You Can See Me

You Can See Me

By

A. E. Via

You Can See Me

Copyright © February 2014, A. E. Via

Cover art by Clarissa Yeo © February 2014

Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

Amira Press

Charlotte, NC 28227

www.amirapress.com

ISBN: 978-1-627620-42-0

No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Amira Press.

To my husband and children, thank you so much for understanding the many long nights.

To the potential authors who aren’t sure if they can do it…don’t think.  Just write.

A special thank you to the LaSalle Sisters (Cheryl
, Stephanie, Iza) of Man2Mantastic.blogspot.com for all their help and support. Ladies, you did a wonderful job writing the synopsis and creating a title for my next release,
Nothing Special
. I’ve sincerely enjoyed working with you talented ladies and look forward to a very productive 2014.

Prescott sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 664 on his way home from the James Beard Culinary Awards ceremony in Richmond, Virginia. At only twenty-seven years old, he was one of the youngest chefs to receive the prestigious honor. Prescott had known he wanted to be a chef since he was ten years old. His mom had pictures of him—as young as the age of five—in the kitchen beside her, watching and learning.

He reached into the box and picked up the trophy. For the tenth time he read the engraved inscription on the shiny gold plate of his award and smiled at memories of himself and his mother.

I should call Angie, let her know I’m on my way home.
It was thirty degrees outside, and the bridge had accumulated a lot of black ice. The traffic advisory had warned everyone to stay off the highways if they could, but his fiancée had wanted him to come home right after the ceremony.

Pres hit the speed dial on his cell phone to call his beautiful fiancée.

“Hello.”

“Hey, baby. I’m on my way home,” Pres said with a wide grin on his face. His cheeks were still burning from all the smiling he’d done that evening at the banquet.

“Oh good, you left right after the ceremony.”

“Yeah, I left right after, just like you begged me to do. I don’t know why I couldn’t just stay in a hotel and drive back in the morning. I’m sure I’ll hit traffic coming back this late,” he said.

“I’ll make it worth it, baby,” she purred in that sexy voice that drove him crazy.

Pres pushed down on his rising cock. “How are you gonna make it worth it, huh? Tell me what you’re gonna do to me.”

“I can show you better than I can tell you,” she replied.

Pres was crossing the bridge and saw the rear taillights light up on the car in front of him as traffic slowed to an idling crawl.
Great, here comes the traffic already. Might as well do something to keep me entertained.

“I’ll be home in a few hours, and the first thing I want you to do is get on your knees so I can fuck your pretty mouth,” he moaned while squeezing the head of his dick.

“Pres, stop it,” she whined. “You know I can’t talk dirty. I always feel stupid.”

Pres laughed. His fiancée was so old-fashioned, he was surprised she even gave him head. “Okay, baby. I’ll let you show me later. I’m already hitting some traffic, so keep the bed warm for me.”

“I will. I love you, Pres.”

“I love—”

Pres’s words were cut off as he heard the screeching sound of tires skidding behind him. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a tractor trailer had hydroplaned on the ice. The driver lost control and barreled toward him at a terrifying speed, and Pres’s mind went into overdrive. His cell phone slipped from his hand. He couldn’t jump out of his vehicle because the trailer had turned at a ninety-degree angle. He would have to jump over the railing and into the bay in order to avoid it. With below-freezing temperatures in the water…it was probably not a good idea. Pres tensed every muscle in his body, slammed his eyes shut, and tried to brace for the crash. He said a silent prayer as he felt a split second of impact before everything went dark.

After six excruciatingly painful months in the hospital, Prescott was released to go home. The surgeries to his limbs were successful, but when he woke in recovery from the extensive brain surgery…his vision was completely gone. Prescott had never prayed so hard for anything in his life, but he begged for weeks for his vision to return.

The neurologist explained in detail the severity of the injuries he sustained from the accident. Although it would be highly unlikely in his case, there was a ten percent chance that he’d recover his sight. He softly advised Prescott that he should come to terms with the fact that he was now blind and would be for the rest of his life.

But he refused to believe that he’d never see again. He didn’t know how he would function as a blind person. He was a chef and a damn good one, too. He was finally being recognized for his skill and art in the kitchen. He’d just accepted a one-in-a-million opportunity to go to Paris and work shoulder to shoulder with his idol, only to have it all stripped away in a matter of minutes. Cooking was all he’d ever known. He’d never prepared a contingency plan if anything were to ever happen and he couldn’t cook anymore.

Prescott was in a state of depression he’d never thought imaginable. His doctors gave specific instructions for him to continue physical therapy and enroll in a school for the blind.

He did neither. He went home, closed himself in his bedroom, and sealed the dark drapes. He was nobody now.

His fiancée, Angela, tried so hard in the beginning to be there for him both physically and emotionally. She waited on him hand and foot, preparing his food, picking out his clothes, even bathing him. He fussed at her constantly for doing everything for him, and then he’d turn around and fuss at her for not doing enough. He’d get extremely angry if she even hinted about them going out of the condo and having some fun together. He didn’t want to leave the house because then people would see him…but he wouldn’t see them.

He hadn’t cooked in months despite her persistence. Whenever she’d mention the school or counseling for his depression, he’d yell at her. She finally had enough and called on both of their parents to come and help her.

Pres was asleep in bed when he heard his mother come barging through the door, cursing up a storm.

“Get your ass out of the bed this instant, Prescott Montgomery Vaughan, or so help me God, I will kick the shit out of you—blind or not!” she yelled so loud she could’ve woken the dead.

“Mom, get outta here,” he groaned weakly.

“Right the hell now! Get up…or else!” she screeched as she ripped the covers off him.

“Mom, cut it out!” Prescott rose up in the bed. He turned his head in the direction of the crazy woman in his bedroom and tried to put a hard scowl on his face. Pres kept his eyes closed tight. He never wanted to open them again, knowing that would be useless.

“Or else what, Mom? What are you going to do, huh?” He flopped back down lazily on the bed. “I’m gonna call Pop and tell him you’re acting insane. He wouldn’t stand for this,” Pres threatened angrily.

“Sure, have it your way,” she replied casually.

That’s right. Just leave.

Pres thought maybe his mom was losing her mind. She was nothing like this in the hospital. All she could do was whine, sniffle, and coo at her poor, sightless baby. Now, here she was acting like a goddamn drill sergeant.
What the hell?

Pres lay there for a couple more minutes before he felt a blast of freezing cold water hit him in his chest.

“Auggh! Shit!” he screamed right before another gush of cold water hit him dead in his face. He coughed and sprayed water out of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! Mom, what the hell are you—”

Another violent splash to the side of his face abruptly cut off his yelling.

“All right, all right…damn it! Just stop. I’m getting up!” He threw his hands up in surrender.

“Better. Now, get up and go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. You smell horrible. Everything is in the bathroom already set out for you, including some clothes. After you’re done, I want you to come into the kitchen. I’ll be waiting.” His mother sounded completely composed, as if they were discussing the weather and she hadn’t just waterboarded him.

“Tell Angela to come and help me get into the bathroom,” he hissed angrily at his mother.

“No. Angela is busy right now. You’ve been living here for two years. Go to the bathroom yourself.”

On that note, she left the room.

Pres managed to get to the bathroom and get himself cleaned up with very little difficulty. As he let the hot water cascade over his tired body, he realized that he’d been making Angela do everything for him, including leading him around like an invalid.

He was able to adjust the hot and cold knobs to the temperature he wanted. He cleaned his body, using the soap that was always in the soap holder. His shampoo and conditioner were always kept in the far left corner of the shower, on the upper shelf. Pres reached his hand out of the shower and grabbed a fluffy towel from off the towel rack on the wall above the wastebasket.

He didn’t want to attempt to shave with his wet razor, so he used his dry electric one. He was again surprised at the simplicity of the act. He put on his clothes by feeling for the tags to make sure they were turned in the right direction. He grazed his fingers along the polished wood, pulled out the top right-hand drawer underneath the sink, felt around for his deodorant—locating it immediately—and smiled. Even though the act was so minute, he’d still done it himself, and it was the first time he’d actually done anything on his own in a while.

Pres made his way out of his bedroom and into the main living area and heard several sets of voices. He recognized Angela talking to her parents. He stood there for a few seconds when everything went completely silent.

Well, it sounds like they see me. Is anyone gonna say shit?

He stood there a few more seconds at the continued silence.

I guess not.

“Angela, can you help me?” he asked, with a little more annoyance in his voice than he’d intended.

“No, she can’t. Do it yourself,” his mother answered coldly. From the proximity of her voice, it sounded like she was in his kitchen.

Might as well get this over with. The sooner she talks, the sooner I can go back to bed.
Pres tamped down his anger and thought for a second before he took a couple of tentative steps toward his large kitchen. He didn’t bother to acknowledge his future in-laws, since they didn’t speak to him.

“Honey, you look better. Come here toward my voice.” His mother spoke softly but clearly.

Pres figured she had to be standing by the wraparound breakfast bar, so he moved in that direction. “Mom?” he called out timidly.

“Right here, Prescott,” his mom said directly in front of him, and it made him flinch violently.

“God. Don’t do that, please,” he admonished.

“Sorry.”

She embraced him in a warm, tight hug. At first he just let his arms rest at his sides as she squeezed him. He realized that it felt really good to be in his kitchen again, and his mom was the one who had gotten him there. He slowly brought his arms up around her waist and hugged her back. He felt her sigh in his ear as she noticeably relaxed against him.

“There, are you satisfied? I’m up now.” He tried not to sound too pissed with his mom. He could never truly be mad at her for anything. His mother always had his best interest at heart, and he did love her.

“Well, you smell better, but no, I’m not satisfied. Come here.” She put his hand in the crook of her elbow and brought him to stand in front of the wide island in the center of his kitchen. “Feel around,” she said quietly.

He lifted his hands and began to pat around on the cool surface. Suddenly feeling foolish, he growled and slammed both his hands down hard on the marble top.

“Knock it off!” she fired at him immediately, obviously not fazed by his little tantrum. “Feel around, damn it.” This time she was more aggressive.

What has gotten into my soft-spoken mother? Before today, she would cover her mouth and giggle if she accidently swore. Now she’s cursing like a sailor.

He huffed an exasperated breath and brought his hands back up to feel around again. The tips of his fingers on his left hand bumped into something. He grasped his fingers around it, feeling it more thoroughly, and realized it was a bowl.

“A bowl,” he growled. “You want me to guess what the objects are? Is that what I’m about to do? Well forget it. I’m not interested in a kitchen utensils lesson for the blind today. Do you really think I can’t figure out what a bowl is, or a fork, a plate, a spoon, for crying out loud? I’m blind, not dumb!” Pres’s voice had grown deep with anger.

“Damn straight you’re not. Now lift the bowl up to your nose and tell me what’s in it,” his mother demanded.

Pres didn’t move. He kept his eyes closed tight and his lips parted slightly at the increase in his breathing. He slowly brought the bowl up to his nose and inhaled deeply.

“Scallops,” he replied dryly.

“Scallops, huh?” his mother stated coolly. “Sure. But tell me about them.”

Pres scrunched his face in confusion, but brought the bowl back to his nose again. He took several deep inhales before replying, “They’re not fresh. At least a few days old, and previously frozen.”

He heard his mom let loose a victorious laugh, and then she slung her arms back around his neck again.

“That’s right, honey. I unthawed those scallops exactly two days ago. Oh, Prescott, don’t you understand what I’m trying to do? You can keep cooking, honey. It’s just going to take work and practice. You have to be willing to learn again. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’ve read about schools and jobs for blind people with a culinary background. Just come talk to the admissions counselors with me and Angela. They can show and teach you how to live a fulfilling life.”