Matched with the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks)

Sloane

After hours, the garage settles into a quiet rhythm. The noise from earlier fades, leaving behind the soft ticking of cooling engines, the occasional metallic shift of the tin siding, and the uneven hum of the vending machine in the corner.

Grease smears across my forehead as I drag the back of my wrist over damp skin. My braid is a frayed tangle of brown hairs, strands clinging to the back of my neck, and my coveralls hang open at my waist. The white tank top underneath sticks to my spine, heavy with sweat.

Late nights have never been a problem for me. If anything, they make the work easier. No one watching over my shoulder or offering opinions that I didn’t ask for. No one lingering closer than they would if I were a man.

Leaning over the open hood of Mrs. Klein’s Buick, I tighten the final bolt on the alternator and check the connections again. The motion is automatic, shaped by repetition and the steady echo of my dad’s voice reminding me to double check my work before walking away.

The hood lowers, the latch clicking softly. My hand rests against the dull red metal for a moment before I step back.

“All set,” I murmur, the words disappearing into the empty space.

At the toolbox, each wrench and socket slides back into place without much thought.

The routine is steady and predictable. I can’t control much in this crazy world, but my tools are in impeccable order.

I lock the box, one too many 10 millimeter sockets have walked out of my set over the years for me to trust anyone else with the key.

Grabbing the dirty rags I’ve used to clean my hands all day, I’m almost done with cleanup when a strange voice drifts through the garage door.

The sound is faint at first, just enough to inadvertently catch my attention. Words blur together through the metal, but I freeze in place. The voices are masculine, and deep, speaking in a tone I can only describe as sinister.

My fingers hover over the light switch but I don’t dare move a muscle.

People pass by all the time. The gravel lot gets used as a turnaround, especially at night. Usually there’s laughter, music, teenagers being loud and carefree as they break curfew.

That isn’t what this sounds like.

A step closer to the door brings the conversation into clearer focus.

“…tomorrow night.”

The voice is rough. Too tired and worn to be a teen.

Another man answers, his tone quieter, “You sure?”

A pause stretches between them.

“Boss is. Said we’re getting paid well to get it done quick.”

My hand clenches the oily rags tighter.

Boss.

Around here, there’s only one man that can be. I don’t know his real name, only his road name. I don’t even hang out at the biker’s bar, but everyone in Hollow Creek knows him.

He loaned Joey Mackenzie the money for a brand new truck, and then charged him a bogus interest rate. When he couldn’t pay, Boss had two of his biker goons shatter Joey’s kneecaps.

Now Joey’s in a wheelchair and he’s up to his eyeballs in debt to the motorcycle gang.

“She’ll be alone with her daughter. Same as always.”

My chest tightens.

This isn’t about work, or just two guys gossiping in a deserted parking lot.

The air in the shop feels different now, thinner, as every small sound sharpens. My breath comes out slow, careful, and quiet, while I strain to hear more.

“…in and out…”

“She’ll never see it coming…”

And then one of the men says her name. Aurora. The single mother who lives in the blue house on Maple Street, with the tire swing out front, and her daughter never out of reach.

For a moment, it would be easier to believe there’s a misunderstanding, that the conversation I’ve overheard means something else. But the men continue talking and I hear every word of their plan to kill Aurora and kidnap her daughter.

A motorcycle engine starts outside, loud and rumbling, it cuts through the quiet night. Only when it fades in the distance does the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

My phone comes out of my pocket before I think about it. My thumb already dialing 911. When dispatch answers, my voice stays low, giving every detail I can remember.

After the call, the quiet feels heavier than before. My muscles ache and I’m still tense, but I called the police and they’ll protect Aurora.

The phone slips back into my pocket as I turn toward the lights again, forcing my hands to move through the last steps of closing up.

Headlights cut through the seams of the garage door, thin beams stretching across the concrete floor. The loud rumbling of multiple engines idle for only a few seconds before they shut off one by one, leaving behind a silence that presses in tighter than before.

Footsteps cross the gravel with slow, deliberate weight, each one loud enough to track. I don’t even think about running. The handle rattles once, then again, before the door begins to lift with a harsh scrape of metal on metal that echoes through the shop.

Cold air spills inside as the door rises.

Three men stand just beyond the threshold.

Leather cuts hang from their shoulders, worn and unmistakable. The kind you recognize without needing to read the patches.

One of them steps forward immediately, crossing into the garage without hesitation. His posture is loose in a way that feels intentional rather than relaxed.

“It’s so late, I didn’t think anyone would still be here,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the open space.

My weight shifts uneasily as I recognize him as one of the men I overheard. He strolls casually through the shop, neither of us addressing the fact that he shouldn’t be in the garage at all.

“Just finishing up,” I murmur.

His gaze moves across the shop, taking in the lift, the tools, the workbench, before returning to me.

“You hear anything tonight?”

I shake my head, but answer anyway, “No.”

He studies me for a moment, then takes a few steps closer. There’s no urgency in the movement, no outward sign of tension, just a gradual closing of distance that makes the space feel smaller than it is.

Step by step he’s closing me into a corner. If I tried to run, he’s got two men blocking the exits.

“We were out here talking not long ago,” he says. “And not long after we left, someone tipped off the cops.”

My heart begins to pound as blood rushes to my ears.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

The gap between us narrows until there’s barely room left. A faint smile touches his mouth, though his grey eyes remain flat and lifeless.

“Maybe not, but I bet our friendly neighborhood cop could trace the call to your phone.”

His hand lifts, brushing his thumb across my cheek and dragging a streak of grease along my skin.

“It’s better for your health not to get involved in things that don’t concern you.” he says quietly,

Behind him, the other two men shift their weight, reminding me of their presence without speaking.

“You keep your mouth shut,” he adds. “And maybe we won’t be back.”

He steps closer. Too close.

My lungs lock as the space between us disappears and his gaze fixes on mine. I can’t speak. Can’t fucking breathe.

For a second, everything else drops away, the garage, the tools, the open door, until there’s nothing left but him looming above me.

Then he steps back. The space opens again, but the pressure doesn’t ease.

“Lock up when you’re done,” he says, turning toward the door. “Wouldn’t want anything happening to this place.”

They leave as calmly as they arrived. Their footsteps fade across the gravel before their engines turn over again and the sound disappears into the distance.

For several seconds, I don’t move.

Air finally fills my lungs again, uneven at first, as the silence settles back into place. The garage looks exactly the same, but my sense of safety is gone.

I’m not safe here and neither is Aurora.

That thought cuts through everything else.

I don’t bother locking up. If the Iron Vultures want inside, they’ll get in one way or another.

My keys are already in hand by the time the office door swings shut behind me. Cool air brushes against my skin as I step outside. The car door opens and closes in quick succession, the engine turning over as the tires crunch against gravel.

The garage where I’ve worked for years disappears behind me without a second look as I speed towards Maple Street.

Aurora opens the door on the second knock.

“Sloane?” Surprise flickers across her face. “What’s going on?”

“You need to leave,” I tell her.

Confusion tightens her expression.

“What?”

“Tonight,” I say. “Take your daughter and go somewhere safe.”

Fear replaces confusion in a matter of seconds. I don’t give her time to ask more questions.

“Some of the Iron Vultures were talking outside the shop,” I explain. “About coming here tomorrow night and taking your daughter. They think you’ll be alone.”

The color drains from her face.

“I called 911 after they left but they came back. The cops are in on it,” I rush to add. “Pack what you can and leave. I’m sending you to a friend I can trust.”

She nods quickly and turns, already moving deeper into the house as I text Delilah. I worked on her daddy’s truck when no one else would touch it, and we’ve stayed friends over the years despite the distance between her family ranch in Texas and my small hometown in Louisiana.

She’ll be safe with Delilah’s family and it’ll be harder for the bikers to track us if we spilt up. I just have to figure out where I should go because home isn’t an option. There’s nothing there worth the risk.

I give Aurora directions to the Double H, before I leave and by the time the edge of town passes, my grip on the steering wheel has eased.

The road stretches ahead, dark, and empty, and the distance between me and Hollow Creek begins to grow.

That distance is the only thing that matters now.