Cutting Cords (Cutting Cords Series Book 1) Read online

  CUTTING CORDS

  MICKIE B. ASHLING

  Copyright

  Published by Mickie B. Ashling

  COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Mickie B. Ashling

  Second Edition

  Cover Art: Catt Ford

  Editor: Jason Bradley

  Proofing: April Dawn

  Formatting: Shaz Formatting

  First Edition Published by Dreamspinner Press November 2009

  All Rights Reserved:

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Blurb

  Sloan Driscoll is a talented graphic artist, but compared to his father and younger brother—all-star athletes—he’s never measured up. A lifetime of insecurity has led him down dark paths.

  His childhood friend, Cole Fujiwara, a former major league pitcher, embodies all of Sloan’s hidden aspirations. Cole is physically fit, attractive, intelligent, and successful. Seemingly perfect.

  When Sloan shows up on Cole’s NYC doorstep needing a place to stay, their reunion is anything but simple. Sloan has always been drawn to Cole, but now, even though there’s a girlfriend on the periphery, the attraction seems mutual.

  One night, inhibitions slip away. But both men are hiding a multitude of secrets. Salvation could be found within each other’s arms. But only if they let it.

  Cutting Cords is the first book in the Cutting Cords Series previously published by Dreamspinner Press. This series must be read in order and all four titles will be available by September 30, 2020. HEA guaranteed at series end.

  Content Warning: contains body image issues, drug use, cutting, and some BDSM elements.

  Table of Contents

  Cutting Cords

  Copyright

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Contact the Author

  Also by Mickie B. Ashling

  Chapter 1

  The line of people snaked across the entire length of the lobby, curving around twice before ending at the security checkpoint. It was a typical scene at San Francisco International Airport, packed with travelers from all over the world trying to get in and out as quickly as possible. I watched dispassionately as a family of Filipinos gathered to say goodbye to some relative who was struggling with mismatched luggage and a big box labeled Balikbayan. There must have been at least ten people gathered around the old man, crying and carrying on like he was about to be executed, instead of going on a plane ride.

  My dad jabbed me with his elbow and admonished, “Stop staring.”

  Irritated, I turned my attention on another group of travelers. People watching was my jam. I’ve always enjoyed it—the artist in me picking apart every detail of a person or incident, keeping them tucked away in my brain somewhere for future reference.

  “Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Dad asked, trying to pull my backpack away from me to check the contents. I yanked it back roughly, angered by this invasion of my privacy. I don’t know why I was caught off guard. It was his standard MO after all, but whenever it happened, I wanted to punch him. I hated it when he still treated me like I was a fucking ten-year-old instead of someone who had just turned twenty-three. Curious bystanders waited to see how my father would react, but they lost interest when he did nothing except suck in air through his teeth.

  “Chill out, Dad,” I warned in a whisper. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  He didn’t look the least bit apologetic. He just stood there, all six foot four of him, arms crossed and defiant. “I don’t want you forgetting anything.”

  I sighed, exasperated by the smothering. “I’ve got it under control. Besides, I’m going to New York, not the Middle East.”

  “You’re getting in late, Sloan. The last thing you want to do is shop for basics in the middle of the night.”

  “Ten o’clock is early in the city that never sleeps,” I reminded him. “Pretty sure I’ll find a store if I need one.”

  He reached for me abruptly and gave me a bone-crushing bear hug. My head barely grazed his chin, and I could feel the strength in his arms, hardly diminished by age. Time had been kind to my father, and even though muscles and body fat had shifted to accommodate another lifestyle, his size continued to be a formidable thing, one I’d aspired to most of my life. Although I was rapidly approaching his height, Dad bested me by at least one hundred and twenty pounds. I’d been hearing how I was going to start to fill out ever since I was a kid, but all I did was get taller and taller, not wider.

  “Call me as soon as the plane lands, you understand?” he asked in a voice gruff with emotion. I would have thought he’d be glad to get rid of me. Out of sight, out of mind, I assumed, but I guess you couldn’t take away the parenting gene.

  “I promise, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

  “This is it, Sloan.” He pulled away and studied me with uncharacteristically teary eyes. “No more second chances, kid. The Big Apple will either make you a man or break you.”

  I rolled my eyes internally, thinking it would take much more than New York City to make me the kind of man he was hoping for. “It’s going to be fine, Dad. I wish you’d stop worrying.”

  “Can’t help it, son. You’re my boy and I’ll always worry. That’s my job.”

  One he was very good at, I might add. He’d taken worrying to a whole new dimension.

  The line started moving a little faster, probably because they’d added two more TSA agents, and I was quickly approaching the area where we had to open up our bags, take off our shoes and jackets, and walk through the metal detector. I could feel my heart banging against my ribs like a trapped bird, and my pulse quickened. I was terrified suddenly, certain they’d find my stash and call me out. I could see the headlines already: Joe Driscoll’s Son Stopped at the Airport with Two Grams of Northern Lights.

  Being a former San Francisco Giant had its advantages, but it wouldn’t save my sorry ass, if I were arrested. Dad had already used up all his favors in the last few years. The SFPD and I had become very well acquainted, and although they’d never formally arrested me, in deference to my father’s Hall of Fame status, they knew me on a first-name basis. They could make my life, and my father’s, a living hell, if they chose to.

  This was the reason I was being exiled to New York City. Not because I’d won a small scholarship at Pratt Institute’s satellite campus in Manhattan. I could have gone to the Sa
n Francisco Art Institute for a lot less money. The main reason was to get me away from my shady friends and all they implied. It was Ken Fujiwara, Dad’s best friend from his baseball days, who suggested I needed a fresh start, thus planting the seed in my father’s receptive head. Ken’s only son lived in New York City, and this played right into Dad’s hands. They’d made arrangements for me to go and live with Cole without even asking me. As usual, my life had been mapped out, planned, signed, sealed, and delivered without my input or consent.

  It was my turn at security, and the guards told Dad he’d have to say his good-byes right then since he couldn’t go any farther, but he was having none of it. He wanted to watch me walk down the ramp and board the fucking plane to make sure I got my scrawny self out of town. While he argued his case, I took off my jacket and threw it on the moving belt, along with my backpack and my Nikes. I still had several layers of clothing on; an undershirt, a colored T-shirt, a light flannel in a faded blue color. The usual layered look I preferred, giving the illusion of a normal torso, when in reality, I had the build of a twelve-year-old.

  “Sorry, Joe.” The guard who was attending to me recognized my dad, which was good in a way. It distracted him and he waved me through. “I can’t bend the rules, even for you, Is this your kid?”

  “Yeah, Sloan’s my oldest. He’s off to the Big Apple to become a famous graphic artist.”

  “Cool,” the guard replied, signaling me to pick up my bags and stuff. “Wave goodbye, buddy.”

  Stubbornly, Dad approached the metal detector, glaring at the TSA agent, but was denied once again. From behind the barrier, he watched me tie my shoes and gather my belongings.

  “Call me the minute you land,” he instructed loudly, adding, “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  As if. I hurried toward the food court, relishing my freedom for the first time in ages. Suddenly New York no longer felt like a death sentence but more like a reward. Dad’s constant presence would be a thing of the past. I bought a latte with an extra shot of espresso and dumped in three tablespoons of sugar, sighing with pleasure after my first sip. I’d made it through this far without any incidents which was pretty incredible, all things considered. Now I just had to survive a plane ride, and I’d be home free.

  In New York City, Cole Fujiwara took in a deep breath and unleashed his fury on a man who demanded absolute respect from his children. This time, though, he would not be silent. Incandescent with rage, Cole spoke his mind, berating his father for making plans with his best friend, Joe Driscoll, before consulting him. Did he honestly think he’d be okay with the news? Telling Cole after the fact was unforgivable.

  “Dad, won’t you reconsider? I don’t want a roommate,” Cole said, voice rising steadily. “I have enough problems of my own. Last thing I need is someone new in town who needs hand-holding.”

  “Why are you assuming he’ll be a burden? Joe has assured me that Sloan has cleaned up his act and wants to make a fresh start.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Of course,” Ken soothed. “I’m surprised by your attitude, son. I didn’t think you were so heartless.”

  “I’m not cold-hearted, Father,” Cole fumed. “Just practical.”

  “You used to play with this kid. You were best friends!”

  “I haven’t seen Sloan since he was eight years old,” Cole countered bitterly. “I was eleven, for Christ’s sake—hardly his best friend.”

  “Calm down, Cole. You’ll give yourself an asthma attack.”

  “Dad, you know the timing of this sucks. I’m dealing with my own shit.”

  “I know,” Ken said in a voice filled with sadness. “I thought you guys could help each other out.”

  “Please tell me he’s clueless, or have you already filled his head with worse case scenarios?”

  Ken sighed heavily into the phone. “I haven’t said a word to anyone, Cole. Not even Joe knows. You asked me to be discreet, and I’ve respected your wishes.”

  “Thank you. Eventually people will find out, but until they do, I want things to be normal.”

  “Maybe Sloan can help you around the apartment. Do some of the chores?”

  “Is this your plan? To turn Sloan into my seeing-eye roommate?”

  “Stop it,” Ken demanded.

  Cole swiped angry tears away. They were an automatic reaction to his father’s interference. Despair was warping the man’s judgment, his need to help his only son so painfully obvious, but Cole had insisted on being independent. He had to learn how to cope with it, to navigate life as a disabled person and survive. The news of his impending blindness had been devastating, but he was determined to be self-sufficient. He’d been preparing for the inevitable for six months, learning to live alone and manage. Now, he was being thrown another curveball, expected to welcome Sloan with open arms when he had no idea who or what he was dealing with.

  Each morning, Cole woke up hoping his diagnosis was a mistake. But sadly, the shadows grew worse with each passing day. It was the endless black void he was preparing for: the day he’d open his eyes and see nothing.

  The doors of the plane were shut; the engines revved and ready to go. I leaned back and plugged in my earphones, increasing the volume so I could hear nothing but Queen blaring out Bohemian Rhapsody. I loved their music, stage presence, and style. One summer, I even made the attempt to dress and talk like Freddie Mercury. It wasn’t hard, since we had the same body type, not one ounce of fat anywhere. My little game was met with disapproval, so my outrageous persona went back into a compartment in my brain, along with all the other shocking thoughts that resided there.

  The plane finally took off, almost in sync with Freddie’s falsetto blaring in my ears. I removed my earplugs and unfastened the seat belt when the captain turned off the sign. It was time to go to the restroom and take care of business.

  The light in the tiny bathroom cast a yellowish shade on my normally pale face. I stared at the mirror, trying to see if I looked any different since my haircut and my father’s attempts to make me look respectable. Everything appeared the same; my hair was still a boring brown, my eyes an unremarkable shade of gray. My mouth was a bit too full and girly for Dad’s taste, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. I wondered how long it would take for my hair to grow out again. I hated the feel of cold air against my neck, although my tattoo was now clearly visible, the Queen logo, a testament to my devotion.

  I started to strip, undoing the belt buckle and pushing down my jeans, past the ugly web of scars on my thighs. They were a constant reminder of my inner turmoil, a grim display in varying shades of hair-raising red. I stepped out of my pants and boxers simultaneously, leaving them bunched at my feet. Next off were the tight white briefs that had served its purpose—holding the sandwich bag with my stash in its hiding place near my crotch. I dumped the briefs into the wastebasket and pulled my jeans and boxers back on.

  I opened the plastic baggy and inhaled the pungent aroma of the high-grade weed, wishing I had the guts to light up, but I knew my impulse would activate the smoke alarms and they’d be pounding on the door within minutes. So I popped a Xanax instead, a poor substitute, but certainly better than nothing.

  I spent the rest of the flight in a hazy fog. Thanks to my age and the money in my pocket, I was able to buy a few drinks to add to my drug-induced high. I passed on the food, shaking my head at the flight attendant, but asked for more peanuts instead. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling me to eat and not skip meals or I’d never gain weight, but I wasn’t buying into his plan anymore. No amount of sustenance had ever worked to give me the kind of body I craved, so any time I was on my own, I ate whatever I wanted.

  I knew I wasn’t in California anymore as soon as the cabbie pulled up to the curb and looked me over suspiciously. “Need a ride?”

  He was a brightly turbaned Indian who spoke passable English but seemed to have left his manners on another continent. I wasn’t sure if it was the late h
our or his job, but good cheer was in short supply right then. I was expected to haul my gear into the cab on my own. Cussing under my breath, I hefted the duffel with all my worldly possessions onto the seat beside me. “Can I smoke in here?” I asked as soon as we got going.

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  Pleasantly surprised, I pulled out the joint I’d rolled in the airport restroom and lit up, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs. The cabbie lifted an eyebrow as soon as he smelled the weed. In an instant, his demeanor changed, and he respectfully asked, “Would you be willing to share?”

  I smirked and passed the joint through the opening in the glass.

  He took a huge hit, bobbing his head in appreciation. “Good stuff, buddy.”

  “It better be for what it cost.”

  “Where are we headed?” the cabbie asked.

  “Chelsea.”

  “Okay.”

  It was almost eleven by the time we stopped in front of Cole’s apartment building, and after I handed over my money, I waited to see if the driver would help me with my bag since I’d shared my dope. Stupid thought. He sat there and checked his log sheet.

  Fucking asshole. I didn’t tip him.

  I dragged my shit out of the cab and waited for the doorman to let me in. Apparently he’d gotten word of my arrival, and he actually helped me place my bag in the elevator and told me the apartment was on the tenth floor. When I arrived at my destination, I stabbed at the doorbell for several minutes before the door was yanked open by a guy who appeared ready to strangle me.

  “Will you ease off the fucking bell already?”

  “Hey, I didn’t know if you were asleep or what.”

  “Well, I’m wide awake now.”

  “Sorry. I’m looking for Cole Fujiwara.”

  “You found him,” he replied warily. “Sloan?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Wow. You’ve grown. When’d you get so tall?”

  And when the fuck did you get so hot?

  “Probably when you lost all the weight,” I replied out loud, taking a really good look at him. He was nothing like I remembered. The chubby kid with thick glasses who teased me and told me I threw like a girl was gone. In his place was a young Johnny Depp look-alike with cut-glass cheekbones and bone-straight black hair sliding over his forehead. The specs were gone as well, probably replaced by contacts, but those indigo eyes were exactly the same, courtesy of his Irish mother, and I was rooted to the spot.