Cutting Cords

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Whoa! Back the fuck up, shogun. You’re the one who bailed on me, not the other way around. The Japanese did not invent the word honor. I was in our relationship for the long haul. Now, finish your fakakta explanation.”

  “Mieko got pregnant during the war.”

  “Noriko’s grandmother?”

  Cole let out a loud sigh, exasperated with all the questions. I could just picture him scowling. “Yes,” he said finally. “The man was an unknown American soldier who disappeared as quickly as he arrived on the scene. Reiko took over Mieko’s support once she could no longer work as a geisha. She did everything she could to keep her best friend in the okiya. When Hana was born, Reiko assumed responsibility for her as well.”

  “Why couldn’t Mieko take care of her own child?”

  “She died in childbirth.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. But wait, Noriko said she had a grandmother?”

  “She was referring to Reiko, who adopted her mother, Hana. My grandfather supported them for as long as he could, but once the war broke out, communication between Japan and the United States became impossible.”

  “Ya think? They fucking bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  “Let’s not discuss world politics, Sloan.”

  Frankly, I wanted to hurl the phone across the room and tell Cole to go fuck himself. Still, there was a small part of me that wanted more answers, so I persisted.

  “What is this supposed debt you’re talking about?”

  “Once my grandfather disappeared from the scene, it became very difficult for the women of the kariyukae.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means the flower and willow world. The services of a traditional geisha were no longer in demand, and the money began to dwindle. Reiko raised Hana, despite the many difficulties of staying afloat in a dying business. When Noriko was born, also out of wedlock, and again by an American flyboy, Reiko supported her as well.”

  “Let’s recap, shall we? Noriko comes from a long line of women who had a problem keeping their knees together when it came to American men.”

  “God, Sloan. Is everything in life a dirty joke?”

  “No, but it’s not a fucking soap opera either. Glorifying a cheap and sordid encounter between a soldier and his Japanese plaything is delusional.”

  “This conversation is over,” Cole said angrily.

  “Don’t you dare hang up, you bastard. I deserve the truth for once!”

  “Calm down.”

  “The hell I will! So, let me get this straight. Noriko is repaying her mother and her grandmother’s debts to this Reiko person, your grandfather’s geisha, by surrogating for you. Is that right? By becoming Noriko’s patron, your father and you, by default, have bought her loyalty. I guess it’s far more sensible than asking an American woman, who might actually pose a threat by wanting to have a say in her children’s lives.”

  “My family is paying Noriko for her services. She’ll be able to give back the money owed to Reiko while providing a secure future for two old women who have sacrificed their entire lives for her.”

  “And what’s little Ms. Tokyo getting out of this, apart from a rich husband and US citizenship?”

  “Her freedom. She will no longer have to remain in the okiya.”

  “The whorehouse?”

  “Goddamn you, Sloan!”

  “Just answer me one thing, Cole.”

  “What!”

  “Have you collected on her mizuage? After all, it’s been handed to you on a silver platter. Have you fucked her yet?”

  The seconds ticked by, and after ten with no reply, I disconnected and hurled my phone against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces.

  Chapter 23

  MY RAGE erupted, a five-alarm inferno, scorching any hope for reconciliation. I wanted to hop on a plane to New York and strangle Cole with my bare hands. This betrayal was finite and irrevocable. I knew there would be no way to repair the damage. My psyche stumbled back down into the black hole of insecurity and started playing its old refrains. I was worthless, a loser, unable to keep my man or sustain a relationship. The thought of drugs crossed my mind, but I knew they weren’t going to put a stop to the inevitable. The demon was pulling me toward the bathroom, and I began to shake from the effort of holding back the need. I envisioned the fancy shaving kit sitting beside the lovely white porcelain mug. It was an old-fashioned straight razor that flipped open like a pocketknife, very Sweeney Todd and so fucking handy.

  Tin took one look at my face and the pieces of my iPhone scattered all over the carpet and knew I was in trouble.

  “What happened?”

  “Cole’s getting it on with Sailor Moon.”

  “Quoi?”

  “That Japanese bitch! I knew it the minute I laid eyes on her.”

  “Oh, chéri, do you need some X?”

  “No. I want you to get dressed and get out!”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I leaped off the bed and threw some clothes at him. “Get dressed now, or I’m walking out of this room. I’m sure I can get into all sorts of mischief in this bloody town.”

  “I’m dressing,” Tin said, pouting, “but I’m going to get Max. You mustn’t be alone.”

  “Do not get Max,” I said adamantly. “Do you understand?”

  Tin flailed his hands around like a windmill. “Honestly, Sloan. You need to get over Cole. He’s doing you a favor by showing his true colors. The man has issues that have nothing to do with his lack of eyesight. Merde!”

  Sinking back down on the bed, I placed my elbows on my thighs and buried my face in my hands. I couldn’t bear to have Tin witness my humiliation. “Get the fuck out, Tin. Please.”

  “Je pars!”

  He left in a huff, slamming the door behind him. I stayed in the same position for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. It didn’t help that I was lightheaded from hunger, and my head was pounding due to the spike of adrenaline rushing through me during the emotional phone call. All triggers I’d been told to avoid.

  How could he? I could forgive Cole anything but this. It boiled down to making me feel like I’d been his second choice. If he’d had the PGD option five years ago, would he have come out? I was starting to think that the only reason he’d chosen me was because I was the only one who didn’t mollycoddle him or treat him like an invalid. In my eyes, Cole had always been a strong and decisive man despite his disability. I was also physically drawn to him from the first night I moved into the apartment. Sadly, my feelings for him weren’t mutual. How could they be if he could easily move from my bed to hers? Were the last five years a big lie? Suddenly, nothing was what it seemed, and I was floundering in a sea of doubt.

  Releasing a shuddering breath, I stood and began to strip. No sense in fighting this any longer. I knew what the bottom line was going to be, and it wasn’t going to be tears. There would be no more crying over Cole Fujiwara. The bathroom beckoned, and I took the first step down my slide into hell. It was several degrees cooler in the tiled room, and it felt good against my hot skin. I reached for the white mug with the hotel logo and stared at the shaving paraphernalia for a long time. The razor had a red handle and was sealed in a plastic bag with an orange tag, indicating it had been sterilized. Now, wasn’t that fucking convenient? No worries about disease… just exsanguination.

  I took my time tearing off the plastic, secretly hoping that the prep work would halt my progress. It didn’t. I tossed the wrapper into the trashcan, and then I stepped into the shower enclosure and sat down with my legs sticking straight out. I’d left my boxers on for some reason. Turning the blade over, I studied it to make sure it had only a single edge. It had been a long time since I’d resorted to this form of pain management, and I hesitated. My hands were shaking. Did I really want to do this? Was this the answer? It had never solved anything in the past.

  Unconsciously, I picked a safer route, turning the sharp side away from my body. I drew a deep line into my thigh w
ith the dull edge. Soon, a light welt appeared with a few pinpricks of blood weeping through. It hurt like hell, but it accomplished the shift from internal to external pain. I was no longer entombed in a black box of nothingness. At least, these self-inflicted wounds were real and made me feel alive. I pressed the dull edge to my skin again, and once more after that. Before I knew it, I had at least ten lines on my right thigh. I was so engrossed in my task that I didn’t hear the bathroom door opening or the soft expletive escaping from Trent’s mouth.

  He bent down, took the blade out of my hand, and tossed it away. “Come with me,” he said, encircling my waist and lifting me up easily. He helped me step over the lip of the glass enclosure and moved me into the bedroom. I was unaware of anything but the soft voice telling me it would be okay. Once we got into the bedroom, Trent inspected my thigh, and when he was satisfied that I wouldn’t need any medical attention, he tucked me into bed. But not before he poured half a bottle of Listerine on my wounds. I gasped in shock, agonizing from the biting sting of the alcohol in the mouthwash.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, kissing me softly on the mouth. “It’s necessary.”

  “Go away.”

  “No.”

  I turned away from him but not before I noticed he was only in boxers and a T-shirt. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Tin was frantic with worry; he gave me his key.”

  “Fucking queen.”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  “Whatever.”

  Trent slipped into bed with me and gathered me close. I fought him and tried to escape. I didn’t want to listen to any advice or catch one whiff of pity, but he held on, imprisoning me within his muscular arms and legs. They wrapped around me like a silk rope, and I was bound to him. “Don’t fight me, Sloan.”

  “I don’t need your fucking help.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He continued to restrain me while I struggled to get free, but finally, I gave up and relaxed enough for him to loosen his grip slightly.

  “Is this incident something I should except on a regular basis?” he asked, murmuring softly against my ear.

  “I’m not your problem.”

  “What if I want you to be?”

  “Why the fuck would you want me? I’m a pathetic loser!”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t see shit. Would you please get out of my room?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll call management.”

  “You do that and they’ll get Max.”

  “Fuck!” I began to struggle again, but all it did was make him latch on that much tighter. I was his prisoner.

  “You’re stuck with me for now,” Trent said calmly. “Why don’t we order some food? There’s nothing like a hot meal to make you feel better.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care. You’re eating.”

  “Why does everyone have this need to shove food down my throat?”

  Trent kissed the top of my head and picked up the phone on the nightstand. He ordered tomato soup, a large salad of mixed greens we could share, and grilled cheese sandwiches―comfort food.

  It didn’t take very long for our meal to arrive, and after the waiter set up the rollaway table, placing everything on the white linen, Trent coaxed me into joining him. He found a sweatshirt and insisted that I wear it because I was still shivering. I’m sure it had to do with my low sugar level rather than the cutting. In terms of my history, tonight’s incident was relatively mild. I hadn’t actually cut my skin, but I knew it was only a question of time before I plunged headfirst into that sick world again. Yet one more reason to hate myself.

  I sat and watched Trent pick up his spoon. “Eat,” he said, pinning me down with a forceful stare.

  “What if I say no?”

  “Can you honestly say you’re not hungry?”

  I began to eat without another word. Little by little my appetite opened up, and soon I was shoveling in the soup and reaching for half a sandwich, which was still warm and oozing melted cheese. It was delicious, and I practically inhaled both halves. When we finished, Trent stood and went to the bathroom. I heard running water and the toilet flush, and he was back out in a few minutes. Now that I had something in my system, I was able to study my unexpected savior calmly. His T-shirt was white and boring, his boxers were navy-blue cotton and nothing out of the ordinary, yet he carried himself with so much confidence one tended to overlook the mundane. All I could see was that special something he exuded, and I was, once again, captivated by his presence.

  “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “You don’t mind? Cole hated it when I smoked.”

  He leveled me with a look that clearly said I’m not Cole, and don’t compare us. “I wouldn’t ask if it bothered me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ll go and get them.”

  He exited without another word, and I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I inspected my leg. It wasn’t as bad as I thought, although it hurt, and I knew I’d be feeling the burn for a few days. It looked like I’d been scratched by a wildcat, but the wounds were superficial and would heal without scaring. My main concern at this point was keeping Max in the dark. He would go insane if he found out I was cutting again.

  I heard the door, and I knew Trent was back. He passed me a lit cigarette and then lit one for himself. He got back in bed and patted the spot to his right. “Come sit with me.”

  “Tin should be returning any minute.”

  “He’s in my room. I asked him to switch with me for the night.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, climbing into the bed and pulling up the sheet to cover myself.

  Trent ignored me and continued to smoke. Finally, when he was done, he put the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray and viewed me dispassionately. “How long have you been a cutter?”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

  “This is why Max assumed you were a pain slut?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re really not.”

  “No.”

  “Are we going to move beyond monosyllables?”

  “Maybe.”

  Trent regarded me with eyes that were patient but uncompromising. I knew he wasn’t going to budge. He took the cigarette out of my hand and extinguished it. “When was the last time you had an incident?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “What set you off tonight?”

  “Cole.”

  “You shouldn’t let one person have so much power over you.”

  “That’s a strange comment, coming from you.”

  “Sharing power and surrendering during a sexual encounter are a far cry from being manipulated. What did he say to upset you so much?”

  “Cole doesn’t manipulate me.”

  “Is that right? What set you off, Sloan?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got all night.”

  “He slept with a woman.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He’s bisexual?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Most things in life are. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better getting it off your chest.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I didn’t say I’d fix it.”

  “Then why should I burden you?”

  “Because I’m interested and I care.”

  “Look, I’ll fuck you if that’s what you’re after.”

  The anger flared in his blue eyes, turning them dark and smoky. Trent’s placid demeanor was momentarily derailed, but he got himself under control. “Do you think I’m only here for the sex?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “There are lots of men out there without half your baggage.”

  “Why waste your time with me, then?”


  “If I’m here, it’s because I choose to be. I don’t let circumstances rule my life. You, on the other hand, appear to be rudderless. You’re like a small boat floating on a sea of doubt. So the question isn’t whether I’m wasting my time, Sloan. The big question is: Are you worth the bother?”

  “What?”

  “Are you man enough to come to grips with who you are and move on?”

  Chapter 24

  “AM I man enough?” I repeated, feeling my anger building once more. How dare he presume I was weak? “Who the hell are you calling a coward?” I said, pushing Trent away. He clung to me like stubborn ivy, which pissed me off even more. I began to twist and turn, trying to escape his iron grip, but the more I wiggled, the harder he held on. “Let go of me, you bastard.”

  “Settle down.”

  “That’ll only happen if you get the hell out of my room.”

  “No,” he said, straddling me in one swift move. He held my wrists and stretched my arms high above my head, pinning me to the mattress. “You need to listen.”

  “Fuck that,” I spat out, turning away so I couldn’t see his face.

  “Look at me, Sloan.”

  “No.”

  “I have all night,” Trent growled, tightening his grip.

  In a burst of energy I was able to get my hands free, and I flailed at his chest and shoulders, slapping at the hard muscles, hoping he’d relent. He growled his displeasure and yanked off my sweatshirt. Ripping it in half, he tied my hands together without even breaking a sweat. It happened so fast I was too surprised to do anything but yell. “Untie me, you asshole!”

  “Not until you behave,” he said, checking his handiwork to make sure the binding wasn’t too tight. My wrists were crossed over each other, but my fingers were able to wiggle freely.

  “I’ll kill you when I get loose.”

  Trent chuckled, amused by my feeble attempt to intimidate him. He was quite satisfied that I wasn’t going anywhere. “You listen to me, Sloan.”

  “Up yours.”

  “Cole doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Shut up! Don’t even mention his name.”