Cutting Cords (Cutting Cords Series Book 1)

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Why’d you ask me to marry you then? Why?” she screamed.

  “I suppose I felt obligated.”

  “You owe me!”

  “I guess so, but this isn’t the way to pay you back. I’m really sorry.”

  “Fuck you, Cole. I’ve had it with all the bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She left, making quite certain the entire building heard the door slam on her way out. He’d never heard Juliana spew such hate, but he didn’t blame her. It was his fault for dragging out the inevitable ending.

  The drama between them had ended over an hour ago. It was now almost midnight and Sloan had not returned. Cole knew better than to expect Sloan to keep his promise about Max, but he secretly hoped this time things might be different.

  He’d peeled back all his layers for Sloan, given everything he could possibly give. They’d done things he’d only read about, and the reality was a thousand times better. He knew Sloan had more experience and would probably consider their evening another hookup. If that was the case, Cole would learn how to deal with it. Right then, he was still basking in the afterglow, despite the fight with Juliana. He was sitting in a dark living room by himself, but he was at peace for the first time in over three years.

  Cole had always been a light sleeper. Since his diagnosis, a part of him was constantly vigilant, reluctant to let his guard down in case he missed something. He’d learned to distinguish everyday sounds, picking out the subtle nuances he’d often missed in the past. The distinct cry for help that had wrenched him awake was impossible to ignore.

  He’d fallen asleep on the sofa waiting for Sloan to come home but never heard the key in the lock. Now, in a sitting position, he glanced around the living room. There was no sign of life, and it was still pitch dark outside. He padded down the hallway to his bedroom. The unmade bed and lingering scent of sex was a tangible reminder of his roommate who’d apparently never made it home.

  To confirm, he headed for Sloan’s room. It was empty. Disappointed, he returned to his room and stopped dead when he heard a repressed sob followed by a hair-raising moan straight from the depths of hell.

  More uneasy than ever, he pushed open the bathroom door. There was nothing out of the ordinary except for a metallic smell he’d picked up several weeks ago. If pressed, he would have sworn it was blood, but right then, it was purely supposition since the room was pristine. Perhaps his imagination was working overtime after the big argument with Juliana.

  Nonetheless, he dropped to his knees and, on all fours, scurried around like a cockroach, inspecting the tiles at close range. When he got to the tub, he pushed aside the shower curtain and smothered a horrified gasp when he saw Sloan. He was lying on his back, naked, with his eyes closed and his upper thighs covered in blood. Cole could only see bits and pieces of the wounds, but the vivid color stood out in macabre relief against the pale skin. In a sick sort of way, he was glad the full extent of the horror was muted by his impeded sight.

  “What happened?” he asked shakily.

  Eyelids fluttered open and shame flooded the smoky orbs. “Get out of here, Cole. I can handle this.”

  Cole hardly recognized Sloan’s tortured expression. Gone was the self-assured man who deliberately wheedled Cole into doing the right thing. This Sloan was lost and broken.

  “Were you in a fight or an accident?” Cole hoped for an affirmative answer to explain the mutilation; then again, what kind of first responder would release Sloan in this condition?

  “No.” Sloan’s voice broke on another sob. “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Let me help you.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Cole. Nobody can fix me.” Sloan sat up and hugged his legs tightly against his body. Cole laid a hand on Sloan’s shoulder, finding it as fragile as a child’s and colder than a marble statue. He was also shaking uncontrollably. Cole knew from past sporting injuries that Sloan was going into shock. It was time to get him out of the tub.

  “Sloan, please, let me take care of you.”

  “Why waste your time? I’m such a loser.”

  “No, you’re not, but we can circle back to my reasons later. First, we need to address your wounds.”

  Since Sloan didn’t fight back, Cole assumed it would be okay to set things in motion. After wrapping him with a large towel, they shuffled into the master bedroom. Cole pushed aside his duvet, and removed the towel he’d wrapped around Sloan, spreading it over the fitted sheet. When he was done, he helped Sloan onto the mattress and covered him with another clean towel to keep him warm. “I’m going to get some supplies from the bathroom, okay?”

  There was no response, and for a moment, Cole thought Sloan might have fainted. He shook him gently. “Dude, can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed him on the lips. “Whoever did this to you will pay.”

  “I did it,” Sloan admitted.

  “Should I call a doctor?”

  “No!” Sloan was emphatic. “They’ll have me in a straitjacket within minutes.”

  Cole stopped his protest with another soft kiss. “Relax; I won’t call anyone.”

  “Promise?”

  “I swear it’ll just be the two of us.”

  “Thank you,” Sloan replied, choking back another sob.

  Cole felt sick to his stomach. What could have possibly reduced his brash young friend into this needy wreck? First thing he had to do was assess the damage. “We need to sterilize the area.”

  “Spray it with antiseptic,” Sloan instructed. “It’ll heal on its own.”

  “Let me be the judge.”

  With supplies in hand, Cole blinked several times, as if it would improve his vision, but the pointless gesture did nothing to expand his line of sight. He would have to feel his way around the injuries and hope that Sloan would answer some basic questions like had he used a knife or a blade? How deep were the cuts? Could he stop the bleeding without stitches?

  He’d sustained many injuries as a ballplayer and was familiar with basic first aid. Some of his teammates had gone into shock when the injury was severe, and others gritted their teeth and bore the pain like modern-day gladiators. Sloan’s clammy skin and quick breaths meant he was already in shock and would most likely faint if he didn’t work fast.

  After dabbing Sloan’s thighs with a warm washcloth, he let his fingers run lightly over several gashes down each thigh. They were in the exact spot he’d felt the roughness the last time they had sex. At the time, he thought Sloan might have a mild case of eczema, but now he knew better.

  He patted each wound with a cotton ball he’d saturated in rubbing alcohol to ensure a sterile environment. Sloan didn’t even flinch, which was telling in and of itself. Antibiotic cream was swabbed on liberally, and the deeper cuts were pulled together with butterfly tape. He couldn’t tell if the bleeding had slowed down or stopped without revealing his partial blindness, but Cole needed some sort of reassurance. “Does it feel better?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll sleep in my own bed so you don’t have to deal with me anymore.”

  “No, you won’t,” Cole insisted. “I want to keep an eye on you.”

  “Why?” Sloan let out a long sigh.

  “Don’t bother trying to figure it out.”

  “Cole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry you had to witness my breakdown.”

  “I’m not. You were here for me when I needed you.”

  “Are you really going to stay with me?”

  “Yes,” Cole promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 31

  I awoke to a familiar pain and the sudden realization of another body snuggled up against mine. Certain that Cole would experience the usual morning-after regrets, I was elated to feel his sturdy torso spooning against my back, his arm encircling my waist. He had slipped on sweats and a T-shirt sometime during the night, but I was still naked and feeling suddenly vulnerable.

 
“You awake?” he whispered against my neck, making my skin erupt in goose bumps.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Ashamed.”

  He rolled me over and looked straight into my eyes. Concern swamped his stormy blue depths, and I felt even more embarrassed. What right did I have to burden him with my bullshit when Cole was going blind? There was no comparison.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said softly.

  “There’s plenty.”

  He squinted, trying to get a better look, but I turned away so he wouldn’t see my tears. He frowned in consternation. “I’m not arguing with you on an empty stomach. Get up, get dressed, and come to the kitchen.”

  My response was surprising, given how I hated taking orders from anyone, but my renewed desire to spare him any more grief than necessary put a lid on my aggression. “Aye, aye, Shogun.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Why? I think it’s kind of cool.”

  “How come?”

  “After seeing the novel on your nightstand, I found a secondhand bookstore close by and bought one of their beat-up copies for two bucks. It was entertaining and I learned a lot about your ancestors. You would have made a great shogun.”

  Cole beamed. “You always manage to surprise me, Sloan. What made you read the book?”

  “We didn’t have a lot in common. I thought it might give us something to talk about.”

  He nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. Now, get up, please,” Cole asked in a much gentler tone of voice.

  “Okay.”

  By the time I got to the kitchen, he had already made the coffee, which I noticed immediately. He’d also started a small pot of rice. Cole placed a light green porcelain platter in front of me with pieces of sashimi on one side, cooked shrimp and tuna on the other.

  “I wasn’t sure if you ate raw fish or not,” Cole said, “so I cooked yours.”

  “When did you do this?” I was shocked by the elaborate preparation.

  “While you were sleeping.”

  “Wow.”

  “You must be hungry,” he remarked. “I don’t hear you bitching about Pop-Tarts.”

  I reached for his hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. “Thank you for watching over me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are we always going to eat like this?”

  “Only if you don’t mind.”

  “I guess it’ll depend on my mood,” I conceded. “Right now, I’m starving and everything looks good.”

  “Do you eat raw fish?” Cole asked.

  “I’ve never had any.”

  Cole picked up a shiny pink nugget with his chopsticks, dipped it in the dark sauce, and lifted it toward my mouth. “Open up.”

  I expected something horribly fishy, but the sauce was laced with horseradish and ginger. It opened up my sinuses and made my eyes water. “Holy smokes,” I muttered with a loud sniff. “That was unexpected but shockingly good.”

  “And nutritious,” Cole said smugly. “Have some rice with it, so you get your carbs.”

  “Have you always been so nurturing?” I was curious about this side of Cole. He was an only son and spoiled rotten from what I’d seen so far. I didn’t know where this was coming from.

  “I look after the people I care about,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  “Cole.”

  “You don’t have to respond, Sloan. It is what it is.”

  “We need to talk about last night.”

  “As soon as we’re done eating.”

  We continued to eat in comfortable silence. The tension that had always thrummed between us like a live wire had morphed into a comfortable hum, and now, we were two guys enjoying each other’s company.

  I cleared the table when we were done, and Cole didn’t stop me, mindful of the comment I’d made the last time we’d shared a meal. “Cooks shouldn’t have to clean up.”

  When everything had been put away, Cole followed me to the living room. He sat in his easy chair, across from the sofa where I was sitting. It felt more like an interrogation than a conversation, and I asked him to move closer. It would be easier to talk about my issues with his arms around me.

  Cole got up and sank down on the sofa. He rested one arm on my shoulder, and I snuggled closer. Sucking in a lungful, I blurted the awful truth. “I’m a cutter, Cole.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I self-harm.”

  He was silent for a few minutes, and I gave him credit for not pushing me away or walking out of the room. After absorbing my information, he confessed, “I don’t know much about it, Sloan. You’ll have to educate me.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Do you want the psychobabble version?”

  “For starters.”

  “According to my research, people self-harm to try to regain control over an untenable life or situation. By physically attacking our bodies, we’re momentarily distracted from the condition that’s causing so much misery.”

  “Does it help?”

  “Not really. It’s a pathetic attempt to fill the black void. It doesn’t take long for the internal struggles to come rushing back, and then I’m cutting again. It’s a horrible, vicious way of dealing with my problems, but it’s addictive, like alcohol or drugs. I can’t seem to quit.”

  “Have you ever sought a doctor’s help?”

  “You mean a shrink? I’ve seen several over the years, and although we’ve determined the root cause, we can’t seem to work out a solution.”

  “What about antidepressants?”

  “Sure, they’ve been offered and refused because of how they make me feel—dull and unfocused. I can’t create when my mind is fogged up. To be fair, my father has gone over and above trying to get me the help I need, but this compulsion is hard to break.”

  “Does it ever go dormant?”

  “Yes. When I feel good about myself, like when I got the scholarship to Pratt. I stopped cutting for over three months.”

  “What happened to trigger it again?”

  “My mother died.”

  “I’m sure it was devastating, but you have no control over life and death. How can cutting take away the pain of losing a parent?”

  “It allowed me to focus on something other than my mom’s suffering.”

  “Were you guys close?”

  “Very. She got me, whereas my dad never did and still doesn’t.”

  “My parents are sort of clueless about me as well, so don’t feel like you’re alone.”

  “I know everyone has issues they deal with on a daily basis. Some people drink, some smoke weed, others spend money like it’s being printed in their garage. I happen to cut myself. It sounds trite to compare it to other addictions, when it’s one of the most demeaning ways of escape, but you become immune after a while.”

  “How many times have you cut yourself since you moved here?”

  “Last night was the third time.”

  “Three times in almost three months. Is that good or average?”

  “It’s pretty good. I used to cut almost every day.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sloan. It’s a wonder you have any skin on your legs.”

  “I used to do both my arms and legs. Rotate, kind of, but my parents started to comment on the long sleeves in the dead of summer, so now it’s pretty much relegated to my upper thighs. No one ever sees them.”

  “I do.”

  I didn’t remind him that I’d been naked with him two times and he hadn’t noticed.

  “What happened last night?” Cole asked. “I thought everything we shared before Juliana’s call was amazing.”

  “It was incredible, wasn’t it?”

  “It meant a lot to me.”

  “Really?”

  “Stop fishing, Sloan. Did Max say anything to upset you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I knew he was up to no good,” he said caustically.
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  “It’s not what you think. Max has been instrumental in opening the right doors.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I told him about modeling and the possible contract with Klas.

  “What else is going on with you two?”

  “I’ve slept with him on more than one occasion.”

  “Did you last night?” He looked more upset about the sex than the cutting.

  “No.”

  “So what happened to make you reach for a blade?”

  “Have you ever heard of BDSM?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  I pulled away, looking at him with renewed interest. “Do you participate in the scene?”

  “No, but I’m well-read,” he deadpanned.

  I was relieved by his answer. “For a moment there, I thought you were a closet Dom.”

  “I’m not, but apparently Max is. Did he hurt you?” Cole asked intently.

  “No, but he’s convinced I’m a submissive, as well as a pain slut. He’s trying to help me figure out why I cut, but I’ve come to realize that I’m not submissive nor do I enjoy the pain.”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out,” Cole said disparagingly. “He just wants to fuck you and making it sound like physical therapy takes away the creep factor.”

  “That may or may not be true, but it’s too early in our relationship to make a final judgment. He gave me some reading material on BDSM, and I’ve since learned that you don’t have to be a doormat to be a sub. There are powerful men, at the top of their game, who enjoy relinquishing momentary control, and others do it for the pain. I let Max use a flogger on me last night to see if it would turn me on.”

  “And?”

  “It was an epic fail.”

  “How could you allow him to touch you after what we shared? Don’t you know how much you mean to me?”

  Stung by his accusation, I wriggled out of his embrace and faced him. He looked outraged by my insensitivity, like I was supposed to be some sort of mind reader.

  “I didn’t think I meant a goddamn thing to you, Cole. Aren’t I your convenient booty call? You’ll marry Juliana and live happily ever after.”