Cutting Cords (Cutting Cords Series Book 1)

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Why don’t you own a coffee pot?” Sloan asked in mock outrage.

  “You’re welcome to buy whatever you want, but I need to be here when you put things away. I have a system.”

  “No kidding,” Sloan grumbled. “I noticed last night. You’re persnickety as fuck.”

  “I prefer to call it organized.”

  “Why are you having rice for breakfast?” Sloan asked, changing the subject. “That’s just weird.”

  “I have my heavier meals in the morning and at lunch. I got used to eating this way when I was playing baseball.”

  “It’s bizarre.”

  “What I can’t handle are mountains of bacon, hash browns, and three eggs sunny-side up. I prefer rice instead, and I add a scrambled egg and lean meat for protein.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  “Would you like a bowl?”

  “No thanks. I’d rather have a latte with a triple shot of espresso. Is there a Starbucks close by?”

  “Around the corner,” Cole replied, picking up the chopsticks. He took another mouthful of food and chewed, waiting for Sloan to leave. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

  “About last night,” Sloan said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you sounded like you were in pain. I had to find out what was going on.”

  “You can’t walk in on me when I’m fast asleep.”

  “Like I said, dude. Strange noises merit inspection.”

  “Let’s get a few things straight, okay?” Cole put his bowl and chopsticks aside. “You and I will have to work out some kind of system so we’re not intruding in each other’s business.”

  “Hey, I don’t care what you do with your life.”

  “And I’m not going to pretend I give a damn about yours, but you can’t barge in unannounced. What if I had company?”

  “You didn’t,” Sloan pointed out. “Do you even have a girlfriend? Should I be expecting her to show once in a while?”

  “I’m seeing someone, yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Juliana, but she doesn’t have a key to the apartment, so she’s not going to drop by unexpectedly. I prefer to invite people over.”

  “Christ, have you always been so inflexible?”

  Cole shrugged.

  Sloan snorted. “Whatever, dude.”

  “Getting back to my bedroom—”

  “I’ve got it.” Sloan stopped him in midsentence. “It won’t happen again. I’m going to get some coffee before I hurl.”

  “Do you have plans for today?” Cole asked, trying to smooth things over.

  “I didn’t, but now I’m going to the store to buy some real food. Then I think I’ll explore the neighborhood, get used to my surroundings. Tomorrow is Monday and I’ve got to be at Pratt around ten in the morning, so I’d like to walk around campus later on.”

  “You do realize your school is only a few blocks from here. You can practically fall into your classroom,” Cole said.

  “Fuck, yeah. I won’t have to rush in the morning.”

  “What time is your first class?”

  “I’m certain it’s around nine or so, but I need to look at my schedule again. What about you? Do you work or go to school?”

  “I’m getting my master’s online, but I do attend a few classes on campus each week,” Cole replied, skipping all the details. Fortunately, Sloan was too caught up in his quest for caffeine to ask for more information.

  “Do you need anything from the store?” Sloan asked as an afterthought. “And don’t ask me to buy any repulsive shit like seaweed or dried eel.”

  Cole shook his head, smiling at the remark. “I’m good, Sloan. Thanks.”

  I spun around and headed toward the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and get the hell away from Cole. I had the shakes pretty bad, probably due to my coffee craving or the aftereffects of last night’s incident. Each time I gave in to my need to self-harm, I paid for it the next day. The physical pain was bad enough, but knowing I’d lost control was even worse.

  The shrinks had prescribed antidepressants, convinced the pills would help me to cope with my feelings. I knew they were wrong. I’d been carving myself up for years, and no happy pill was going to make me stop.

  I pushed down my sweats and stared at my thighs dispassionately. The angry S marks were a dull pink in some places, and others were crusting over with deep red where I’d broken skin.

  My legs were a roadmap of misery, detailing different levels of torture I’d inflicted on myself through the years. Scar over scar had formed, turning into a personalized tattoo from hell. I grabbed the antiseptic spray and doused myself liberally, enduring the sting and hoping I wouldn’t get an infection. At least I hadn’t used a knife or blade last night, simply because they weren’t handy. I’d have to stock up on those as well.

  I pulled my sweats back up, opting to stay in the loose pants, so I could be pain-free for at least an hour. I grabbed my wallet, cell phone, and headed out.

  The Starbucks was literally a stone’s throw away. I’d never been so happy to smell coffee in my life. After ordering my latte, with the extra jolts of espresso, I moved over to a table by the window and sat down to savor every last drop of the lifesaving brew.

  The joint was packed, quite normal for a coffee shop at nine in the morning. What was more interesting to me was the number of gay men who were strolling in and out. My mood improved by the minute. Maybe I’d finally move from random sex to something with substance. I wondered, though, why Cole had chosen this location. He could have picked any part of Manhattan, but Fifteenth Street in Chelsea was on the border of the gayest part of town.

  My cell phone beeped at me, and the number on caller ID was my dad’s.

  “Hey,” I answered, knowing he’d be pissed ’cause I didn’t call him last night as promised.

  “I see you got there safe and sound.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call.”

  “Well, I figured you were in good shape. I didn’t read about any mad terrorists hijacking your plane.”

  “Not this time, Dad. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, I don’t really know much about Cole, other than what Ken has told me. The boy is somewhat of a mystery.”

  “He’s pretty anal.”

  “I’m talking about why no one will tell me why he quit playing baseball,” Joe replied. “He was quite good at it, almost as good as Junior.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “No, really? You mean someone can actually come close?”

  “Stop it, Sloan.”

  “I’ve got to go, Dad. Talk to you later.” I disconnected before he could say another word. I had no desire to listen to him apologize for mentioning my brother.

  Junior Driscoll, my younger brother, was my dad’s pride and joy. He was a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants and proudly walking in our father’s footsteps. He was everything I wasn’t and the biggest thorn in my side.

  We were eighteen months apart, but from the very beginning, he’d stolen the spotlight. He was better looking for one thing. He had my father’s body structure, and by the time we were in our early teens, he’d passed me in the height and weight departments. I was ten times smarter than Junior, who had trouble solving a simple math problem without my help, but it didn’t count for shit. As far as Dad was concerned, my brother’s ability to hit the ball out of the park and pitch till he dropped overshadowed his shortcomings. He was also straight and a ladies’ man. Like I said, everything I wasn’t.

  Cole put the phone down and waited for the cab to show up. The doorman said he would ring as soon as he could flag one down. Hopefully Sloan would be back before then. He’d forgotten to give him the keys to the apartment: a major sticking point since he had a meeting with his counselor at Lighthouse Guild International in about an hour. Cole couldn’t be late, and Sloan would have to wait in the hallway if he didn’t catch him in time.

&nb
sp; His weekly meetings were a great source of comfort to him. It was the one place he could let down his guard and stop pretending life was normal. Lighthouse Guild had all the help available to anyone who was suffering vision loss or who was already visually impaired. They had the finest doctors and counselors and every resource one could possibly want to help people cope.

  His counselor was also a psychiatrist, trained to work with the handicapped, but more importantly, good-natured and wise. Dr. John Butterman wasn’t condescending, nor was he overly optimistic, dishing out false hope. He was direct and grounded but supportive of everything Cole was going through. He was also legally blind and able to relate on every level.

  Cole’s phone rang, announcing the arrival of the cab, seconds before he heard Sloan knocking at the front door. He yanked the door open and was relieved to see Sloan’s outline, loaded down with brown paper bags.

  “Thank goodness,” Cole exclaimed.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got to go out for a while, and I realized you didn’t have a key.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. It would have sucked if you were gone, since I bought two gallons of ice cream.”

  “Jesus, Sloan. Didn’t you buy anything healthy?”

  “Ice cream is dairy,” Sloan demurred.

  Cole shook his head. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “What about the key?”

  “We’ll take care of it later.”

  “Okay. Should I put all my things away?”

  “Yeah. I’ll probably change everything around when I get back, but it can wait.”

  “Why don’t I just put away the perishables, and we’ll do the rest when you get home.”

  “Fine,” Cole muttered, already making his way out the door. He counted the ten steps down the hallway to the elevator. The familiar ding announced its arrival. He stepped in and pressed the down button, which was on the lower left of the display panel. The elevator stopped on the first floor, and he counted the five steps that took him out the door and then eight more to the curb where the taxi waited for him. He got into the cab, looking like any other sighted man.

  Chapter 4

  I put away the ice cream and decided to take advantage of Cole’s absence by exploring the apartment. I knew he’d have a fit if he found out I was snooping, but I was a naturally inquisitive person, and I wanted a little more information about my mysterious roommate.

  The living room was well-appointed, a casual display of deep pockets. His entertainment center was top of the line, with a first-class gaming system and a huge flat-screen TV. There was a computer to one side against the wall with shelves over it, filled with books and assorted binders. I assumed he had Wi-Fi and decided to check my e-mail on his desktop, hoping it wasn’t locked or at least had a guest entry.

  I nudged the mouse to wake up the computer. The wallpaper was an image of Cole in a baseball uniform, looking straight at the camera. He had a slight smile on his face, and those deep blue eyes found mine across the electronic barrier, making my blood boil and my cock swell. There was no denying the attraction—he was hot as fuck.

  I wondered why I had never followed his career. Probably because Dad and Junior talked about baseball nonstop and always left me out of the conversation. They might have mentioned Cole, but I couldn’t remember. If he were still in the major leagues, I’d pay good money to attend his games, just to watch him walk out on the mound. His uniform looked like it was spray-painted on him. My thoughts went back to last night, and the memory of his unclad body made me whimper out loud. I clicked on the browser icon before I did anything dumb.

  All thoughts of sex stopped when I was confronted with the outrageous font size that leaped up on the screen. It was five times larger than I was used to, and I was a little taken aback. What was this? It made me dizzy; the letters so huge everything felt distorted. I’d have to ask Cole why he’d set it this way. I ended up disconnecting and moved toward his bedroom, pushed the door open, and walked right in without a twinge of guilt. I threw myself on his bed and buried my face in one of the pillows, inhaling his scent. It was a subtle mix of spice with a touch of musk, which made my dick swell up again. I gave in this time and tore off my sweatpants. I imagined Cole hovering over me while I stroked my cock, his dark hair falling like silk over my face. I envisioned him panting as he thrust in and out of my ass. I could almost feel the sting of his cock stretching me and pegging me right in the prostate, causing me to come all over myself in messy spurts. I made a concerted effort to avoid the sheets or I’d never hear the end of it.

  When my heart rate finally slowed back down to a normal rhythm, I went to the bathroom to wipe the spunk off my torso with a washcloth, drew my sweats back on, and returned to the bedroom.

  There were several books beside his bed. Most of them had to do with Japanese history, but one of them looked to be a regular novel and I picked it up. Shogun by James Clavell. Maybe he’d let me borrow the book, so I could learn more about the Japanese culture, which seemed to be such a huge part of his life. He was only half-Japanese, but he was embracing the culture wholeheartedly. When I cracked open the spine to get a preview, I was confronted with big print. I mean, fucking huge first-grader baby-block print. I put the book down quickly, afraid to hold it in my hands. I was creeped out for some reason. Something was very wrong here, and I was determined to get to the bottom of this as soon as I could.

  Dr. Butterman’s office was small but functional. Everything was within reach, but more importantly for a sight-impaired person, easy to find. The colors were brighter, and the font sizes on his books and magazines were larger. The king-sized computer monitor was designed specifically for the vision impaired. It utilized a software program highly recommended by the Lighthouse Guild and was the same one Cole had installed on his PC at home.

  He sat up when the door pushed open and the doctor walked in.

  “Good morning, Cole.”

  “John,” Cole acknowledged with a slight nod. The doctor insisted that his patients call him by his first name.

  “How’s it going?” John asked, hefting his large body into the black leather chair.

  “Fine.”

  “Did you come on the bus or by subway?”

  Cole was silent, afraid to answer the question.

  Dr. Butterman sighed and pushed away from his desk. “Cole….”

  “Look, I’m not ready yet,” Cole said heatedly.

  “And you never will be if you don’t bite the bullet and do it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cole said, lowering his head. “Give me a few more weeks.”

  “We’ve been talking about this for months now. You’ve got to stop pretending this is not happening.”

  Cole snorted. “Clearly.”

  “Then start acting like a blind man,” John said gently.

  “I’m not blind yet.”

  “True,” John agreed. “It might take years, or you may wake up tomorrow and be completely blind. Then what’ll you do?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

  “Cole, we’ve had this conversation too many times, yet you continue to fight me every step of the way,” John reminded him. “My job is to make your transition as painless as possible, but I can’t be effective if you don’t let down your guard. This stubborn streak of yours will be your undoing in the end. Stop dithering and make a decision. Cane or guide dog? Throwing money away on limousines and a car service is counterproductive.”

  “I have more than enough in my savings.”

  “It won’t last forever.”

  “Look, John. My family is wealthy and I’ll always have enough to take private transport.”

  “What if you find yourself in a situation where you can’t get a car? Then what’ll you do?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  John sighed loudly. “Why are you even here? You come weekly, but you don’t take my advice.”

  “I’m not tapping a cane in front of me,” Col
e said brokenly. “I’d rather die first.”

  John stretched his arm across the desk and Cole met him halfway, grasping his hand like a lifeline while tears streaked down his cheeks. On a sob, he blurted, “I won’t do it.”

  “Cole, there’s no shame in being blind.”

  “There is for me, John. I’m a fourth-generation Japanese-American who was destined to bring great pride to my family. All I’ve brought so far is heartache.”

  “Through no fault of your own.”

  “But I’m an only son,” Cole persisted. “I was meant to follow in my father’s footsteps, yet I had to give up his dream because of this disease. Now, I’m being pressured into marrying, into giving him a grandson to carry on the Fujiwara legacy. All I can think of is that I have a flaw I could potentially pass on to my child and I can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “Is it the main reason you don’t want to marry?”

  “Let’s table this for another time.” Cole stood abruptly, backhanding his tears. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” John ordered. “I’m here to help, not to judge in any way.”

  “I said drop it.”

  “Sit down, Cole.”

  Cole flopped down on the chair. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Aren’t you putting your father’s needs ahead of yours? It’s only creating more stress in an already challenging situation.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What do you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  “How about seeing one foot in front of me?”

  “Beyond that, Cole. I know you’re getting your master’s in Asian studies. Are you planning to teach?”

  “I’ve thought about it; however, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable in front of a class when I can’t see anyone.”

  “So long as you are visible, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “A pathetic blind man fumbling his way around his desk?”

  “This pity party of yours is getting really old,” John scolded.

  “My life is completely in ruins. I’m entitled to feel sorry for myself.”