Lumberjack

Chapter 2

I was going to die. No lie. Stranger let the handle of the axe fall against the ground and rushed in my direction like a pissed off bear. He charged me, pounding through the woods. His handsome and muscular bulk moved steadily forward, lumbering quickly.

Doomed, I thought. I’m doomed. Oh…what a fool I have become.

New options surfaced within my thoughts. One, I could turn and run to safety, back to Aunt Mirabella Trumble’s woodsy abode, locking myself inside. Two, I could drop on the ground and play dead; I wasn’t above being an opossum when the time suited. Or three, I could stand my ground and face the handsome and chiseled woodsy ogre, man against man, a champion battler in action to one’s death. I chose number three, unafraid of the hulking and alluring beast, foolishly feeling that I could satisfactorily tame him. Something like David and Goliath. Or Shaggy and a ghoul in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.

As the lumberjack pressed forward, heated and angry, fury on his rugged but sexy looking face, baring white teeth pointed like a wild cougar’s, shoulders the size of a wooden bridge, and meaty legs that pounced over one fallen tree trunk to the next, a little sprits of pee leaked out of my now-limp joint and ran down my right leg, into my shoe. It wasn’t the first time a massive man had caused me to pee myself, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, I had guessed. Maybe I considered myself proud of the brand I created. Good for me. Who knew?

In defense, realizing my immediate death, I raised both arms and palms in the lumbering bear’s direction. “Hold on! There’s no need to overreact!”

The big and beautiful stranger stopped approximately six feet in front of me; a blue glint raged in his eyes. I couldn’t take my intoxicated gaze off his sweaty and hairy chest, or his handsome face. Rugged seemed too harsh of a word to describe him since he resembled a beautiful, Hollywood screen star: good cheek bones, pump-pink lips, commercial-worthy hair. But the description sufficed for the time being, before he decided to murder me, probably having the thought of burying me nearby.

Sweat clung to his brow and his sizeable chest heaved. The thick veins in his bar-like arms that crossed over his biceps thumped with blood and testosterone. His eyes flickered an angry blue that reminded me of a wishing well’s pool of water following a thunderstorm: spirited, tarnished, alluring, dangerous, and evil. The look on his chiseled face clearly explained that he wanted to smash my face in with one of his fists, or both.

The bear didn’t touch me, blowing my mind. Rather, he stood over me, huffing, shielding me from the autumn’s dull sun that hung behind his head and sprawling back, shadowing my frame. The top of my head barely reached his chin, which clearly defined his height. He ground his teeth together and growled, “What do you want?”

I smirked, unintentionally irritating him. “I’m a best-selling writer and need some quiet. I’m trying to finish my third book. You’re chopping is a distraction. I can’t write because of you.”

“Writer…chopping…distraction,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“Good to know you’re listening to me.” I pointed to his right at the fallen logs behind him. “Any way you can save your lumberjack activity for another day? I’m trying to get through chapter three. Be a pal and give your chopping a break.”

“Any way you can kiss my ass?”

Depends what the ass looked like, I thought. If it looked as desirable as his bare chest, his Hollywood face, and the package between his legs, I might have accomplished more than just a kiss to it. No promises. “You don’t have to be crass. Show some manners. I’m not here to ruffle your feathers. I’m simply asking if you will help a writing man out.”

“And you don’t have to be in my f*****g business, city boy. I suggest you spin around and take your rich candy ass back to your aunt’s cottage and stay over there.”

Interesting that he knew of my aunt, her cottage, and my candy ass. Funny how people find things out on their own about other people. I couldn’t deny his details, knowing them accurate. Obviously, he knew of my life, my family, and my bank account. To some people it became obvious, and quickly, though. The bear in front of me just happened to be one of those people.

“You’re overreacting,” I told him. “Calm down. I just need some quiet.”

He stepped a few feet closer to me and pointed at my chest with an outstretched Octoberfest brat-size finger but didn’t touch me. “And you’re trespassing, buddy. I suggest you take your trust fund, faggot ass back where you came from and mind your own business.”

Touché. He wasn’t in the wrong about my trespassing and obviously had the potential to call the police on me. I didn’t want to chance that. No reason to get on the local law’s bad side. I backed away, slowly. In doing so my right heel clipped a branch and I began to fall backwards. Both feet slipped out from under me. My arms swirled in circles, attempting balance, which failed. Before I knew it, I plummeted to the woodsy earth, conscious but barely able to breathe, having had the wind knocked out of me quite suddenly.

“Are you alright?” the stud called out to me, rushed to my side. He knelt on one knee like queer Prince Charming near my right hip, gawked down at me with wide, rushing-blue eyes. “Are you breathing? Are you alive? You hit your head bad.”

“I’m fine. Again, you’re overreacting,” I told him. No lie there. I didn’t feel any pain. Not at the rear of my head. Not in my neck or shoulders. Nothing. Just got the wind knocked out of me a touch. Nothing major. Within seconds my breathing became normal and I pushed myself up and off the ground, stood.

The stranger next door helped me up with his hefty arms. One of the plump arms reached around my back and his side met my side. “Damn, you’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

“You’re getting a little fresh with me, don’t you think?” I asked him, feeling his rippled body next to mine: cut and hairy abs, massive bicep, rounded hip.

“Just helping you out. No need to think I’m being frisky.”

“Back off,” I told him. “I won’t let a sexy guy like you put the moves on me. I’m a writer and mean to be single. Besides, lumberjacks aren’t my type. Keep your bulky frame away from me.”

He pulled away, maybe fearing me. No. The guy had no fear. Not at his size. He tried to smile but didn’t. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Give me a break.” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t play with me, Mr. Macho. You know you’re a sexy lumberjack.”

“Since you think I’m sexy, you should know my name.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Maybe you’re not that sexy.” I started to walk away.

He called after me. “Jack! My name is Jack Manwood! And you’re that writer…Kemp Trumble! I know who you are!”

“Whatever,” I said and waved an arm and hand behind me and started for my aunt’s cottage. “Names aren’t important to me.”

* * * *

He followed me. I didn’t expect that after insulting him, and being pushy, rude, and demanding things of him. I continued walking back to my temporary home through the woods and called over my left shoulder, “I don’t want to get to know you, thug! Go away! I’ve said my peace!”

Maybe he came from a family of athletes since he ran up to me, reached my side, and said without huffing. “You think you can run away from me, but you can’t, City Guy.”

I stopped, turned to him. “That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. Are you some psycho, or what? No one says that. Not these days.”

Color washed out of his cheeks. “I’m not a psycho. I’m just saying that you live next door and I can find you there.”

“Find someone else. I don’t need a bicep brawler like you around,” I barked at him. “In the meantime, keep your lumberjacking noise down to a minimal level, or not at all. I need to write.”

People are strange. I’m sure it’s not fresh for anyone to hear. We’re all bat s**t crazy, including the bear next door. You can’t always figure out what makes people tick, including lumberjacks.

He huffed, planted his massive paws on his sides. “Tell me who I think you are.”

“I won’t. It’s none of your business.”

“Then I’ll make one up for you.” He paused, thought about it for a second or two, lifted one arm and hand and tapped his chin. “I’ll call you d**k. It seems appropriate.”

I hmphed, finding him clever. “I prefer Richard.”

He shook his head. “You’re d**k from now on…”

Feeling ballsy, or foolish, or even immortal, someone of great power, I moved my face up to his, almost brushed our noses together, almost touched our chest together, almost caused a physical and uncontrollable connection between us, and told him through tightly closed teeth, “I’d rather be a d**k than an asshole like you.”

I admit today, here and now, I deserved to be flattened by him because of my comment. I’m talking smashed to the ground with numerous broken bones. I’m talking becoming unconscious. I’m talking…

“Enough!” he yelled, sounding like the bear I believed him to be. “Enough with you, d**k!” He huffed, turned, and returned to his A-frame.

I wouldn’t see him for the next few days.

No longer did I hear him chopping.

Good for me.