that in a roundabout way inspired the story and to my husband for late night serenades of said song on my answering machine.

And to my daughter because she's fabulous and gives the best hugs <3

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Cinnamon Eyes

By Nell Iris

Chapter 1

It was good to be home again, especially after the last couple years of my life. Years filled with nothing but despair and misery and serious doubts I'd make it in one piece. But I had. I even had hope these days.

At least on days like today. It was awesome, particularly compared to yesterday's spectacular setback, when my body had, more or less, shut down. My limbs had been heavy and sluggish and my energy running so low, I'd never made it out of bed.

I hadn't had a relapse in quite some time, and I'd been taken by surprise. That I'd been thoroughly prepared to expect it by my therapist, Dr. Liza Montgomery, hadn't helped. I could practically hear her voice--surprisingly deep for a woman--in my head. Lecturing me.

Remember it's a long process, Cory. Don't be discouraged when the setbacks come. And they will come.

As always, she'd been right. I had been stupid to hope the relapses would be a thing of the past, but they drove me crazy. All I wanted was to get well.

Today was entirely different. I bounced out of bed this morning, eager to get some fresh air. I took a shower, trimmed my beard, and even had breakfast. Three solid improvements from yesterday, and more in line with how I'd felt the last few months. The relapse, this time, had been short and only lasted for a day. Another win.

After eating my granola--the only remotely healthy thing the hotel offered for breakfast--I went for a long walk up and down the streets of my old neighborhood with an unusual spring in my step. The scent of freshly cut grass filled me with joy and a sense of home. When I frightened a bushy-tailed squirrel so badly it chirped at me and scurried up a tree, I smiled.

Sorry, I called after it.

For hours, I wandered the streets, reacquainting myself with the city I'd left so long ago. It had changed a lot in sixteen years. Everything was different, and yet still the same.

My favorite hangout, where I'd downed a million strawberry milkshakes, was now a clothing shop selling awful floral-print dresses no one under the age of seventy would want to wear. The record store--the only place in town selling vinyls when they weren't hip--where I'd spent far more time than I cared to remember, was just an empty shop with a boarded-up window. Wide-eyed, I stared at the colorful graffiti covering the sheets of MDF. New layers of spray paint on top of old ones told me the place had been shut down for a long time.

One of the images drew my eye, and I reached out and touched it. It was a stylistic representation of a record-player--done completely in black-and-white--and it was the only motif that hadn't been sprayed over with other artwork. As if all the other creators had left it alone in an homage to the store. Had the artist been a frequent visitor and painted the picture because he was as broken-hearted about the close-down as I was?

I had to squeeze my eyes shut to prevent hot tears from spilling down my cheeks. Even if I'd passed the days of constant crying, this was too much.

How could it be gone?

My hand shot to my earlobe, and I pulled on it. When the tears refused to back off, I pinched. Hard. Pain flashed through my skull, and I whimpered. The pinch had the desired effect. When I was certain I'd regained control of my runaway emotions, I opened my eyes.

When was the last time I'd taken the time to sit down and listen to music? Pulled out a vinyl record from its inner sleeve and put it on the turntable, carefully aiming so the pickup would land in just the right place and not slide off the edge or end up a few beats into the first song?

I missed the familiar crackling of the needle tracing the grooves before the music started playing, the smell of a brand-new record, and reading the lyrics off of the inner sleeve.

A deep sigh slipped out, and I rubbed my neck. Another of my joys in life that had bitten the dust in favor of the soul-sucking job. I didn't own a record player anymore, and I decided there and then that I was going to buy one.

If this town had a music store these days.

I turned my back to the abandoned storefront and walked away to stop myself from drowning in sentimental memories. I didn't want to risk a relapse two days in a row.

It only took a couple more minutes before I arrived at my destination, and I stopped on the sidewalk next to a restaurant that hadn't yet opened for business. Leaning against the brick wall, I stared at the bar on the other side of the street.

The reason I'd come back in the first place.

Not the bar itself, but the man owning it. The best friend I've ever had. The boy who'd preferred chocolate milkshake over strawberry, but had loved buying records as much as I had.

Asher Cross.

We'd been fifteen the last time we'd seen each other. He'd towered over me, tall and gangly, with limbs that had grown too fast and refused to be controlled properly. He'd reminded me of a newborn foal: staggering around on long, unfamiliar legs, trying to gain his footing. With coal black hair in a wild mess and bangs slanted over his forehead--more often than not, covering his eyes--he'd been the cutest boy I'd ever seen.

His hair was one of the many things that had driven my mother crazy.

And it had been one of the many things that had lit my heart on fire every time I'd lain eyes on him.

He hadn't known. I'd just started to figure it out myself. Figure out why I had a hard time breathing as soon as he was around, or why my stomach had ached in the most delicious way.

I hadn't had time to work up the courage to talk to him about it. My chance to find out if he felt the same had been taken away from me when my parents decided to move across the country.

Sixteen years later, when my therapist had asked me in one of our many sessions what I wanted if I could choose anything in the world, the answer had been easy.

I want to see Asher again.

So here I stood. Staring at his bar, trying to find the courage to walk over and knock on the door.

I pulled off my baseball cap, rubbed the back of my neck, and exhaled so hard, my lips made a sputtering noise.

My eyes were glued to the three-story building in front of me. Big neon, rainbow-colored letters covered the entire front of the narrow house: Broken Brick Bar.

The ground floor was made up of enormous windows, but the second and third stories looked like a residence with red brick walls and white trim. The building was dark, except for one of the classic Budweiser signs hanging on the door and a dim light coming from the single third-floor window.

When I'd rushed out of my hotel early this morning, I hadn't taken into consideration that any time before noon wasn't prime hours for a bar.

Before I had time to start obsessing about what to do next, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and groaned when I saw who was calling.

Of course.

I smacked the hat back on my head, turned, and started walking back from where I'd come before accepting the call.

Hi, Mother.

Cory? It's Tuesday. You didn't call yesterday. She sounded genuinely worried, which was unusual for her. I also had to give her credit for waiting until a decent hour instead of calling at six A.M. like she would have done a few months back.

No. I grimaced. Yesterday was a bad day.

She was quiet for a few seconds. I thought you were supposed to be better now?

As usual, that was all it took. Merely alluding to the big, forbidden D-word turned her worried tone into steel, and she went back to her regular, demanding self.

I told you it's not that easy.

It's been over a year, Cory.

I stiffened but didn't bother to answer. We've had this conversation more times than I cared to count, but she never listened.

And I don't understand why you can't tell us where you are.

Drawing a ragged breath, I repeated for