Two Cabins, One Lake: An Alaskan Romance

by Shaye Marlow

  She took it with pathetic gratitude, licking his hand, making it seem like I starved her. The sight put my teeth on edge.

  “She’s on a diet. And you put a bullet hole in my panties,” I said.

  He frowned at me again, obviously irritated I kept interrupting the longest car chase I’d ever seen. “Every diet includes potato chips. And—did you just say I put a hole in your panties?”

  “A bullet hole,” I stressed.

  “In your panties.”

  “They were hanging on the line.”

  He gave me this masculine smirk that made me either want to smack him or fuck him. “How do you know it was me?” he asked.

  Another potato chip. The future flashed before my eyes, a future in which my dog gained fifty pounds and never came when she was called, because she was always over at the neighbor’s, being fed Barbecue Lays.

  “You were out bumbling through the woods all day, randomly shooting at poor, defenseless animals. Of course it was you.”

  He squinted at me, probably trying to decide if I was a tree-hugger. My jeans and flannel button-down over a T-shirt said not. But I liked my neck of the woods just exactly as it was. Not pocked with bullet holes and divest of adorable feathered woodland creatures.

  “I do not ‘bumble’. And how do you know the hole wasn’t already there?” he asked. “Or made some other way; holes can be made lots of ways.”

  I was trying to hold my temper. I really, really was. And for some reason I wasn’t going to examine, my pussy was really, really wet. But that was neither here nor there.

  What was there was him, looking like a human lollipop, having terrorized me with his decibels all frickin’ week, stolen my muse, and beaten my sex scene literally to death. The mosquitos in the shade of his porch were starting to eat me alive—of course he had particularly ravenous mosquitos—and now he wanted to discuss the origin of The Panty Hole.

  “You made a hole. In my panties. With a tiny bullet from your puny gun,” I added for good measure. The hole had looked and the report had sounded like a .22, and no man liked to be accused of having a small gun. Which is, of course, why I went there.

  He stood up. “My gun is not puny,” he said, crossing his arms and glaring through the screen at me. “And if I had made a hole in your panties, it wouldn’t be tiny.”

  My eyes flicked to his package. I couldn’t help myself. “That’s not what it looks like from here,” I said coolly, even though it was quite the frickin’ opposite of what it looked like from where I was standing.

  He started toward me, those delicious muscles flexing in a way that made me forget the mosquitos drilling my exposed flesh. Oooo, he looked kinda angry. Why did that turn me on?

  My breath caught, and I felt my pussy clenching, the rush of heat and moisture. Shit. Shit, shit. Why was I so sick and twisted? Why couldn’t I get this hot for someone who volunteered at a soup kitchen, someone who helped old ladies across the street? Or fixed my four-wheeler?

  This man, coming toward me with that look in his eyes? I got the feeling he did none of those things.

  My heart thumped faster. There was still the screen between us, but I honestly didn’t know what I’d do if and when he got to me. Punch him in the mouth, or kiss it just as hard?

  I really wanted to touch that chest…

  Now is my chance! “I want you to stop waking me up in the mornings,” I blurted.

  He paused. “What?”

  “Your sawing and hammering and flying, you start at six in the morning. You keep waking me up. I’d appreciate it if you stopped.” There, that had actually been pretty polite. Especially compared to the stream of profanities I could have unleashed.

  Maybe getting the full-frontal of his chest, all that smooth flesh wrapped around those delicious muscles, was mellowing me out. Even now, I was having trouble holding eye contact. There was just so damn much of him that wanted—no, needed—my attention.

  He frowned. “You’re outta here in the mornings before I ever start hammering anything.”

  I felt a blush crawling up my cheeks from the double-entendre, but said, “On the days that I work, that’s true. But I don’t work every day, and on the days that I don’t, I like to sleep in.”

  He crossed his arms, and one of his brows climbed upward. “Till?”

  “Nine.” And I immediately wanted to kick myself after I said it, because it sounded like a damn question. Apparently my decisive voice had gone out the same window my libido had come in.

  He got a look like he was gonna argue or maybe laugh in my face, but then a half-naked blonde emerged from the back hall. “Ga-ry,” she sing-songed in a way that made me want to spank her, unknowingly interrupting whatever it was that was going on between me and my hot neighbor. She looked gorgeous and rumpled in nothing but a forest green button-down, and it shamed me to admit it, but in that moment, I wondered if he preferred blondes.

  I didn’t like my neighbor, but I was starting to realize I wanted to fuck him.

  He half turned toward her, then flicked another look at me. It was a ‘you just wait’ look. “Take your dog,” he said.

  I hurriedly opened the screen, and was relieved when Mocha listened despite my lack of potato chips. We started down the porch, and behind me I heard, “Who was that, babe?”

  “No one, gorgeous. Did I tell you you could get out of bed?”

  “No…” Nauseating giggle, then a squeal. Five dollars said I’d be hearing dying-baby-animal sounds tonight.

  No one… Fuck me. Here I was, hard-up with nothing but my imagination and a battery operated boyfriend, while my neighbor imported gorgeous model-types for each day of the week.

  And he’d had the nerve to shoot a hole in my Wednesday underwear. Life wasn’t fair.

  Chapter

  Four

  The very next morning, the sawing started at 0600 sharp. I knew, because I was off. And home. And trying to sleep.

  I was livid. I lay in bed grinding my teeth, listening to him constructing things when I should have been catching up on my beauty rest.

  That man had been in my life less than two weeks, and he’d shot my peace and quiet all to hell. He was the loudest individual I’d ever encountered, bar none.

  And right then and there, I decided I wasn’t going to take it lying down. Not anymore.

  Suzy had advised using my words, communicating, and I’d tried that. Obviously, it wasn’t working.

  I was going to start doing things my way. I couldn’t make him stop, short of duct-taping him to a wall, but I sure as hell could give as good as I got.

  The next morning, I had to work, but I pried my sad-sack self out of bed a half hour earlier than I usually did, right at the barest butt crack of dawn. I got dressed in my usual duds, making sure my shirt was long-sleeved because the mosquitos were worst at this time of day.

  Then I went and got my chainsaw.

  But it wasn’t what you’re thinking. I wasn’t gonna bust in wearing a ski mask, chainsaw roaring. I didn’t have any meat hooks and Visqueen in my generator shack.

  No, I just wanted to make some noise, as loudly and as closely as possible, and wake his ass up for a change.

  It just so happened there was a fallen tree right on our property line that I’d been eyeballing for a couple months. It had cracked from the cold and been blown over in a high wind, so it wasn’t rotten. And I could definitely use some more firewood before winter.

  So this morning, despite my jaw-cracking yawn and my bone-deep desire to crawl back into bed for another thirty minutes, I was murdering two birds with one really loud stone. I was gonna get me some firewood… and annoy me a neighbor.

  Everything was silent as I crept over to the line dividing our property. It wasn’t a line, really. Just a couple pieces of faded neon orange tape tied to the branches to mark it out.

  With an evil laugh, I fired up the chainsaw. I revved it good, getting it nice and warm while I glared daggers at Gary’s front door. Again, not what you’re thi
nking. I may have an anger problem, but I’m not a murderer.

  Of people.

  Yet.

  Ignoring the way the mosquitos tried to crawl into my brain through my ears, I started on the log, cutting it into nice, even chunks. I’d even brought my axe, so once I was done with this, I could make some more racket splitting it. I had a whole half hour to work with, and I planned on making the biggest damn ruckus I possibly could in the allotted time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gary’s door opening, and an angry, bare-chested individual spilled forth. I think he was yelling something, but I couldn’t hear him. And I didn’t care to. With a scoff, I continued cutting, the buzzing roar of the chainsaw drowning out everything else.

  I figured I’d let the mosquitos do my work for me. The mosquitos around these parts are bad. Like other blood-suckers, they avoid bright sunshine like the plague, lurk in the shadows, and hunt and feed voraciously from sundown to sunrise. So right now, an hour before dawn? They were absolutely nasty. They were also insidious, finding every crack in your clothes, every unprotected inch.

  Gary, with that bare chest of his, had a lot of unprotected inches.

  He wasn’t even all the way to me when he was driven, cursing, back into the house. As I waited for him to reappear, I toyed with the notion of staking him out for the mosquitos to eat. Was there any way I could manage it without being charged with a crime? Did I care? I thought the more pertinent question was, how could I get him to hold still long enough to stake him out? He was a big guy, and I knew he wouldn’t go willingly. Maybe I could lure him out, just put a beer in a bear trap. Ha. Sadly, it probably would have worked on my brothers.

  Gary was back out, decently clad, in less than five minutes. He stormed back over to me, and I ignored him. He was yelling, but I hit the gas on the saw again, and kept cutting. He finally crowded so close, I either had to ease off the trigger or risk cutting through his leg. The man had balls, I’d give him that.

  I looked up at him, not even pretending I hadn’t known he was there. “Yes?” I asked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked. He was breathing hard, his eyes flashing, and his hair was sticking up in a way that made me want to run my fingers through it. Even though I was furious with him. Dammit.

  “I’m making firewood, neighbor. What are you doing?”

  “At 4:15 in the morning?” he demanded.

  “Well, you’ve been working loudly at six in the morning, so I just figured—”

  He crossed his arms. “That’s what this is about? Me waking you up?” He had a tone, one that said I was a lazy-ass that didn’t work for a living, because I’d been asleep at six in the morning.

  My jaw clenched. I revved the saw, and made another cut down through the birch.

  I moved to make the next, about 18 inches further along, but I found his foot in the way. I thought about it. Then I looked up at him.

  “This is my log,” he said. “Sweet of you to cut it up for me, but if you could just come back later…”

  “Your log?”

  “My log,” he agreed, pointing at the colorful bits of tape. “It’s more than halfway on my property.”

  “This log came from a tree growing on my land,” I pointed out. “Thus, my tree.”

  “It might have been, before it fell on my land,” he said. “But it crossed the line, sweet cheeks. Therefore, it’s mine.”

  I propped my chainsaw on my hip, looking at him incredulously. “What do you need with a log? Can’t you just burn bricks of cash if it comes right down to it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I’m going to do with my log,” he said. “Frankly, it’s none of your business what I do with my log, or my bricks of cash.”

  “It’s only halfway on your land,” I pointed out. Why the hell was I having this argument with him? Was it because it was four in the morning?

  He stepped over the log, put his heel to it, and rolled what was left the rest of the way onto his land. “There. Does that solve this? Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “No,” I said. “That doesn’t remotely solve this. And by that logic, you’re standing on my land, and you are now mine.”

  He looked at me. And then he did something I will never forget.

  He unzipped, he pulled himself out, and he pissed on the ground. Right there in front of me, his morning wood in his hand, his yellow stream splashing onto my land. A couple drops even hit my boot.

  I jumped back, absolutely aghast. The man. Was pissing. Right in front of me.

  “There,” he said. “Now it’s mine.”

  The uncouth bastard.

  I looked up into that smug face, and I revved my chainsaw.

  He tucked himself away. “I don’t think you can be trusted with that,” he said. “Give it here.” He took a step toward me, reaching for my saw.

  I swear to God, the man had a death wish. But as much as I wanted to give as good as I got, I didn’t want to splatter blood all over my woods, or have to explain his death. I just wanted him to be quiet in the mornings until a decent hour. Was that so much to ask?

  I stepped away again, still clutching the chainsaw. He’d have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

  He lunged in, and yanked it out of my hands. Then he turned it off.

  I bolted. Except I didn’t bolt toward my cabin. I bolted toward his.

  “Helly!” he yelled behind me.

  I vaulted his steps, sprang across his porch, and yanked his screen open so hard it crashed against the wall. Then I was inside, and I slammed the deadbolt home behind me. I leaned against the door, my heart pounding, my breaths coming fast.

  I’d done it. I was in his cabin.

  I quickly searched the dim interior. A couple changes had happened in the last two days. All of the furniture was pushed and stacked in one corner of the main living area. He’d ripped out the sheetrock and insulation of the right-hand wall until only the exterior siding remained. The carpet, too, was gone, and the chop saw and table saw I’d noticed the other day sat in the middle of the plywood floor. Over next to the half-demolished wall, I spotted his hammer.

  “Helly!” he yelled again. I heard him try the knob, and then he began to bang on the door. “Open this door!”

  I darted across to the back door and made sure that was locked, too. Then I picked up his hammer. I glanced at his wood stove, and then over at his chop saw. I smiled.

  I laid the haft of the hammer across the saw’s platform, and I sawed the damn thing in half.

  “What the hell are you doing?” his muffled voice demanded.

  After a bit of fiddling, I got the blade out of the chop saw. Then I studied the table saw. I had some experience with saws, but disabling this one was beyond me. So I unplugged it, took a pair of heavy-duty clippers lying on top of his toolbox, and cut the cord.

  Mission complete.

  He was still banging away at the front door, so I ran down to the end of the hall, pushed a window up, and slid out onto the grass. I kept the building between us as I crossed over into the woods. Then his banging and cussing concealed most of my noise as I skirted around his yard, saw blade still clutched to my chest.

  I made it back to my cabin, and heard my chainsaw fire up. I smiled, imagining him cutting his way back into his house at 4:30 in the morning.

  Then I grabbed my stuff, let my dog out, and went to work.

  That evening, even before I got back home and turned off my four-wheeler, I heard Gary’s response. He had set up his speakers and was playing music loud enough to rattle my windows from across the lake.

  I found my chainsaw sitting on my front step, but the chain was missing.

  And when I stepped out onto my deck, I spotted Mocha over at his place, hanging out on his lawn. As I watched, he fed her the rest of his hot dog.

  The next day, I was off. Gary didn’t wake me up until 8 a.m., so I was glad for small favors. I lazed around, had a late breakfast, and then decided I was going to get some sun.

/>   We have record amounts of sunshine in Alaska in the summer, but the truth of the matter is, there are only a couple months of good, soak-able rays. And only a couple days where it’s warm enough to lie outside nearly naked.

  This was one of those days. It dawned sunny, and as the day proceeded into afternoon, it just got warmer, and sunnier. The birds were singing, the bees were pollinating. I could practically smell the heat; the scent of warm dirt and green things made me long to be outside.

  The scene I was working on could wait. I was going sunbathing.

  And so it was that I put on a blue bikini and carted a towel and water bottle—and my shotgun, after the incident with the bear—down to my dock. The dock was a basic thing, no more than a few boards strapped together over a large block of foam, just wide and long enough for me and my beach towel.

  The problem with sunning somewhere more private was that my yard was almost entirely shaded by those trees I love. And with the shade came clouds of bloodthirsty mosquitos. The little biting beasties didn’t venture so much onto the water, so I only came away with a couple bites each time I sunbathed. Reasonable collateral damage, the way I figured it.

  Anyway, so there I was, pale, less-than-svelte self in a less-than-stylish bikini, soaking in some rays, actually getting damn close to falling asleep…

  When my gods-be-damned neighbor made his presence known.

  I heard—something. It was a whirring buzz I couldn’t identify. It got louder and louder, sounding like it was coming at me from across the lake.

  I finally sat up to look, and came pretty much face-to-face with—something. It was white, about a foot across, and had four propellers causing a surprisingly strong breeze to chill my skin as it hovered in place. I’d never seen one in person before, but I’d seen pictures.

  It was a drone. And the little dark eye of its camera was pointed at me.

  I stared at it for a few seconds, completely floored. My neighbor was spying on me?

  Without hesitation, I hefted my shotgun to my shoulder, and I shot the thing down. It whirred and spun, and landed in the lake with a satisfying splash.