Rock Hard Lumberjack

A Lumberjack And A City Girl Romance

CHAPTER ONE: SAM WASHINGTON

OMG I HAVE THE BEST PRESENT FOR YOU!!!

As soon as I see the text message from Lacey I know that I’m in for an interesting afternoon. Not only does Lacey not traffic in subtlety, I’m not sure she’s ever considered the alternative.

Back in junior high, while I was a junior and Lacey a senior, she made an effort to cheer me up after my first hangover. Lacey covered the car of a boy who had jilted me in graffiti. She was on the verge of slashing his tires when the high school rent-a-cop startled her.

I, of course, didn’t know this until later. It did cheer me up. I’m not sure if that says more about Lacey or me. But we take our fun where we can get it.

Life is meant to be lived, right?

Or, in my case, I take whatever fun comes my way. This is one of my problems- I have always relied on other people to bring the excitement into my life. I’m not so good at drumming it up for myself. Good thing, most of the time, I have people like Lacey around to send cryptic texts that I know will have volcanic consequences.

But for now, you’re probably wondering what I needed to be cheered up about. Honestly, cheering up isn’t quite the word. Here’s the least you need to know for now: I had been dating a guy named Owen for a year. I knew him well before that, but we only dated for about a year. Owen was…jeez, I’m not sure how to put it - except to say that Owen was Owen. He was just…there. Kind of like how gravity is just there. You don’t really think about it, and since it never leaves, you forget what life is like without it.

Owen had a coin collection. Has. I’m sure he hasn’t gotten rid of it. I initially thought it was a cute hobby but it revealed itself as more of an obsession. He used the word “numismatics” constantly. That means coin collecting. Maybe you already knew that, but I didn’t. Over time I began to suspect that the only reason Owen started collecting coins was that he learned the word numismatics, couldn’t find a way to work it into a normal conversation, and could not therefore use this addition to his chick-slaying arsenal. Stupid Owen.

You might be asking yourself, “What kind of woman gets turned on by a coin collection? Or a collector?” Well, silly me, that’s who. But before you relegate me to the pathetic bin of women who don’t aspire to enough, just know that Owen was my first real relationship. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And coins weren’t really what did it for me. I actually fell for his inner nerd. I don’t want to be too harsh on him, since I was the girl that chose him in the first place. He shouldn’t take all the blame.

That’s not actually true.

In my calmer moments I keep forgetting that Owen cheated on me. The problem is, really, that I’m not good at being harsh on people. My best friend Lacey, on the other hand, is a different story. When you ran afoul of Lacey you placed yourself in the path of a pitiless kamikaze, which would have terrified a legion of Spartans. A good person to have on your side.

I met her downtown at a hotel bar called The Morocco. I don’t know what it has to do with Morocco except that the waiters have to wear those curved knives on their belts like they were sultans or sheiks. Okay, full disclosure before returning to Owen’s nerdiness and shortcomings: I am a history buff. Well, buff doesn’t really do it justice. All I ever want to do is read about history and take myself back in time. Lacey says this is because I “can’t tolerate the present.” Maybe she’s right.

When I get there Lacey is already a couple of minutes (and probably a couple of drinks) into a conversation with a hunky Maître D.

Knowing her, she will have him in her bed as soon as we end our gift exchange or whatever this is going to be. I’m not always jealous of her lifestyle, but a part of me honestly envies her confidence.

As soon as she sees me she sends him away. He scurries into the corner like he has been waiting for her command his entire life.

“Sam!” she says, jumping to her feet. Her dress has so many sparkles on it that it’s like seeing a sequenced hourglass rush towards me. I needed the hug more than ever. Stupid Owen.

“That stupid piece of garbage,” says Lacey as soon as we sit down. “He has no idea what I’m going to do to him. Oh, but he will.” She tightens her grip on her glass and her knuckles turn white.

“Maybe, let’s not go there yet,” I say, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Let’s talk about my infinitely lame stories at the tabloid. I’ve got to do something to land a real gig, or I’ll claw my own eyes out from boredom.”

Lacey clears her throat and taps the oak bar with one long-nailed finger. As if she has turned on a switch in his brain, he comes over and smiles at her with a dopey look on his face like he just drank too much cough syrup.

“This fine lady is going to have as many of whatever she wants on me,” says Lacey. “And if you hurry, there will be a gargantuan tip in it for you. Go. Show me how fast you can move.”

It’s like she has waved a checkered flag. He races away and then returns, putting a whiskey sour in my hand so fast that I barely even remembered ordering it. While I sip at it, Lacey reaches into her purse and takes out a package that looks like it has been wrapped by a pro from Saks Fifth.

I see myself in the bar mirror. I look good. Tall, nearly 5’10.” Gorgeous auburn, thick hair that goes almost to my waist. Smooth, clear skin. Green eyes.

Stupid Owen.

“Oh my God I can’t wait for you to open it!” says Lacey. To prove it, she starts tearing at the bow herself. I wrench it away.

“This is my cheering up present,” I say. “And as thoughtful as it is, maybe you should let me open it.”

“Okay, just hurry. I’ll sit here and think about how to get back at Owen. You’re better off, believe me.”

Actually, I already do feel that way.

Owen cheated on me. That’s how it ended. And we’re all better off without cheaters, right? The fact that I had been so bored with him seemed like it should have mitigated the blow, but there’s really just no easy way to be utterly rejected, even if it’s by someone who thinks finding a Buffalo Eagle coin from the nineteenth century is like winning the lottery.

Owen’s actions said … I don’t want you.

You’re not enough for me.

I’m better off without you.

You’re not as good as she is.

She’s better in bed than you are.

Okay, so that last one was in my head, mostly.

“Once you told me that he couldn’t get you off I started praying for him to cheat on you,” says Lacey, ordering herself another drink.

I get the bow off and start tearing the corner of the wrapping paper. “Guess that’s proof that God exists.”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you who I was praying to,” says Lacey. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

The first time Owen and I had sex—and the second, third, or the hundredth, for that matter—I thought to myself: Is this it? Can that really be what all the romance novels are about? What caused the Peloponnesian War and the siege of Troy? This is why Romeo and Juliet died? This is why Lacey is always glowing and looking for her next conquest?

The easiest answer was to blame myself. I was probably the one doing something wrong. Owen had always seemed to be enjoying himself. During, I mean. But he enjoyed sex the same way he enjoyed coins and ramen noodles: with gravitas and decorum. Not exactly the stuff to set anyone’s bed and panties ablaze.

“It’s high time you get some satisfaction,” says Lacey.

“Oh, what’s the occasion?” says the bartender, coming over to watch the festivities. The Maître D appears at his side just in time for me to remove the lid from the box.

Inside is a vibrator which looks like it’s about the size of a Nerf football.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Lacey, pulling it out of the box and pointing at my face. “Owen who? That’s what you’ll be saying. Tell her, boys!” She waves the vibrator at the two guys who are now receding into the background, vanquished by the suggestion that their anatomy is now superfluous to our conversation. “This is what you need to be writing about. Owen 2.0 right here. You’re bored with all the local gigs? Take this bad boy for a spin and you’ll burn the damn front page down.”

“Oh my God.” I grab it away from her, stuff it back into the box, and put the lid on. In my haste I manage to knock the box off my lap. When it hits the floor the vibrator spills out at the feet of an elderly couple who has just arrived.

“Good for you, dear,” says the woman of the pair. “Variety keeps everything revving.”

Lacey gives her a high five while I drop to my knees and quickly snatch up the colossal vibrator to hide Owen 2.0 back into his box.

“But I have to warn you” says Lacey, “You’ve got to beware of its powers. It’s not going to be a substitute for a real man forever. But it’s more than a match for all these weenies who would rather flip a coin than give it to you the way you deserve.”

The thought of coins make me gulp down another drink. I don’t want to think about Owen at all. Lacey’s definitely right about one thing, though: I’m bored with my journalism job and would do just about anything to escape the local beat for a while. Maybe Owen 2.0 is just the ticket.

As soon as Lacey leaves (the Maître D in tow), I go home with my consolation prize - determined to treat myself to a night of…well, I guess I would just have to find out.