Page 1 of Off Limits
1
The key stuckin the lock—of course it did. Asher Sutter jiggled it irritably, blowing a strand of dark hair from his eyes.
"Come on, you piece of?—"
With a reluctant groan, the ancient lock finally surrendered, the cabin door swinging open on protesting hinges. A wall of stale air rushed out, carrying the unmistakable scent of abandonment—dust, old coffee, and something unmistakably his father.
Asher stood frozen on the threshold, key dangling from his fingers, suddenly unprepared for the sensory ambush of memory. "Fuck," he muttered, because what else could you say when returning to the scene of your greatest failures?
Three years since he'd last seen this place. Three years since the night he'd stumbled down that very driveway, duffel bag over his shoulder, his father's disappointed silence heavier than any shouted argument could have been.
Three years of pretending Ray Sutter didn't exist, that Asher had sprung fully formed from nothingness rather than from the loinsof the great forest ranger, the mountain man, the paragon of rugged self-sufficiency.
And now Ray was dead, and this remote mountain land was apparently Asher's.
He stepped inside, dropping his bag by the door with a soft thud that echoed through the empty space. The cabin looked smaller than he remembered—one great room combining kitchen and living area, a hallway leading to what he knew were two small bedrooms and a surprisingly decent bathroom. His father's practical concession to modern plumbing.
"Home sweet fucking home," Asher said to the empty room, voice brittle.
Dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through windows that needed washing. The place was cluttered, but not dirty—his father had always been organized in his own way. Organized enough to keep living, just not organized enough to prepare for dying.
The heart attack had been sudden. Massive, the doctors said. He wouldn't have suffered long. A small mercy, they called it, as if anything about death at fifty could be considered merciful.
Asher moved toward the stone fireplace that dominated the far wall, eyes catching on the collection of framed photos arranged on the mantle. His steps faltered as he recognized himself staring back—not just childhood photos, but more recent ones. Him in his cap and gown at high school graduation. A candid shot from what looked like last year, maybe grabbed from social media, looking older and harder than he remembered feeling.
"You kept track," he murmured, picking up the frame, running his thumb over the glass. "You nosy bastard."
The complicated knot of emotions in his chest tightened. Anger, grief, confusion—and underlying it all, a stubborn, unwanted thread of love that refused to die despite his best efforts. His father had been keeping tabs on him. Even during their estrangement, Ray Sutter hadn't completely cut his son loose.
Asher set the photo down with trembling fingers, unsure if the revelation made things better or infinitely worse.
His eyes fell on a calendar hanging beside the fireplace, one of those free ones from the local feed store, featuring majestic wildlife photography. Asher flicked to the current month, a magnificent elk staring soulfully from the glossy page.
Today was circled in red, the full moon carefully marked.
"What were you planning, old man?" Asher murmured, running his finger over the red circle. His father had never struck him as the type to follow lunar cycles, but then again, what did he really know about Ray Sutter? The man had been a fortress of stoic self-containment, revealing only carefully selected glimpses of himself to his son.
Shaking off the thought, Asher turned to the more pressing task of making the cabin habitable. The power was still on—he'd called ahead to ensure that—but the place needed air and light. He moved through the space, throwing open windows, stripping dusty sheets from furniture, working with efficient movements that kept his mind occupied.
When had his father become a stranger? That was the question that haunted him as he worked. Had it been gradual, starting long before Asher's spectacular flameout? Or had it happened all at once, that final night when everything broke between them?
Senior year of high school had been unbearable. Perfect grades. Perfect son. Perfect future stretching ahead on rails so smooth and predetermined he could almost see himself gliding into middle age without having made a single genuine choice. Ray had already picked out which forestry program Asher would attend, which summer jobs would look good on applications, which life path would make him into a proper man.
The panic attacks started in October. By December, he was self-medicating with whatever would quiet his mind. By February, he was skipping classes and hooking up with anyone who'd have him in the back of their truck. By May, graduation looming, he'd had one final explosive fight with Ray about college applications he'd never actually submitted.
He'd left that same night. Packed his things and hitchhiked to the city at eighteen, determined to prove he could survive on his own.
Survival, as it turned out, had a flexible definition.
First month in the city: holy shit, gay bars where no one knew his father. Men who wanted him—actuallywanted him, not just tolerated his smart mouth while they got off.
He'd been a kid in a candy store, making up for years of rural starvation. So what if he went home with a different guy every night? He was young, hot, and finally fucking free.
Third month: the money from selling his truck ran out. Funny how quickly "liberation" started looking like "eviction notice."
Sixth month: when the bartender at his favorite club mentioned that the older gentleman in the corner would pay Asher two hundred just to blow him, Asher had laughed. "At least take me to dinner first," he'd joked.
But he'd done it. Told himself it was just once, just until he found a real job.
