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Story: Ferocious Mountain Man
1
SAHARA
Eight barstools lined the bar at the restaurant inside Seduction Summit Lodge. On each of those barstools sat a youngish woman, in town to track down the lumberjack who’d lit the internet on fire.
So much for my plan to get to know a few of these women for the story I was writing. I’d planned to hop on one of those stools and strike up a conversation, but not a single barstool was available.
Sighing, I scanned the restaurant. Plenty of empty tables and booths. I could sit alone and have dinner—maybe keep an eye on the bar. Eventually, at least one of them would leave and I’d have my opening. Unless they were all together.
Darn it. This idea might not work. What now?
As I watched the hostess start back in this direction, menus in hand after having seated someone, movement from the bar area caught my eye. One of the women had spun around on her barstool and stood. She began walking toward me—well, toward the hostess stand, which was in front of the entrance that led to everything but this bar.
I gauged her level of intoxication as she walked. Everything about her said she was stone-cold sober. Not even a sign of tipsiness. She walked in a straight line, her eyes bright as she scanned her surroundings. Her gaze was heading in my direction when the hostess reached her, pulling her attention away.
“I’m looking for the bathroom,” the woman told the hostess.
That was all I needed to hear. I flipped around and rushed toward the lobby. I already knew that was where the only bathroom was. Yes, I’d scoped out this place earlier in the day. At that time, I hoped to run into one of these women so I could interview them for my story, but everyone was out on the trails looking for the Hardwood Hottie.
That was what the internet had named him. His image, shirtless and chopping wood, had gone viral. It was a prime example of objectifying a guy, and I planned to point that out in my article.
I rushed into the bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls, waiting for the sounds that signaled someone had entered. It took about a minute, but eventually the door opened, then slammed closed. I watched through the tiny cracks in the stall door, peeking through one eye.
Luckily, the hot pink blouse the woman was wearing made it easy to identify her. She breezed past my stall to one of the stalls to the right.
I turned, flushed the toilet I hadn’t even used, and waited the time it would normally take to get everything back in place. Then I took a deep breath and opened the stall door, heading out to the mirrors.
I washed my hands so thoroughly, I could probably perform surgery, and still, she hadn’t emerged. I could hear her doing her business, but the noises from the stall suddenly stopped. Seconds ticked by.
What if she was on to me? She could see me through the cracks. Maybe she’d spotted me in the bar and identified me as some sort of stalker—or the actual investigative journalist I was.
I’d never been so relieved in my life to hear the flush of a toilet. I’d already shut off the water and dried my hands on the towel I’d thrown away.
How did I look busy? All I had was my smartphone, my car keys, and a stick of lip balm.
Lip balm. That was it. I withdrew it from my purse, uncapped it, and stepped in front of the mirror, pretending that applying it required intense concentration.
“Hi,” the woman said as she stepped up to one of the sinks and flipped on the water.
That surprised me. I hadn’t expected her to speak first. My mind was racing as I tried to come up with an opening line.
“Hi,” I replied. “Are you here looking for the Hardwood Hottie?”
“Yep. We found his house. Are you camping out there too?”
They hadn’t found his place. What they’d found was the fake information the guy’s friends posted online, claiming he was staying in an empty cabin near the top of the mountain.
No, the Hardwood Hottie’s home was the empty cabin near the big campground in town. It was a rental that sat unoccupied this time of year. It belonged to someone who only came here for ski season, so they were staking out an empty building.
“Yep,” I said. “Haven’t seen him yet. Have you?”
The woman was lathering soap on her hands. She hadn’t even turned on the water yet.
“A girl two tents down went and peeked in his windows,” she said. “There’s a truck in the driveway. I guess that’s his, but it’s there all the time.”
Yeah, that truck was a plant too. Looked like it was fooling the fans.
“How long are you here?” I asked, continuing to apply the lip balm.
SAHARA
Eight barstools lined the bar at the restaurant inside Seduction Summit Lodge. On each of those barstools sat a youngish woman, in town to track down the lumberjack who’d lit the internet on fire.
So much for my plan to get to know a few of these women for the story I was writing. I’d planned to hop on one of those stools and strike up a conversation, but not a single barstool was available.
Sighing, I scanned the restaurant. Plenty of empty tables and booths. I could sit alone and have dinner—maybe keep an eye on the bar. Eventually, at least one of them would leave and I’d have my opening. Unless they were all together.
Darn it. This idea might not work. What now?
As I watched the hostess start back in this direction, menus in hand after having seated someone, movement from the bar area caught my eye. One of the women had spun around on her barstool and stood. She began walking toward me—well, toward the hostess stand, which was in front of the entrance that led to everything but this bar.
I gauged her level of intoxication as she walked. Everything about her said she was stone-cold sober. Not even a sign of tipsiness. She walked in a straight line, her eyes bright as she scanned her surroundings. Her gaze was heading in my direction when the hostess reached her, pulling her attention away.
“I’m looking for the bathroom,” the woman told the hostess.
That was all I needed to hear. I flipped around and rushed toward the lobby. I already knew that was where the only bathroom was. Yes, I’d scoped out this place earlier in the day. At that time, I hoped to run into one of these women so I could interview them for my story, but everyone was out on the trails looking for the Hardwood Hottie.
That was what the internet had named him. His image, shirtless and chopping wood, had gone viral. It was a prime example of objectifying a guy, and I planned to point that out in my article.
I rushed into the bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls, waiting for the sounds that signaled someone had entered. It took about a minute, but eventually the door opened, then slammed closed. I watched through the tiny cracks in the stall door, peeking through one eye.
Luckily, the hot pink blouse the woman was wearing made it easy to identify her. She breezed past my stall to one of the stalls to the right.
I turned, flushed the toilet I hadn’t even used, and waited the time it would normally take to get everything back in place. Then I took a deep breath and opened the stall door, heading out to the mirrors.
I washed my hands so thoroughly, I could probably perform surgery, and still, she hadn’t emerged. I could hear her doing her business, but the noises from the stall suddenly stopped. Seconds ticked by.
What if she was on to me? She could see me through the cracks. Maybe she’d spotted me in the bar and identified me as some sort of stalker—or the actual investigative journalist I was.
I’d never been so relieved in my life to hear the flush of a toilet. I’d already shut off the water and dried my hands on the towel I’d thrown away.
How did I look busy? All I had was my smartphone, my car keys, and a stick of lip balm.
Lip balm. That was it. I withdrew it from my purse, uncapped it, and stepped in front of the mirror, pretending that applying it required intense concentration.
“Hi,” the woman said as she stepped up to one of the sinks and flipped on the water.
That surprised me. I hadn’t expected her to speak first. My mind was racing as I tried to come up with an opening line.
“Hi,” I replied. “Are you here looking for the Hardwood Hottie?”
“Yep. We found his house. Are you camping out there too?”
They hadn’t found his place. What they’d found was the fake information the guy’s friends posted online, claiming he was staying in an empty cabin near the top of the mountain.
No, the Hardwood Hottie’s home was the empty cabin near the big campground in town. It was a rental that sat unoccupied this time of year. It belonged to someone who only came here for ski season, so they were staking out an empty building.
“Yep,” I said. “Haven’t seen him yet. Have you?”
The woman was lathering soap on her hands. She hadn’t even turned on the water yet.
“A girl two tents down went and peeked in his windows,” she said. “There’s a truck in the driveway. I guess that’s his, but it’s there all the time.”
Yeah, that truck was a plant too. Looked like it was fooling the fans.
“How long are you here?” I asked, continuing to apply the lip balm.