Chapter Two-Bo
T he log split easily beneath the swing of my axe, like so many others that fell before it.
The sharp crack of wood slicing through the crisp air with a satisfying force.
I paused, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead, feeling the faint burn of exertion on my muscles.
I always was a bigger guy. Sure, I had plenty of muscles, and I was six foot six inches in my bare feet, but I also had a tremendous appetite, and instead of a six-pack, I was more the whiskey barrel shaped type.
Whatever .
I didn’t give two fucks about anyone’s thoughts about my appearance. I gave up caring about trivial shit like that long ago. Hence the out-of-control hair and too long beard I’d been sporting for the better part of a year.
My parents were worried, but I tried my best to calm them down. I knew what I was doing. I was forty-five years old, not twenty, for fuck’s sake.
If I chose to live atop a mountain and away from the rest of the world, that was my God given right.
I still worked. Still got noticed by the folks who mattered. The ones who bought my photographs and mentioned me in art columns.
No, I didn’t need to fuss about money. I had plenty. And I really did not care about my celebrity status. Besides, my agent, who also happened to be my little sister Jenny, hired a PR firm to take care of all that.
In case I hadn’t mentioned it already, I’d moved up to this mountain on a full-time basis about five years ago for the distinct purpose of getting away from society.
Even bought the property next door so I could be assured of my privacy. I sometimes let my obnoxious sister stay there when she sometimes visited. But lucky for me, she wasn’t the woodsy type.
Yep. Life was going along predictably. I accomplished a lot this year work wise, and sales looked promising.
But all my hard-earned peace was threatened when I received notice from Jenny that she’d rented out my cabin to a couple she knew for the holiday season.
“What the fuck, Jenny?” I snapped.
“Oh, don’t be such a grump, Bo. The guy is my neighbor, and he wanted someplace special to propose. It’s true love! I can’t stand in the way of that, and neither should you!”
Of course, I was a sucker for a proposal, so I didn’t argue with her any further. Despite what people thought about me suddenly packing it up and moving from the city to the sticks, I wasn’t a people hater.
Well, I wasn’t a people hater. Not really.
It was just, I’d had enough of the glitz and glamor. I couldn’t stand mendacity in any shape or form. In my line of work, people could be very sneaky.
I was sick of it. Of being used by all the fakes. They were so damn pretentious and self-important, always presenting their best, most doctored side.
That was why I stopped doing portraits. When I took photos, I demanded realism. My work was authentic. It was raw, showing every crack and blemish. Every spot and speck of dirt. Every so-called imperfection.
That was my thing. None of those intensely superficial, plastic-looking, super fake filters for me.
It was only natural for my clientele to recede. So, I rarely shot people anymore.
Most surprising was how freeing I’d found it. Being a photographer was not something I’d planned, but it happened sometime after I dropped out of college and backpacked around the world when I was in my twenties and full of energy and zest.
Nowadays, I’d graduated to shooting life without people. But even my landscapes were raw. I refused to falsify nature, or rather, what I saw in nature.
Taking photos was immensely personal. My art was mine. I didn’t ask for suggestions on how I should go about my business.
That was how I’d gotten labeled difficult to work with.
I no longer did work on commission. I just shot what I wanted to shoot and if people bought it, great.
If not, well, suffice it to say, it no longer bothered me. I wasn’t some green kid looking for acceptance.
Not anymore.
Besides, I had plenty of money.
Huffing a breath, I grabbed my old Thermos and opened it. The smell of strong, freshly brewed Italian Roast greeted me, and I took a long pull of the piping hot black coffee.
Perfect.
The morning sun was low, casting long shadows across the forest floor, and the scent of fresh pine and damp earth filled the air, grounding me in the present moment.
I looked down at the log, now halved neatly in front of me, its inner wood a pale, raw contrast to the rough bark on the outside.
My fingers itched, and I wished I had brought my camera with me.
Next time.
With a grunt, I secured the top on my coffee, and shifted the two halves, adding them to the stack of freshly split wood beside me.
The temperature was dropping and my breath clouded in the cold air as I moved.
Each piece of wood was carefully arranged, a bit like a puzzle, the logs leaning against one another in a growing stack that would eventually season over the coming weeks, curing and drying in preparation for winter fires.
There was something almost meditative about the process—each swing of the axe, each log added to the pile, was another small victory.
It wasn’t just about the work itself. I never minded physical labor. Plus, it was a good fill in for other things.
Like sex.
I cursed roughly, swinging the axe down again on the new log I’d placed on the old tree stump I used for chopping.
Sex was definitely something I missed, but I didn’t need it.
Yeah, tell yourself that, pal.
Ignoring my inner asshole, I lost myself to the rhythm of chopping wood.
Telling myself the satisfaction of knowing that the warmth of a fire would soon be the reward for all this labor was enough.
Lying to myself about not needing anyone to share it with.
But I’d gone down that road once before, and I promised myself never again.
With that on my mind, I cleaned up the morning’s work, dusting my hands off on my thighs. I frowned as the sound of goddamn Christmas carols filled the air, breaking my solitude.
There was a row of pine trees, planted by me, separating my cabin from the one I owned next door. But it wasn’t like they were soundproof.
Curiosity, and a little ire, had me moving between the trees to give the two yahoos my sister rented the property to a piece of my mind.
Only, it wasn’t a man behind the wheel of that tiny little compact car idling in the driveway.
It was a soft-looking woman wrapped in a bright red sweater and a pair of jeans that fit so snugly it looked like she was poured into them.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, and that gave me a reprieve to simply take her in. Chin-length blonde hair in a riot of curls surrounded her face, and I had to steel myself against the punch of desire that seemed to hit me right in the gut.
She had ivory skin and pink lips, big brown eyes, and a straight nose. Her attention was on the cabin, and I wondered what she thought of it.
Shaking my head at that nonsensical thought, I marched right over to her and knocked impatiently on her window.
“You’re lost,” I growled.
“Is this Wawayanda Mountain?”
“Yeah, but you don’t belong here.”
“Well, is the address 1225 Vernon Valley Way?”
“Yes, but like I said, you do not belong here.”
“Then this is exactly where I am supposed to be, Mr.?”
The gorgeous creature looked at me with one delicate eyebrow arched and I rubbed a hand over my face.
“Bo DuBois, but look, lady?—”
“My name is Gloria DeSoto, Mr. DuBois, and I rented this place for the next two weeks. If you need to see my reservation, I am happy to show you, but I don’t really think I should, considering I have no idea who you are,” she started boldly.
“Who I am? I own this property Mrs. DeSoto?—”
“It’s Miss.”
“I apologize, Miss DeSoto, but the cabin was rented to two gentlemen.”
“Look, I didn’t realize you were the owner, but I did rent this place fair and square for the next two weeks. Desmond and Andy are spending their vacation in Vermont to celebrate their engagement with Des’ parents. I took over the rental agreement from them. It was all cleared with your realtor and the contact on the agreement, Mrs. Jenny Sieger ,” she said, showing me a copy of the contract on her cell phone.
“Fucking Jenny,” I growled, making a note to murder my sister later.
“Fine. The cabin has been cleaned and stocked with food. There is a generator for the power, and the stove operates on propane, so no candles or smoking, got it?”
“Sure,” she replied.
“Good. I live next door, but that doesn’t matter because you won’t be dropping by. Have a good two weeks.”
“Well, fuck you too, Mr. DuBois,” she replied, and I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
Out loud.
And wasn’t that a miracle?
“Don’t worry about me, Buster. I’m not one of those helpless women you see in bad TV movies. I can take care of myself just fine!”
I shook my head, already walking away. But I couldn’t help the smile on my face as I recalled the fire in her eyes as she cursed me out.
Must be a helluva woman , I mused.
Too bad I wasn’t in the market.
Not now, and never again.
We would get along fine if Miss DeSoto just stuck to her side of the tree line. With any luck, two weeks would fly by without me having to see her at all.