Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Bryce
“The Axe Handle Never Lies… But Adrian Sure Did”
Istepped into the living room and instantly felt my blood pressure spike.
Adrian was laid out like a glorified house cat, with his shirt off, shoes halfway on, and scrolling his phone like he had nowhere to be and nothing to contribute.
He looked like one of them sorry niggas who lounged around all day while his girl was out grinding to cover the rent, pay his phone bill, fund his weed habit, his fantasy sports addiction, and probably his DoorDash cravings too.
He laughed at something on his screen. It was probably one of those fake crypto reels selling false hope talkin’ ‘bout, “You’re not broke; you just haven’t aligned with your higher self. ”
Isis was nowhere to be seen, which meant she had to be somewhere either going LIVE, shit…
swinging her wig in slow motion while fake crying about how she tried—and failed—to cook, but everyone hating on her, or maybe even filming her second “Get Ready With Me Even Though I Ain’t Got Nowhere To Go” of the day.
Hell, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she was in the bathroom playing with herself since I didn’t give her no dick the night before.
I stood on that shit.
And because of that, she probably even started an OnlyFans saying some crazy shit like, “Day one of my celibacy journey… unless you pay the tip fee of $300. Comes with one mandatory Zoom interview for a vibe check. And before you’re granted real access, you must first provide your last three years’ tax returns, three ex references, a note from your therapist as proof of emotional intelligence, and seven inches… minimum.”
And the crazy part? There’s a whole line of simps who’d gladly upload all that by morning, submit a blood sample by noon, meet the inch requirement by five, and be on the waitlist by bedtime… talkin’ ‘bout, “I love a woman with standards.”
I cleared my throat like I was warming up for a diss track.
Adrian flinched, looking up like a teenager who’d just been caught red-handed watching Pornhub on the living room TV.
“Aye,” I said, pulling on my flannel and gloves, “We need to go get some wood.”
“Wood?” he repeated, looking at me as if intelligence had just exited the room.
“No… aluminum foil. Yeah, wood, nigga. It could get real bad later if this snow keeps coming. We also need to grab some salt and some backup lanterns. Ain’t no telling how long we might be stuck here.”
The nigga peered outside the window and squinted his eyes, studying the sky, like he’d just realized it was snowing.
“So… you need my help?”
I cocked my head. “Nah… I meant me and the imaginary lumberjack ghost that’s chilling in the basement. The fuck? Again… yeah, nigga. But let’s get something straight… I don’t need your help with shit.”
He sat up a little taller, some fire igniting in him. “Just asking, man. You made it sound like a team effort.”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s not. Well… not for a man like me. But if I can’t parlay around on vacation, then neither can you. So yeah, it is a team effort today.”
Adrian rubbed the back of his head nervously. “Aight. It’s just me and the cold don’t really vibe like that. That kind is disrespectful to my bones.”
I squinted at him. “So y’all got beef, in other words.
Nigga, it’s just air with an attitude. But on some real shit, real men don’t flinch at a lil’ cold; they conquer it, prepare for it, and protect their own…
while weaklings stand around complaining, shivering, and explaining shit nobody asked about. ”
I zipped my coat slowly, letting the moment breathe.
“You’re a carpenter, right? Cool. So this is your lane… your stage… your moment. Now shine, nigga. Impress me.”
Something flickered in his expression.
A crack?
A moment of uncertainty?
I filed that away in the back of my mind for later use.
“Let me grab my coat,” he grumbled, pushing himself to stand.
“And some boots too,” I advised. “Unless you wanna get frostbite between them toes. Them flip flops gon’ have you out there with ballerina feet and regrets.”
He muttered something under his breath but kept walking.
As soon as Adrian disappeared down the hall, a grin curled at the corner of my mouth.
This ain’t about who’s the better chopper or who gets the fire going first. I’m about to see what this nigga really knows. 'Cause any man can talk tough in warmth. But out here in this cold? The truth gon’ breathe through that axe handle.
A few minutes later, Adrian finally stumbled out the back door.
He took one breath and started shivering. “Shit!” he cursed.
Adrian was wearing boots that were completely untied and one of those off-brand bubble coats, found at the very bottom rack at Ross. The tag was still flapping on the sleeve like it was trying to escape.
“This is shit is crazy, man. I didn’t think it’d be this bad,” he complained, and hadn’t even been in the cold for a good minute.
“This weather builds character and weeds out the weak,” I muttered, barely phased.
The cold didn’t bother me. It nipped at my chin, iced the tip of my nose, and bit into my skin a little, but I’d grown up in worse.
I had to shovel snow before school, got my ass handed to me on frozen football fields, and one time…
me and Chesteria thought it’d be a good idea to ‘try something new.’ I’ll never forget that night.
We both were horny, but it was Chesteria’s bright idea to have sex in the shed… in eighteen-degree weather.
Yes… eighteen.
I almost told her hell no. I wasn’t trying to be found frozen mid-stroke like some freaky snowman.
But the kind of pussy Chesteria got? Man… it comes with its own thermostat. It feels like central heat kicking on in the dead of winter.
So there we were, naked, tangled up in that dusty shed, bodies pressed together, skin meeting skin against old wood, moving with the urgency of two fugitives on a timer. I had goosebumps on top of goosebumps. I was pumping like a champ, but every thrust came with a wheeze and a prayer.
Trying to stroke and shiver at the same time? Highly not recommended.
Meanwhile, Chesteria was moaning through chattering teeth like, “Ahh—ah—ah—choo! Don’t stop. Just go faster so we can finish before our nipples fall off.”
I swear, I saw my soul leave my body and come back with a jacket on. I didn’t know what hit harder: the climax or the disrespect of my balls shriveling up like they’d never been loved before. We finished, though—high off adrenaline and low on brain cells.
Afterwards, we lay there wrapped in one half-torn fleece blanket, breathing like asthma patients who just ran track.
Two fools. One orgasm. Frostbite flirting with our toes.
We couldn’t even find our drawers at first. Everything was stiff, including the damn towel we used as a blanket.
The next morning, both of our asses woke up sneezing, eyes watery, and sounding like we gargled broken glass and regret.
I looked at her and asked, “Was it worth it?”
She sniffled and replied, “Every frozen second.”
I just went and made us some damn Theraflu.
Because that’s what love is, right? Delusional… dangerous… and occasionally damn near deadly.
Still, that was The. Coldest. Sex. Of. My. Life.
So yeah, that type of weather was a small giant to a nigga like me. But if Adrian thought that little breeze was gonna break him? The weekend was about to eat his ass alive.
“Follow me,” I instructed.
We started toward the storage shed.
Yup… that same shed.
Adrian’s crunchy-ass boots dragged through the snow like a kid on punishment. As we walked, I decided to do some light investigative work—Bryce-style.
“So how long you and Chesteria been talkin’?” I asked, sounding casual but listening heavy.
“Uh... five months.”
“Mm-hmm. Chesteria mentioned that you do carpentry. What school you graduated from?”
“Uh... something Coastal. Coastal Carolina?”
I stopped at the shed and turned toward him, slowly. “So you forgot the name of the school that gave you a degree?”
He rubbed his hands together like it might warm up his memory. “Nah, nah, I just call it Coastal for short. It’s cold, man. My brain ain’t braining.”
I shot him a skeptical look.
Your story ain’t storying either, nigga.
Then I unlocked the shed and swung the door open.
“Damn,” Adrian exclaimed, eyes darting over the organized space, taking in every detail. “You really prepared for every season, huh?”
In the back left corner, a heavy-duty generator sat covered in the back left corner.
Next to it, fuel cans were neatly lined up, each one clearly labeled, resting on a rubber mat to prevent slipping.
Four axes hung on the wall. Six folding chairs sat side by side, awaiting the next campfire gathering.
Blankets were still sealed in plastic. Bags of salt stacked up like defense lines.
A steel shelf stretched across one wall, with bins labeled: “First Aid,” “Tools,” “Cords + Batteries,” and “Fire Starters.” A fully packed toolbox rested on the shelf.
Its contents awaited the next project, urgent repairs, or an emergency patch-up in the heart of the storm.
That wasn’t just a shed; that was a fortress of survival built by a man who had weathered enough storms to understand the fine line between being comfortable and being ready.
“Some men pack light… I pack smart,” I shrugged, then bent down and lifted one of the bins, checking for kindling—small sticks, dry bark, and twigs I kept sealed and ready, just in case.
There was enough to start a fire, but not to keep one going, though. Kindling burns fast… way too fast for the snow that was coming in. That would’ve been like giving a starving man a Tic Tac. We’d need real wood if the lights went out, and that storm wasn’t looking like the polite type.
Adrian kept spinning around in awe. “Yo, this is impressive as hell. You a whole winter warrior out here.”
I straightened up, a sense of pride swelling within me. “I don’t do chaos; I do control.”