Cutting Cords (Cutting Cords Series Book 1)

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Well, when you get a proper handle on your feelings and are ready to face reality, come back and see me,” John said. He stood and went to hold the door open. This was the first time in six months that he’d lost his patience. Cole’s fragile ego was getting in the way of progress and the good doctor was resorting to tough love. Cole didn’t have the guts to mention there were more issues he was avoiding, which were just as critical.

  John had been kind from the start. He’d seen it all in this place and had lent his strength to Cole by assuring him that he was not alone. Men or women, rich or poor; they were all trying to survive. When the curtain fell and darkness surrounded them, the fear was universal. Learning to trust would go a long way toward recovery.

  When a key jangled in the lock, I straightened up from my reclining position on the sofa. I must have dozed off after all my mood swings, definitely lethargic from the orgasm on Cole’s bed.

  He looked terrible when he walked in. His beautiful eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying for days.

  “Hey,” I called out softly, waiting to see his reaction.

  He sort of grunted and headed toward the kitchen.

  I followed quickly, anxious to help with my groceries but wary of this sudden mood shift. He’d been fine when he left a few hours ago. Now he looked like he was on the verge of a massive meltdown.

  “What’d you buy?” he asked, peering into the paper bag.

  “Peanut butter and jelly, bread, a few cans of tomato soup, chips and salsa, oh, and some tuna for protein,” I added with a smile, hoping he’d return the sentiment.

  He looked at me like I was an alien. “That’s it?”

  “You were expecting filet mignon?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What is your fucking problem, Cole? You’re acting like you haven’t taken a shit in days.”

  “I’m not constipated, nor do I have a problem,” Cole delivered each word like a weapon. “I’m sick of being told how I should feel, what to do, and where the fuck I can go.”

  I was thrown by the intensity of his feelings. “Who’s running your life?”

  “Does it matter?” he yelled, completely out of control.

  “Whoa, dude, chill out, okay? You want some ganja to relax?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Okay, come on… my bedroom, now.”

  Chapter 5

  I was flying high… man… so, so high….

  “Cole, buddy,” I nudged him with my shoulder. “Want a rip?”

  He took it from my hand and inhaled deeply, coughing a little. For one brief moment, I had a pang of guilt, remembering Cole’s asthma, but it was quickly forgotten as he lay down on the floor and stretched out. His stomach was concave under his belt, emphasizing the bulge in his jeans, reminding me of what was underneath. I focused on his chest instead, trying to remember if he was hairy or not.

  “You have cobwebs,” he said.

  “What?” I tore my focus away from him and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Can’t you see them?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the matter, Sloan?” Cole asked, starting to giggle, “Are you blind or something?” The giggle erupted into a contagious laugh, and soon we were both cracking up, filling the enclosed space with the sound of our voices.

  I got up, walked over to the corner, and tried to get as close to the ceiling as possible. Not too hard given my height, but I still couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I turned back to him and said, “No cobwebs, Cole. I think you’re hallucinating.”

  “Must be,” he said, smirking, “’cause I see a lot of cobwebs.” He curled up into a ball and broke out in another round of laughter.

  “Seriously?” Focus, Sloan… he was starting to lose me.

  “Get down here,” Cole said, swallowing the last bits of hilarity.

  I stretched out beside him. He was silent for a while, but then he grabbed my hand and clutched it tightly.

  “What do you see from here?” he asked.

  “The ceiling,” I replied, a little freaked by what was happening. Was this some sort of a test?

  “No cracks in the plaster or cobwebs?”

  “Dude, you’re so buzzed.”

  Cole rolled onto his side and reached for me. When we were face- to-face, his gaze skittered across my forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth, like he was searching for something indefinable.

  Out of nowhere, he asked, “Are your eyes still gray?”

  Bemused, I fluttered my eyelashes playfully. “You must be color-blind if you can’t tell.”

  His smile was tentative, sad almost, but he was moving on to the next topic. “Thank you for sharing your weed,” he said. “I needed this.”

  “Hey, you can come in here anytime you want.”

  “Sloan?”

  “What?”

  I rolled over on my stomach and lifted my upper torso, resting my weight on my elbows. Cole was watching me the whole time, and I gazed down at his face, focusing on his eyes instead of his mouth, which was far too tempting. Tonight they were like dark sapphires but suddenly drenched in tears. What had I missed? He seemed fine one minute ago and now he wasn’t.

  “Cole, what is it?”

  He sucked in a ragged breath and faltered, barely able to say my name. “Sloan?”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  My brain shorted out. “But you aren’t….”

  “Just do it,” he begged, tugging on my collar and dragging me down to accept his demand. It was a desperate kiss, the likes of which I’d never experienced. He was by turns aggressive and tender, which was confusing but hot nonetheless. Heat licked at my groin as Cole whimpered with need, making noises that drove me crazy with lust. He pulled me closer, sweeping the inside of my lips with his inquisitive tongue. I kissed back, meeting him with an equal amount of passion, loving his taste, the feel of him so right. He groaned when I rolled on top of him and pressed my groin against his. I could feel his erection, hard against mine, and we began to grind one out, all the while kissing each other like there was no tomorrow. I was sure this was a dream courtesy of my high-grade weed, but I didn’t care. I was going to ride this fantasy as far and as high as it would take me.

  “Make me feel,” Cole begged hoarsely, his words slamming me in the gut. “Please, make me feel something.”

  Shit, shit….

  I had no idea what was going through his head or why. I only knew he wanted me, and I would be a liar if I said I didn’t want him back. He was the most beautiful thing I’d laid eyes on in my short and fucked-up life, and I was determined to give him what he needed.

  After fumbling with his belt buckle, I pull it free and tugged at his zipper with a trembling hand until the cloth parted. I wound my way into his boxers and wrapped my shaky fingers around his rigid cock. “God, Cole. You’re so fucking thick.”

  He sighed into my mouth, happy to relinquish control as I pleasured him with measured strokes. The uncensored cries of relief spilling from his throat in a low growl encouraged me to ask, “Let me suck you off.”

  “Yes, please.”

  I pulled down his pants and wrapped my lips around the plump head slippery with precum. He tasted like the sweetest honey, with a dash of spice and the musky smell I remembered from lying on his pillow earlier today. This was so much better than my imagination; I released him and buried my face in his crotch, loving the feel of the soft patch of hair surrounding his prick.

  I was determined to give him a blowjob he’d never forget. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but right then, he was giving himself to me, and I’d take it gladly.

  I licked up and down his shaft, tracing the veins and ridges with my tongue, bathing him with wet heat. I nibbled and sucked, making desperate noises, but it didn’t really matter, as his cries of delight were just as loud and much needier. He started to rut against me, fucking my mouth and groaning louder and louder with each thrust. His fingers raked t
hrough my hair, grabbing handfuls with the force of his need. Much too quickly, his balls tightened up, and he cried out as he came in hot spurts. I did my best not to choke while a stream of jizz poured down my throat. His cum sounds were enough to get me off, and I shuddered and blew without even touching myself. A wet stain blossomed around my groin, ruining my jeans for the night.

  “Holy fuck.” I lay there with my head on his crotch, his pulse beating rapidly against my cheek. I turned and slipped him back into my mouth. His cock was still half erect and slick with a combination of my saliva and his spunk. I finished him off, licking and cleaning him with slow sweeps of my tongue, loving his taste and his smell.

  “Sloan,” he sighed, pulling me up to him, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Stay.”

  I fell asleep on top of him.

  When I woke up, I was alone. I was a little stiff from lying on the hard floor, and looked around, but Cole was nowhere in sight. I staggered into the bathroom and yanked off my jeans, which were stiff with dried cum, the indisputable reminder of what had happened a few hours ago. Although everything seemed like a dream, the reality of it was right here in the open. Back in my room, I threw the soiled pants in the clothes hamper Cole had provided for me, and I pulled on a pair of sweats, anxious to find my roommate and see if he was okay. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but a part of me was filled with trepidation.

  Cole had showered and changed an hour before Sloan stirred. He pushed himself into his normal morning routine, doing everything to take his mind off what just happened. He still couldn’t believe he’d given into feelings he’d harbored for years and successfully buried under layers of duty.

  He blamed it all on the weed and Sloan—who was a big queer and would probably fuck his best friend if given half a chance. He’d have to figure out a way to get rid of him. Sloan’s presence would only remind him that he had one more altered gene running through his body, although this was something he could control. He’d managed to harness this need for twenty-six years, and he didn’t see why now should be any different.

  His hand was shaking as he poured one cup of rice into the automatic rice maker, followed by two cups of water. He plugged it in and turned it on, moving like a robot through the kitchen he’d memorized early on. He decided to have some tuna with his rice once it was done, and he moved over to the cabinet where he kept the packets of prepared fish. He pulled out the one on the right, because it was the spicy side, while the blander flavors were to the left.

  Just then, Sloan stumbled in. Cole braced himself for whatever was about to happen, knowing it would be unpleasant but necessary. He didn’t want a roommate who upset the status quo. He needed to fulfill his destiny—marry Juliana, teach, and become active in the Japanese-American community. He was going to have a child someday, hopefully a boy who wouldn’t carry the RP gene. He’d learn how to play baseball, like his father and grandfather, and Cole’s life plan would be back on track. Sloan and his kind had no place in his world.

  Sloan came up from behind and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. “You okay?”

  He spun around and pushed him away, disgusted by his familiarity. “Get the fuck away from me.”

  “Cole….”

  “Leave me alone!” Cole bellowed. “Last night was a mistake, okay? Don’t think I’m a fucking queer.”

  “I never said you were,” Sloan replied softly. “If you want to forget about it, we will.”

  “Yeah, we’ll not only forget about it, you’re going to find somewhere else to live.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because our fathers will want to know what happened.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Sloan countered, his voice taking on a menacing edge. “What are you going to say, Cole? You kicked me out ’cause I sucked you off and you loved it?”

  Cole stepped forward and punched Sloan, narrowly missing his nose.

  Sloan hauled one off himself, hitting Cole square on the chin, knocking him back a few steps. “Don’t ever raise your hand to me again. You hear me, you motherfucker?”

  “Get out of here.” Cole turned away so Sloan wouldn’t see the stricken look on his face. A moot point, really, because he’d already walked out of the room.

  Chapter 6

  Can anybody find me somebody to love…?

  Freddie Mercury was singing to me while I sat on the bathroom floor, overdosed on Xanax and caffeine: a bad, bad combination. Each morning I get up I die a little. SLASH. Can barely stand on my feet, take a look in the mirror and …. SLICE. Can anybody find me, somebody to love... find me somebody to love.

  The new blade was sharp and the cuts were clean. Blood oozed in crimson rivulets, a bright contrast to my pale skin. Freddie’s painful cry for help warbled through my earbuds while I carved a pattern on my thigh. Hot liquid ran down my legs and onto the bathroom tile—splashes of color that would have been pleasing to the eye if it weren’t so macabre. The other members of the band joined Freddie, blending their voices in perfect harmony, while I tried to heal my battered ego with ineffective strikes. I just gotta get out of this prison cell, someday I’m gonna be free. Find me somebody to love, find me somebody to love, find me find me….

  By the time the song ended there were probably ten gashes on each leg. My entire body was shaking as I absorbed the damage. The functioning side of my brain acknowledged that the cuts were shallow this time. No emergency room for me tonight, just a shit ton of pain.

  I crawled over to the toilet and flipped the lid open, then threw up most of the coffee I’d ingested after running out of the house earlier. I’d added Xanax to the mix, hoping to avoid the inevitable spiral to this predictable conclusion. I was disgusted by my weakness and resolved to try to forget Cole’s hateful words, however much they rankled.

  I knew he’d deny the attraction and blame it all on the weed. What I hadn’t expected was the toxic aggression. Even if I’d been his first gay encounter and he’d succumbed to the moment, why did it feel like his reaction was over the top? Had I broken down an invisible barrier, releasing his bisexuality, which had been previously kept under wraps? The unhinged fury wasn’t all about me. It had to be years in the making, and I only wished I had the balls to deal with it instead of resorting to my usual form of pain management. Was he serious about throwing me out? Where would I go? My dad would blow a gasket and insist I return to San Francisco, something I didn’t want.

  In truth, I had hoped to make a fresh start in this new city, find my niche while making friends, maybe even somebody to love. What a joke. Forty-eight hours into my New York adventure, I was cutting and crying, dragging along the heavy baggage I’d intended to leave in the dust.

  I got up and made my way to the shower, but not before I wiped up my mess with a washcloth. I didn’t want Cole to find out I was a cutter. My compulsion to hurt myself was a living, breathing demon residing somewhere deep in my psyche. I could never let my guard down because it would appear in a moment of weakness, whispering nasty thoughts in my ear. Cut yourself, it taunted malevolently, rip the skin apart until blood washes away the hurt.

  Cole was surfing the net and killing time until his parents showed up. They usually came once a week, and tonight was their night. He hadn’t even prepared a meal, counting on his mother to bring something good. She always did, so why should now be any different?

  He supposed they would go all-out and bring extra special food to impress his new roommate. One he’d hurt badly because he’d given in to the moment.

  Sloan couldn’t stay. His presence would be a constant reminder of another flaw, one Cole had buried so deep it hardly ever made an appearance. He allowed himself to think about the incident for a minute and was shocked at how quickly his body responded.

  The memory of the indescribable pleasure was overshadowed by deep shame, however, and he shoved it away decisively. He would not give in to the demands of his b
ody. He was Cole Fujiwara, for God’s sake, a man’s man. He wasn’t gay or even bisexual. This was a random incident that should have never happened.

  His girlfriend of three years could attest to his sexual prowess. They were intimate on a regular basis, although lately, it had become predictable.

  At one time, he used to think she was the perfect partner for him. Their backgrounds were similar, only in her case it was her mother who was Japanese and her father Caucasian. The older Fujiwara’s had set up the first meeting, because she was the daughter of a friend, and were pleased they’d hit it off.

  She was beautiful and educated but much too accommodating for his taste. He assumed it had to do with her upbringing. Japanese wives rarely contradicted their husbands, and Juliana never questioned him or insisted on doing things her way. After a while, the novelty of her beauty had worn off, and he was utterly bored. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t make the ultimate commitment. Aside from all the other issues he was dealing with, the thought of spending a lifetime with someone who just went along with everything he said wasn’t appealing. He enjoyed verbal repartee, a heated discussion made for good conversation, and someone who matched him intellectually was far more important than visuals at this stage in his life. Life with Juliana would be predictable and comfortable—most assuredly—but devoid of passion.

  And strong emotions were in short supply. Almost everything he’d enjoyed in the past had been yanked away by his disease—the unstoppable enemy that was ruining his life. He had to recapture the joy of living, to start feeling again, or he’d never move forward.

  The door of the bathroom finally clicked open. Sloan had been in there for the longest time, and Cole had been holding the urge to pee, refusing to have any kind of contact with Sloan until he had no choice. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait any longer.

  He dashed into bathroom and was immediately assaulted by the smell. The combination of vomit and cigarette smoke was bad enough, but underneath it all was the unmistakable odor of fresh blood, something he’d come to recognize from his baseball-playing days. The sharp, metallic tang overlaid with sweat and fear was par for the course in a locker room filled with men playing a physical sport. Not so much in the middle of Manhattan.