Chapter 17

Jack

Chop-chop, don’t stop.

It's one of those simple sayings. One I picked up when I was a military man instead of a mountain man. The sayings from those days are simple, but they often involve complex concepts.

Concepts that have to apply to a lot of different situations. Concepts that almost always mean life or death.

This saying, though—chop chop, don't stop—it's a little less life or death and a lot less complicated.

It’s a mantra I repeat to get myself in the task and stay there.

Chop-chop, don’t stop.

Because if I stop, I’m gonna start thinking about her. Thinking about her and her lithe, naked body. Her gorgeous blue eyes looking up at me in fear when she realizes what I want to do to that body. Her lips parted in a scream so wide I can fit my cock in it.

So. Chop-chop, don’t stop.

I swing the tool down with all my might, the blade piercing through the thick block of lumber. The crack of the ax resounds across this patch of woods. Hearty winter birds flutter away from the noise.

I repeat my mantra, out loud, with a twist:

“Chop-chop, and don’t you even think about stopping.”

I’ve already gotten a late start, and the mantra isn’t helping my output. Neither are these thoughts about Avery. The meager pile of firewood sitting in the snow looks pathetic.

So I swing the ax harder, and the cuts I make keep getting deeper. I take all my sexual frustrations out on every fucking log I set up for myself. I split each of them cleanly in two.

In the same fucking way I know my big, hard cock would split sweet little Avery in two. In the exact same fucking way.

“Don’t stop.”

This is my task, and I can’t stop.

I can’t rely on anyone but myself out here, and fumbling can lead to a wasted day. I wouldn’t have lasted out here as long as I have without understanding a few things, and one of those things is that I cannot afford to waste a day.

Can’t afford to waste a day being lazy.

Can’t afford to waste a day anguishing over her.

I grab another frigid, frosty log with both hands. I haul it off the ground and throw it at the chopping block with a mighty grunt.

The impact sends another loud shot of sound through the trees. The birds brave enough to stick around this long take this as a sign to scatter, maybe realizing that migrating south for the winter isn’t such a bad fucking idea after all.

The frustrating log doesn’t stay in place, because that would make things too simple. Instead, the stupid piece of timber slides off the block and falls silently to the snowy ground.

Whether I can afford it or not, this might as well be a wasted day.

Any day is fucking wasted if I’m not between Avery’s pale thighs, pumping her full of my hot seed and showing her exactly what a real man feels like.

I’ve wasted every fucking day of my goddamn life.

Unlike the urbanites and mansion dwellers who skim through this area in their limos and their SUVs, in my heart of hearts I know this area isn’t merely the woods.

It’s the forest, the wilderness, and it’s detached from civilization’s comforts and protections. That’s why I’m truly on my own out here.

That, and because when faced with another human being—especially one as innocent and pure as Avery—I obviously can’t contain the fucking monster in my chest.

Or, for that matter, the one in my Levis.

“Chop-chop, don’t stop.”

That’s better.

But there’s nothing left chop—I’ve chopped it all.

I swing the ax around with one hand and slice the blade right into the chopping block. It rests there firmly, with the handle sticking out at a perfect angle.

That’s somewhat satisfying, even though it’s yielding no more firewood.

The snow surrounding the small pile of wood is melting. It’s already well into the afternoon, and the sun’s at its peak. But winter days are short here, and pretty soon that sun will be sinking over the horizon, out of sight for the evening.

I look in the direction of my cabin. Built it myself. With just this axe and my own two fucking hands.

As far from humanity as I could get.

After seeing things that no human should see, I’ve tried to run far away from being human without looking back.

It was working, for a while. Denial’s easy when you’re by yourself. Nothing to remind you except memories you could shrug off as false recollections.

Coming face to face with certain things, certain people, there are parts of myself that are getting very hard to deny being there. Though I try, denial has a limited shelf life and in one way or another, reality creeps in.

Either that, or it crashes in, tumbling down the mountainside clad in a wedding gown.

I’m wasting time and energy. It’s like I’m trying to turn myself into the Tin Man, a wood chopping automaton with no heart. I wish I could get lost in monotony. To rid myself of emotions, escape from the shadows hounding me at round the clock.

I throw the last few pieces of lumber on top of a cache that’s probably enough to last me through next season. If you take a look at it, you’d think I’m building a fortress—or maybe a wall—from this huge pile.

I couldn’t care less, though, since I don’t feel a drop of satisfaction.

How arrogant am I to think I could spend the rest of my life here on my own?

I mean, I could have, but not anymore.

Not since I met Avery.

I know it’s more than just the isolation—this is the first time a woman, or anyone, has made me feel this way.

People crave the presence of another person, no matter how much you like to keep to yourself. I could have been okay for another few years, or decades, out here in the wilderness. But I wouldn’t be in denial; I know that healing—becoming whole again—would be out of the fucking question.

I won’t say I’m healing now, but Avery’s not just inspiring lust in me. She’s inspiring something in me that I wrote off long ago. Something real, something human.

I’d be a fool to pretend it’s not there and just let it go.

If I don’t acknowledge the first human connection I’ve felt in years, I’d probably never forgive myself. If I’m worried about wasted days, I could see myself not even bothering with the basics like food and warmth. I’d just sit in the cabin all day, a husk of what I could’ve been.

Yeah, that’s pretty much what I am now. But maybe, I don’t have to be anymore.

Maybe, all I need to do is stop hiding, which would mean telling Avery everything.

Everything.

I didn’t think anything could scare me at this point, but everything does. The word, that is, because everything includes the whole story.

A story that still runs through my head most days, and most nights—whether I remember my dreams or not.

It’s a story I cannot run away from, because I’m carrying it inside me and I keep it well-protected.

And it threatens to consume and control me like the toxic, alien thing it is. This could be my chance to stop protecting it, to take away its power. If I’d take that chance. If I trust her enough.

If I tell Avery anything, then I need to tell her everything.

When you carry something heavy around for days, like a tactical backpack stuffed with gear, you eventually start getting used to it, even forgetting that it’s there. But then, inevitably, out of nowhere, you’ll suddenly start feeling every ounce of it weighing you down, and you realize you’ve been bearing that weight the entire time.

That’s what I feel right now: every bit of what’s weighing me down. I need to unpack it.

In my cabin, less than a click away, is the person I want to help me start unpacking.

I leave the ax where it is in the chopping block, and the wasteful woodpile where it is in the snow. I start back to the cabin in a brisk jog.

Chop-chop, don’t stop, Avery’s there now and you’ve got no more time to waste.

I start running faster when the cabin comes into sight, my boots kicking up snow and slush from the ground.

This feels like an emergency, something I can’t let wait another second or it’ll vanish. Avery’s there, right now, and I need to tell her everything.

I’m not scared of that word anymore. It’s starting to feel like an itch you long to scratch. The faster I reach her, the sooner I’ll feel relief.

What do I tell her first? That I fucking want her, of course. But how do I put that into words?

Once I see her, it’ll be clear. The words will come to me, all of them.

I stop at the cabin door, some hesitation coming back.

Honestly, I don’t know how Avery will react. It’s a lot for anybody, especially after what she’s been through.

I harden my resolve and decide I’ll start by telling her how I feel, even if I’m not sure myself, then figure it out from there.

I open the door gently and walk inside. I damn near trip over Buck as I do it—damn dog is curled up on the doormat, looking upset about something.

It looks like the cabin is empty.

“Avery,” I call out, although I know it’s in vain.

I look quickly around the cabin, but Avery is gone for sure.

I look at my dog, and my dog looks back up at me with the exact same expression.

Well, fuck.