Vessel

Sequel to Cutting Cords

Five years into their relationship, Sloan Driscoll’s peaceful existence is suddenly upended. His lover, Cole Fujiwara, gives him an ultimatum: agree to a surrogate birth or break up. Noriko Evans, a beautiful woman of Japanese/American descent, is handpicked by Cole’s father to be the surrogate. At the same time, Trent Hamilton, model and established Dominant, sets his eyes on Sloan, offering him another life choice.

Sloan is thrown off balance by this series of events he can neither understand nor control. He’d thought the topic of children had been laid to rest years ago, but with the advent of a new form of genetic testing, Cole’s fear of passing on retinitis pigmentosa, a disease that leads to blindness, has been greatly reduced. Noriko’s abrupt appearance threatens Sloan, as does Sloan’s attraction to Trent and a side of the BDSM world he’d never thought to explore.

Will Sloan be able to muster the inner strength he’ll need to deal with one shocking revelation after another, or will he succumb to a dangerous coping mechanism? His decisions will either lead to salvation… or hasten the end of the relationship that literally saved his life.

Cover Artist: Anne Cain


Prologue

THE sun was starting to creep over the horizon when Reiko awoke. She could tell what time it was by the faint rays of light filtering through the blinds, illuminating her small bedroom. There was no need to look at the clock. She was a creature of habit and had always risen at dawn, eager to start her day long before anyone else stirred. She lay on her futon for a few more minutes, enjoying the warmth of the thick down comforter that covered her frail body. Soon, she would have to fling it off and brave the frosty air to begin this momentous day. It had been a decade since she had awoken with such a feeling of anticipation, and she forced herself to rise, knowing it would take more time to achieve the desired result because she would have to do it herself.

The okiya was silent as she moved about slowly, preparing her morning tea. Reiko remembered a time when the dawning had resonated with the tittering voices of young women on the brink of maturity. The geishas in training, the maiko, had occupied her every waking moment since she had taken over as okaa-san of her own house fifty years ago. Her days had been productive then, abounding with important decisions that could improve or destroy someone’s life. She had trained a legion of women in the ancient art of being a geiko and had ruled with an iron hand, but time had been her enemy and the modern world her undoing. The traditions that were an integral part of her universe since she was fourteen years old no longer applied in this century when transactions were completed on cell phones and e-mails. The mizuage was a thing of the past, and the services of a geisha no more necessary than the hefty price tag that came with equipping them. The kimonos and obis that had cost thousands of yen and had once lined the walls of one room, had been sold one by one to support her, now that she could no longer count on the income generated by the karyukai. The disadvantage of living well into her eighties was that she’d run out of money, and the meager amount she received from her government pension was hardly enough to keep a tiny sliver of fish in her rice bowl.

Yesterday’s phone call had been a most welcome surprise, and an opportunity she had jumped on with the eagerness of a sixty-year-old. Her arthritis and assorted aches and pains were forgotten in the momentary rush of excitement at being at the center of an undoubtedly protracted negotiation. Fujiwara-san had been very specific about his needs, and Reiko was pleased that, once again, she was in a position to provide a service.

She adjusted the magnifying mirror and gazed at her face dispassionately. Who was that old lady with the skin of a desiccated mushroom? No one she knew. Reiko’s mental picture of herself had not changed through the years. She was still the beautiful geisha who had elicited voluminous praise from those who had been lucky enough to be graced by her elegant presence. Her mizuage had broken records, and when Hiro Fujiwara, Ken’s father, had paid the astronomical figure to become her patron, she’d reached the pinnacle of her career and had become a legend in Kyoto. Now, Hiro’s progeny needed a favor, and she was not going to dishonor his memory by greeting Ken-san as an old crone. The white rice powder would hide every wrinkle and imperfection, and the black wig would cover the sparse white hair that barely concealed the mottled skin of her ancient scalp. She reached for the pot of paste and poured water into the dried out concoction and began to mix it with her gnarled fingers. It would take some doing, but she would be presentable in approximately one hour, in time to wrestle with the only formal kimono she had left. By the time her visitor arrived, she would be more than presentable for the tea ceremony she intended to perform with the grace and panache of a geisha in her prime.

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