Chapter Four
Jason-Present
Richard Petty- Billy Strings
Of all the people that could have ended up at my doorstep, why did it have to be her?
Why did I have to choose to go hunting yesterday?
Why didn’t the deer come out so I would have had a reason to come back sooner and maybe then I’d never be in this situation.
I can’t believe I have to suffer all winter with Mara fucking Meyers in my house.
I like the solitude all winter, I don’t like people, but I already know she’s going to cause trouble.
On the nights when I wish I could go find pussy, it’s going to be a little too tempting to take what I want, even if I don’t want it from her.
What would she think if she knew her friend from highschool gave it up so easily in a bathroom stall at The Sawmill?
The same girl who always laughed at my expense in highschool didn’t need much more than a head tilt before she impaled herself on my cock last year.
I doubt Mara would be pleased to learn that.
It took a long time to learn, but I eventually figured out that if I wasn’t going to talk, I needed to be proficient in every other aspect of my life to compensate for it.
Be the biggest and strongest motherfucker so no one would mess with me.
Build the best business so no one could argue with my skills—or my prices, for that matter.
Be the best lay any of these girls has ever seen so they’d talk about the size of my dick, not my lack of speech.
I even became the best at pool after losing a game a few years ago. I needed to perfect every area of my life, then people would talk about everything except my silence.
Mara was living in California all this time, so I heard, so she probably didn’t know any of this. Maybe that’s a good thing. Let her believe she can push me around like she used to and then shock her into silence when I’m not the weak, pathetic kid she knew years ago.
Let her believe what she wants, her opinion means nothing more than my eventual entertainment when she’s proven wrong.
When I finally pull my ass downstairs, I notice her clothes are still by the fireplace that’s nothing more than faint embers now.
I take a log off the pile stacked beside the hearth and throw it on so the house warms up a bit.
Then I take Mara’s clothes upstairs and drop them in a messy pile by her door.
The last thing I need is her walking around in her underwear.
I was too focused on my first aid training last night to really let my mind wander, but her body is beautiful.
If I detach the person from the body, it might even be sexy.
Next, I start the coffee pot. Who needs pre-workout when you have coffee?
As soon as it’s ready, I take the cup of dark fuel to the garage where the gym is set up.
It’s shoulders and arms day, thank god, because I have some pent-up rage I need to work through.
And I don’t think taking it out on Mara is the right way to do it.
Dylan would never allow it. He’s too nice, in my opinion.
I start with some bench presses, three sets of eight reps at my current max weight of two hundred pounds.
I haven’t been able to surpass two hundred pounds in almost a month.
I’m convinced it’s mental, there’s no reason my body would get stuck at one weight.
I just have to work through it. But I don’t want to injure anything that might prevent me from getting work done, so I start with my usual two hundred pounds and hope the tell-tale relief of being ready for another ten pounds settles in my muscles.
Sure enough, it’s there, but just barely. After the first set of eight, I add a five pound plate to either side and settle back on the bench beneath the barbell. Hands braced evenly apart, I heave the bar off the supports and rest it over my chest.
I should really have Dylan out here to spot me.
With a huge intake of air and gritted teeth, I think about Mara calling me Mute last night and the fire in her eyes when she realized I’d undressed her.
I feel a twinge of satisfaction at her discomfort.
Using that as fuel for my energy, I force my elbows to straighten and lift the weight straight into the air parallel to my bare chest. I exhale a weighted breath of relief and lower the bar back down, careful to keep my wrists steady.
I repeat the process four more times before I have to stop and rest. I’m disappointed with myself for not completing the set, but I did it, I hit a new personal record. It’s about damn time.
I finished my last set only completing five more reps and moved on to the other exercises in my workout for the day: some lateral and front raises, upright rows, and a few others to target specific muscles.
I finish with some stretches to prevent tearing and head back inside to find Dylan already seated at the table drinking his own coffee.
He’s still dressed in his ridiculous pajamas but now he’s covered with a white shirt.
I pour myself another cup of coffee—I swear it runs through my fucking veins at this point—and start on breakfast. I have no idea when Mara will wake up but I make extra for her just in case. And if it’s cold when she deigns to rise from her beauty sleep, so be it.
I’m plating the eggs and sausage onto two plates when the stairs creak alerting us to the shedevil’s presence right before Mara appears at the base of the stairs in her clothes from last night.
She takes a moment to process what’s before her, Dylan at the table and me cooking in the kitchen. When her eyes drift down my chest, I realize I’m still shirtless. But putting a shirt on now would feel like a retreat or submission.
I pull another plate from the cabinet and load more food onto it for her before placing all three plates and sets of forks on the table.
Taking my seat, I nod my head toward the empty chair in front of the remaining plate of food indicating for Mara to sit.
That’s the most communication I’ve given her since her arrival, even if it is nonverbal. She takes the direction well and sits.
A minute into my breakfast, she says with a note of horror in her voice. “Oh my god, no one’s going to take your food. Slow down.”
Why can’t she just say thanks for the food and leave me alone?
I narrow my eyes on her with a clear message, don’t talk to me. Then continue eating until I’m done while everyone else is only halfway through.
“Thanks for bringing my clothes up for me,” Mara says to Dylan. But Dylan looks completely clueless.
“Wasn’t me,” he says, darting his eyes to me. Mara’s eyes follow, conveying her reluctance to thank me, and maybe a bit of surprise that I’d do something nice for her.
Without giving me the same appreciation, she lowers her eyes back to her food looking a little worse for wear. Can she really not bring herself to say something nice to me? Maybe she’s ashamed. I don’t know and I don’t give a fuck.
“So how do I get home?” Mara speaks up again, breaking the uncomfortable silence I was thoroughly enjoying.
Dylan and I exchange looks, his worried, mine exasperated. With just my eyes I try to say this bitch isn’t getting it.
Dylan translates more politely, “Um, there’s no way to get down the mountain, Mara. I’m afraid you’re stuck here.”
She looks between the two of us as if the answer to all her problems rests somewhere between us.
“No.” Denial. “There has to be a way.”
Nope.
I stand and head for the front door covering the space between the table and the foyer in a few long strides.
As soon as I pull the door open with considerable strength, the cold winter blows inside with a few flurries coating the floor and ruffling our hair.
My message is clear. If you’re so desperate to leave, then go.
The only way down is through the snow and you won’t survive it.
Mara meets my stare with one of her own, all hell breaking loose in her eyes. “Very funny.”
I just wave a hand like a fancy butler to drive the point home. She can freeze to death for all I care.
Then why did you save her? My subconscious antagonizes me.
Her eyes only narrow in response.
I slam the door shut then take my long sleeve shirt off the back of the chair and pull it over my torso with a little more force than necessary.
“What am I supposed to do?” Mara addresses Dylan again, her only advocate. But her efforts at appealing to the sympathetic one are pointless, he can’t get her home any more than I can.
“Help with day-to-day stuff around here, I guess.”
When Mara drops her fork on the plate with a clang, I can’t help but snicker.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” The sarcasm isn’t lost on either of us. But before Dylan can answer, I stomp to the kitchen and pull out our mom’s cookbook, flip to the page I have in mind, and slam it on the table beside her plate of unfinished food.
Mara scans the withered page, considers what I’m asking, then shoots those hazel eyes at me incredulously. “Bread? You want me to be your fucking cook?”
She might think it’s because she’s a woman, but really it’s because cooking takes too much time out of our days. If she were to maintain more of the household tasks, Dylan and I would have more time to work.
After moving to the cabin, Dylan and I started a fabrication business.
We mainly build custom firearms for guys with money across the country.
But we also take on the occasional odd jobs such as custom parts for cars or other specific mechanic requirements.
Since we don’t have internet in the winter, we take all of our orders in the fall and when we run out of work to do towards the end of the season, we design new pieces to post for sale when spring rolls around.