Lumberjacked

by Alexandria Hunt

  We’d met at a party thrown to celebrate one or another of my Dad’s accomplishments. We’d dated for over a year and had even talked about living together. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but he’d hit on me because of my famous Dad and had used his connections to Dad to get his foot in the door of his first acting gig.

  “Reagan, goddamn, you look amazing!” he exclaimed, his smile wide, showing off his too-bright teeth against his fake, perfect tan. “Wow, this is a crazy coincidence.”

  “What are you doing here? You don’t have a dog,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t even like dogs.”

  “What are you talking about? I love dogs,” he laughed nervously, looking around to see if anyone heard us. “I’m here with a friend, though, and her little Chihuahua. I caught that episode of Celebrity Dog Fight you produced though—now that was totes hilarious.”

  I blushed a furious red and felt my anger simmer just below the surface. We’d had a very messy and very public break up a few months ago when I’d discovered he was seeing several women on the side. Not that it really mattered, given the fact that he’d only been using me all along.

  “Yeah, that was a mistake,” I replied with a glance down at Tiger. He had dropped the ball and was staring up at me, his little pink tongue lolling out and a grin fixed on his smushed little face.

  “You want me to throw that, Tigger?” Nick said cheerfully.

  “It’s Tiger,” I retorted as he bent down to pick up the ball for my dog.

  Tiger growled viciously and snapped as Nick’s hand got too close.

  And then I remembered with a smile, Tiger had always hated Nick. I guess he was a smart little dog after all.

  “Whoa there, buddy,” Nick smirked as he straightened up. “I guess he saw your dog fight club show too.”

  “I’m doing something better now,” I blurted. “It’s going to get amazing ratings, I can just feel it.”

  “Oh dear, it’s not something with celebrity roosters now, is it? I think the internet has had enough of your animal attack antics,” Nick replied with a smug grin that made me curl my hands into fists and dig my nails in so deep it hurt.

  “No, this one is like The Bachelor, but set in Alaska. The buzz around it has been amazing so far. And the guy we got is hot. Like tall, muscled, bearded, growly, confident…a natural hot. No fake tan or gym rat muscles on this guy. He’s going to have every woman in America over the age of twenty wanting a lumberjack of their own.”

  His eyes narrowed as I used Aaron to strike all of Nick’s insecurities. He always felt he was too short, too skinny, and he tried constantly to perpetuate his brand of being that wholesome boy-next-door, all-American type…when in fact, I knew he was the farthest thing from it.

  “Sounds like a real treat,” he with a roll of his eyes. I couldn’t understand what I’d ever seen in Nick or how he’d ever convinced me that he was better than me. I’d hung onto him much longer than I should have, and seeing him now made that all the more clear.

  Especially after spending a few days with a man like Aaron, somebody who was authentic, somebody who knew himself and knew what he liked and how to get it. Somebody whose confidence was like a rumble deep in his broad chest, not a flashing neon sign like Nick’s.

  “Oh, it is,” I replied, staring him down, challenging him to keep being a dick about it.

  “You know what? Why don’t you call me? We should catch up over drinks some time,” he said with a crooked smile, exposing a little of the real Nick, the man I’d gotten to know from time to time.

  I was about to tell him no when a short, curvy, bubbly blonde came bouncing over with a shivering Chihuahua clinging to her arm. “Nick, there you are, silly beans,” she chirped. “Mister Taco is getting cold, this park is just too much for him and some of these big meanies have been scaring him.”

  She hooked her free arm around Nick’s and stood next to him, defiantly starting me down.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” the blonde pouted at Nick, glaring at me.

  “Reagan, this is Cynthia…she’s my…uh, friend. Cynthia, this is Reagan, my ex I told you about,” Nick stuttered.

  I was going to be mean to her, say something cutting and awful, but I saw the look in her eyes and stopped any of the vile words that were going to tumble from my lips.

  She looked stricken and confused as she stared up at him hopefully. She was more than his friend, and he’d just broken her heart by telling me that’s all she was. I knew that look; I recognized it well. Nick was up to his old games, leading women on and telling them what they wanted to hear to keep them in line.

  I knew by dinner he would have talked her into thinking she was crazy for doubting him, and she’d be wrapped around his little finger again.

  And that was enough hurt for her, she probably didn’t deserve any more piled on from me.

  I smiled, gave her a little wave and replying, “It’s so nice to meet you. Tiger and I were just leaving, you two enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “You too,” she muttered, clinging to Nick’s arm as I walked away.

  “Text me!” Nick called after me. It felt so damned good to show him my back that I didn’t bother turning around. “Or I’ll text you, it’s all good,” he trailed off, the confusion making his voice higher pitched than normal.

  It felt damn good to walk away from Nick Evans, and it made me realize that the only thing that would feel better was if I was walking towards Aaron Remington.

  But now I had yet another reason for my show to be a hit. I had to erase the memory of my failure from the minds of people like Nick, and when my show swept the ratings, it was going to be the sweetest of successes.

  8

  AARON

  I stepped outside onto my front porch, coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other.

  I inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet scent of pine trees and a cool breeze off the river. Nicer than the exhaust fumes and oppressive heat of the city.

  Much nicer.

  I sat on my big, comfy sofa and put my feet up on the little table in front of it. This was my morning spot…and evening spot. Basically, this was where I went to enjoy the solitude of my home and think about life.

  I closed my eyes, sipped my coffee, and was about to sneak in a little ball scratching when I heard a noise. The distinct sound of somebody coming through the woods toward my house.

  Somebody who doesn’t fucking know what they’re doing in the woods, by the crashing and snapping of twigs and branches as they made their way towards me.

  My eyelids snapped open and scanned the front yard, my driveway, and the clearing along the edge of the forest. I saw some movement near the tree line, set my coffee down next to my paper, and stood slowly.

  “Who’s out there?” I yelled, standing firmly on my property with my feet wide apart and my arms crossed.

  “Aaron? Aaron Remington?” a woman’s voice called from the trees.

  “Show yourself,” I yelled as I tensed up. If it was some religious group or salesperson, I’d have to make the sign at the end of my driveway a few feet bigger. I hated being interrupted during my alone time.

  And any time I was at home was my alone time.

  A tall, leggy brunette in a flimsy jacket and high-heeled boots teetered out of the trees, followed closely by a cameraman and a guy with a mic.

  “Aaron? I’m Beverly, from Entertainment Talk Magazine. You might have seen the show on TV?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” I grunted, watching the three of them pick their ways across my yard and driveway. They stood in front of my house and looked up expectantly.

  “You are Aaron Remington, though, aren’t you?” Beverly asked, shielding her eyes from the morning light with her hand.

  “I’m gonna have ask you to get off my property,” I said with a glower. “I’ll give you a few moments, and then I’m calling the cops.”

  “Please, I just have a few questions about Lumberjacked!”

 
“Time’s counting down now,” I replied coolly, not breaking my stare down at them. “If that camera is running, I’m going to need you to delete the footage. This is private property.”

  “Is it true you were picked out of a crowd at Lynx Nightclub?” she asked, as if I hadn’t just demanded she leave.

  I turned to walk into the house, but she kept going. “When does filming start? Do you have any favorites so far? Have you met any of the girls? Please, Aaron, call me if you change your mind. I would love to have this scoop.”

  I slammed my door shut and stood on the other side, stewing in anger. The one thing I valued most in the world had just been interrupted. Apparently, the closed gate at the end of the driveway and the perimeter fencing hadn’t managed to keep the press away. Looked like I’d have to get a dog again.

  A mean one.

  A really mean one.

  I went to take a sip of coffee to settle my anger when I realized I’d left it on the table outside.

  I peeked around the door through the long glass window on the side and saw Beverly holding her cell phone above her like a scene from The Lion King. She was moving slowly and frowning as she realized I had no reception up here.

  She dropped her arms and turned to the two guys with her. She started talking quickly, they responded, and they all looked equally agitated.

  She glanced back toward the house, I froze, and she sighed. She looked uncertain, like she was going to march up the stairs and demand I talk to her, but the guy with the camera tugged on her arm meaningfully, and she followed him as the three of them walked away.

  They trudged down the driveway, around the curve, and out of sight.

  I waited a full ten minutes to duck back out and retrieve my paper and coffee. By then it was cold, and I’d lost the feeling of peaceful privacy my front porch usually brought.

  All I could imagine were cameras and reporters watching me from the woods, and that pissed me off like nobody’s business.

  I trudged to the kitchen to heat up my coffee before heading to work. My mother still had no idea how close we were to losing the family mill, so I had to carry on with the routine, business as usual.

  Then again, it wouldn’t exactly be business as usual. The IRS had given me a tax extension, so as long as I finished the show and got my pay, I would never have to let my mom know about my little brother’s betrayal.

  I snuck a look outside again before leaving and saw nobody. I climbed into my pickup truck and drove down the driveway, scanning the woods on either side as I went.

  I didn’t see anyone on my property, but I felt unsettled nonetheless.

  Damn, if I didn’t need that money, I would call Reagan and back out right now.

  And damn, if I didn’t want to see her so bad too, I would consider it anyways.

  But I still wanted to see her, as stupid as it was, I wanted her in my neck of the woods so I could see how she’d fit in up here.

  As if she’d ever stay.

  But hell, crazier things had happened.

  * * *

  The TV show wasn’t supposed to start filming for another couple weeks, but Reagan was coming up in advance to check out the locations her scout had found. Luckily Melanie was coming along as well or else I might not trust myself alone with Reagan for a few days.

  I’d heard through the town’s grapevine that the filming would be done at the old Kaslo Lodge, the massive log mansion built at the turn of the century by some logging baron. Reagan was going to scope out a few places, but the Lodge was the front runner by far.

  It was easier to make money off the land back then, and this house was kind of a legend in our parts. It was even more of a legend in our family—it had been the first huge contract awarded to my great, great grandfather’s sawmill, and had made him a lot of money.

  Some movie star owned it now and would come up a couple weeks every summer to commune with nature and feel good about heading back to LA to protest environmental issues, like logging, ironically enough.

  He was a douche, but apparently Reagan was allowed to use his house, so I would be sleeping on the douche’s fine sheets and crapping in his fancy toilet for the month of filming.

  I don’t know why, but it gave me a special kind of satisfaction to be living in his house for a short time.

  I was obsessively checking the tabloid papers at the checkout in the supermarket, looking for photos taken of my place or anything to do with me and the new Lumberjacked TV show.

  I was supposed to pick the girls up from the airport that afternoon, so I’d left work early and decided to buy a few fancy food items to make her dinner at my place that night.

  I knew she’d hate the one little hotel in town, so I was going to offer up my spare bedroom. It was nicer than the one she’d given me, and it was free of any farting little gremlins posing as dogs.

  I was in the lineup with about three hundred bucks’ worth of groceries. I’d panicked and chosen the weirdest shit from the expensive hippie aisles, but hey, I think I wanted to impress my little Hollywood princess.

  I scanned the tabloids as usual, and I was about to move ahead to unload my cart when something caught my eye.

  It was a photograph of some actor I barely recognized…he was leaning in close to a woman, looking like he was about to kiss her.

  The woman was Reagan.

  The caption read, “Does Nick’s Ex Have Him Back on a Short Leash?”

  I snatched it off the rack and threw it on the conveyer with the rest of my groceries.

  I wasn’t proud of it, but seeing Reagan on the paper with some guy who looked like he was about to toss her on the ground and ravish her made me angry enough that I felt like punching something.

  I wasn’t a violent guy, but Reagan seemed to bring out this strange protective feeling, something new to me and not entirely pleasant.

  I wanted to go full caveman, grab her by the hair, and drag her away from that city-raised pretty boy.

  “That will be three hundred and eighty-eight dollars, please,” the poor grocery clerk said as I glowered like an angry giant.

  The girl’s eyes got big as she watched me punch in my PIN number, almost breaking the keys on the debit machine.

  “You’re the guy who’s gonna be in a TV show, aren’t you?” she asked with admiration.

  I smiled and forced myself to rein in my rough personality. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Oh my god, that’s so cool. Can I get your autograph?”

  “Sure,” I smiled again, wondering if I looked like a freakish serial killer or something. It felt forced and strange.

  She held out a piece of paper, I glanced at the name on her tag, and scrawled, “To Zoe, love Aaron” across it.

  “Can I get a selfie?” she asked with a giggle.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I replied, leaning toward her as she held her phone up and clung to my neck like a spider monkey.

  As she clicked her camera, she turned her head and kissed my cheek loudly. I pulled back and blushed bright hot, completely unused to that kind of attention.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, and the next instant, she was quickly engrossed in her phone, probably posting it to Instagram or something.

  I grabbed all my groceries, took them to my truck, loaded them up, and sat for a few moments in the seat reading the article about Reagan.

  I should have booked her hotel room, or insisted her assistant do it. Stupid me had been all twitterpated and wanting to spend time with her, so now I was committed to housing her for a few nights.

  I would still cook her dinner and do my best to be civil, but after reading the article, I had a pretty good idea of what was happening in her life.

  Nick, her ex-boyfriend, was back in her life. He was courting her, and unnamed sources from his camp had indicated he was getting ready to propose.

  It angered me, but I couldn’t exactly be that pissed over losing something I never had.

  This way, it would be easier to focus on the show, make the
money, pay our debt, keep the business going, and somehow get my little brother out of rehab and back up here where he was safe from harm.

  And yet my hands clenched the steering wheel as I drove home to prepare for Reagan’s arrival.

  How could I be so mad about losing her?

  She was never mine in the first place.

  9

  REAGAN

  I squinted into the bright sunlight and tried to get my bearings. The airport I’d just landed in was the smallest one I’d ever seen.

  The plane had been tiny, too, the smallest passenger plane I’d ever been on.

  “Where the fuck are you taking us?” Melanie blurted behind me, teetering on her ridiculously high boots, dragging her carry-on.

  “Uh, I’m not too sure at this point,” I replied as I picked my own bag up. “It’s not as cold as I expected, though.”

  “No shit,” Melanie laughed, looking up and down at my brand new winter gear…Patagonia loved me yesterday, I can tell you that. “You’re sweating like a whore in church.”

  “Ha ha,” I replied, lifting my eyebrow. “Now where the heck do we find a cab in this place?”

  I looked around the little airport for a taxi stand or something and found nothing.

  “Is that baggage claim?” Melanie asked, pointing at the small turnstile near the arrival doors.

  “Looks like,” I said. “I didn’t bring much with me, I just have one more bag.”

  “I think you’re wearing most of what you brought,” she snickered.

  “Shut up,” I shot back playfully. We waited with the five other passengers, picked up the rest of our luggage, and pulled it all piece by piece to the curb outside.

  “Okay, you’re the smart one here,” Melanie said, “I can’t believe I dragged all this crap with me. How long are we staying, like five days?”

  “Yeah, if that even,” I said as I looked around for a taxi yet again. The parking lot seemed almost deserted. “Now how the heck do we get to town and check out those locations? I think that Lodge I told you about is the one, but we should see them all before making a decision. ”