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“Speaking of chainsaws, how’s your tenant?” Simon asked.
“He’s fine.” Martin peered toward Cabin Five. “He’s been working on… something. I’m not sure what it is.”
From where he was standing, Martin could only see the stump. It hadn’t taken shape yet. At any rate, not a shape Martin recognized.
“Free-form chainsaw art, it’s the newest trend. Maybe he’s making a carving of you, Martin. A geology professor in wood.” For some reason, Simon thought this was hilarious, and Martin was forced to listen to him chuckle for several moments.
“Right,” Martin said dryly. “If you’re finished? I was only calling to say hi, as I promised I would.” He rolled his eyes. “And to let you know things are going fine.” And if he felt a little lonely, and adrift, and wanted to hear a friendly voice, he wasn’t admitting it. Not yet.
“It’s a plus that your tenant hasn’t cut you up into tiny pieces and made a pie.”
“That too.”
“So you’re positive you won’t come to ours for the holidays?” Simon asked.
Martin shook his head out of habit. “Nope, I’m spending them here. What’s the point of moving here if I leave all the time? And I’m going to spend Christmas reading a book in front of the fireplace. Maybe I’ll even have a fire in it. If I’m lucky, there’ll be a good storm. I can hardly wait.” Martin wasn’t lying about wanting a storm; they were different out on the coast. Intense and invigorating and, once over, they always left him feeling refreshed in—if he hadn’t been a hardened geologist—an almost spiritual way.
“Okay, I’ll quit asking. Charley wants to head that way after New Year’s, so we’ll see you soonish.”
Were they planning on staying over in Cooper Springs? Simon was a seasoned outdoors person, but Charley was an entirely different matter. Charley’s idea of roughing it was limited access to the internet and a wood fireplace instead of gas. On the other hand, Martin could take them on a chainsaw art tour of Cooper Springs. Charley was a museum curator. Surely, he’d have some pithy observations to make. It might just be worth it.
“Whatever floats your boat. We can have dinner at the pub again. It’s possible a few of the cabins will be ready, but don’t count on it. Although I don’t think Charley is ready for even this level of the simple life.”
“I’m going to tell him you said that.”
“Go right ahead.”
They said their goodbyes and Martin clicked off. His cheeks hurt from smiling like a weirdo, but hewashappy. Even with the rain pissing down 24/7 and the wind blowing, Martin Purdy was as happy as he’d ever been in his life.
NICK
Fact: Sonorous rocks resonate like a bell when struck. These chime or ring-like sounds come from geological phenomena known asringing rocks.
Purdy made no effort to talk to Nick.
That was good, Nick told himself. Very good. Excellent, even. It was exactly what he wanted.
Nick didn’t want to talk to Purdy, either. But Purdy not dropping by to say hi so Nick could tell him to fuck off made him irrationally angry. The man could at least acknowledge Nick’s existence. Yes, he realized he was the definition of ridiculous. Maybeconflictedwas the better word. Wanting andnotwanting the same thing with equal passion was the ultimate paradox.
Worse than Purdy’s fucking silence was Nick’s fucking reawakened libido. His dick had decided to acknowledge Purdy’s proximity, whether Nick wanted it to or not. He’d woken up with morning wood every day since the man moved in. And, apparently, caving once to a quickie meant caving again. And again. At this rate, his dick was going to be rubbed raw and he’d end up needing a dick transplant.
The only solution was not to sleep, and that never went well for him.
Unslaked lust was the reason Nick found himself on the beach just as the sun crept over the forest and the bluff. The sun’s murky rays glanced off the piles of driftwood and beach logs the ocean had haphazardly left behind as it retreated, and the now distant waves lapped against the long stretch of sand.
This morning he’d told his dick to fuck off. Instead of rubbing one out, he’d gotten out of bed, dragged some clothes on, and made a cup of coffee to bring with him to the beach. He was going to sit on the beach log and watch the ocean until his dick got the message:No more Martin Purdy.
Or until he froze to death.
Even where he was sitting, tucked in the lee of a sort of windbreak created by the bluff, Nick was cold as fuck. But he didn’t have a hard-on anymore, so there was that.
The ocean had always been a calming place for Nick, even on freezing, stormy days. Maybe even more on those days. Way out on the horizon, dark clouds were gathering, readying themselves for another assault on the Pacific Northwest.
Lifting his go-cup in salute to them, Nick took a sip of the steaming coffee and enjoyed the path of warmth it forged through his chest. The random chirp of a bird came from somewhere behind him. Surprised, he twisted around to see what kind it was. Since the morning was chilly, Nick was amazed anything was up and about. Early birds did not get worms if the worms were frozen.
There was nothing.
Peering around and not spotting anything—not a single seagull or sandpiper—he heard the sound again. It was quieter this time. A weak chirp. A cheep? What the hell was he hearing? A swell of waves crashed against the shore and pulled back again. In the lull before the next set, Nick heard the sound again.
