Clear Cut

  Clear Cut

  By Alexa Snow

  Copyright © 2005 Alexa Snow

  Illustration Copyright © Plutocat

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502.

  ISBN: 1-933389-46-X

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Torquere Press electronic edition / January 2006

  Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502.

  1.

  Carter was packing. Carter hated packing. He worried about packing too much and packing too little and packing the wrong stuff. He'd been packing for more than a week, actually, and he still wasn't finished. He put a sweater in and then took it out, replaced it with a different one, and then spent half a day wondering if he really needed to pack a sweater at all. Wouldn't sweatshirts be good enough? How cold was it actually going to be, anyway? Edward said he'd be sleeping in a cabin with some of the logging crew, and Carter wasn't sure if that meant roughing it or not.

  Not that he had anything against roughing it. He liked camping. He didn't mind being cold or wet. All in all, he thought of himself as a mellow, relaxed kind of guy. For the most part. Other than the whole packing thing, which was obviously causing him to lose his mind.

  He wasn't sure if he was going to need dressier clothes. What if an occasion presented itself where he needed to get dressed up, and he hadn't brought anything appropriate?

  Carter was definitely beginning to suspect that he was in over his head.

  He'd written so many articles that the total number of pages must surely be five or six times the length of this book he was going to write, so it wasn't that he was worried about that. Partially it was being away from a familiar place for such a long period of time -- he expected he'd be living with the logging crew for about a month, and he didn't have any illusions about how much they were going to like him. He pretty much represented everything the logging industry viewed as its mortal enemy.

  Flaky environmentalist guy, that was him. Caring about the trees and the animals instead of people and their wallets full of money.

  When it came right down to it, he should just consider himself lucky that it wasn't too far a drive -- if he hadn't lived on the west coast, he'd have had to fly, and that would have been a thousand times worse. He didn't do well on airplanes. If he'd had flying to anticipate, he'd have been throwing up every half hour, the current jumble of nerves in his stomach twisted into something impossible.

  Across the room the clock on his microwave was blinking, blinking, blinking. The power seemed to go out every week and he'd given up in disgust after the first five or six times he'd re-set it.

  It wasn't like he was going to regret leaving this apartment, which he didn't quite hate. It was a close thing, though.

  He'd moved in the few things that Shannon had insisted he take -- honestly, he would have preferred to make a completely fresh start, but she'd been so adamant that in the end it had been easier to just go along with what she'd wanted. She'd had such a rough time of it that it didn't seem fair, somehow, to do anything else that would stress her out. Even something as simple as telling her that he didn't want to take the coffee table and the padded chairs.

  Because that was the way to go, to make her feel better, right? Oh no, Shan, I think I'd rather not have any mementos of our life together. I'd rather forget about you completely.

  So he took the coffee table and the chairs and the kitchen stuff, and he bought a couch, a bed and a little table that worked as a dining room table, even though he didn't have a dining room and the chairs didn't match the table he'd bought.

  And so it felt weird that even though he was nervous about going, he was also really not interested in staying. He wanted to write the book, that was for sure. He had notes and research. All he needed now were the interviews.

  * * * * *

  The drive took six hours, and it wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. Carter had good maps, and he'd learned to read them with a keen eye when he was still a kid, so the navigation wasn't an issue. He liked his car -- it was one of the newer ones he'd had, only seven years old -- and he didn't mind driving. He was still nervous, though.

  Edward Blake, his agent, was the one who'd arranged for this book deal in the first place. When Edward had heard about what had happened with Shannon and the divorce, and that Carter wanted to separate himself from the whole scene that he and Shannon had been such a big part of for the past seven years, Edward had suggested that Carter think about writing a book. It would keep him away from Shannon, give him something to do that was also a source of income. Edward had worked out an advance and made the arrangements for him to spend time on the site. There were moments when Carter wondered if Edward was either trying to save Carter's life or trying to make up for some major sinning he'd done in a previous life of his own.

  He was kind of unclear on exactly how Edward had managed to set this up. Something about having gone to college with the Big Company's owner -- Carter could never remember the name of the company and always thought of it like that, in capital letters -- and the guy owing Edward a favor. Carter couldn't see how it was any big favor for this guy, who was probably raking in the cash, to order a contractor under his hire to let Carter hang out with him for a few weeks and annoy the crap out of his crew.

  Not that he was going to try to annoy them -- no way, considering he'd be out there with them, one little fish in an ocean full of sharks with chainsaws and power equipment. But it certainly seemed inevitable. He knew Edward had billed him as an "ex-environmentalist," which was a lie in ninety-nine countries out of a hundred, and that Edward had told them that he was "writing a book about the conflicts between environmentalists and loggers," which was a lie in fifty out of a hundred. Carter took a deep breath and let it out. He was just going to have to do the best he could to stay out of their way, while still interviewing them and finding out as much as he could. And living in their digs.

  Great.

  But okay, this was fine. He could do this. If he could leave Shan, he could do anything.

  The directions seemed sketchy, but it turned out they were pretty accurate. When he'd first read them he'd thought that 'Take the right onto the dirt road' was going to result in hours of him being lost, but it turned out there was only one right, so it worked out okay. Carter hoped that this was the first of many things he was worried about that would turn out fine.

  He shut off the car and got out, stretched his legs. He'd stopped a couple of hours before for coffee, and then again forty-five minutes after that so that he could take a piss at the side of the road.

  The building was a giant log cabin sitting in the clearing like a clunky kid's experiment; Carter imagined the logs that had been used to make it had come from the very clearing it sat in. It looked like it had been made from Lincoln Logs. The thought made him snicker, but he cut it off quickly and reached back into the front seat of the car for his folder of notes. Well, the main one anyway -- he had about a dozen more, stuffed full of research and printouts, but this one was his 'I'm an official kind of guy' folder.

  Carter couldn't tell if the building was an office, or a house. Probably both. He knocked on the front door and waited. And waited. When five minutes passed without anyone showing up, he tentatively opened the door and went through the doorway into a darkened hall. There weren't any windows, but he spotted a light switch despite the dimness and flicked it on.

  "Hello?" he called.

  No one answered.

  "Hello? Anyone here?"

  Still nothing, s
o he walked down to the end of the hallway. On the left a big room opened out -- fireplace, couches, chairs, tables with piles of magazines and newspapers. One side of the room held a big wooden table with chairs -- probably the dining area, if the window on the far wall that opened into a kitchen was any indication.

  "Hello?" he called again, but his voice practically echoed in the space.

  Carter turned and looked right -- the hallway extended in that direction for quite a distance, with a number of doors along the right-hand wall and one last door at the end of the hallway. He started to walk in that direction. The doors on the right opened into bedrooms -- flat pallet-type beds that looked not-very-comfortable. A few doors were closed, including the one at the end of the hallway. For some reason he decided to knock on this one, but no one answered.

  "Anyone here?" he asked, and he sounded stupid even to his own ears. Get a grip, Carter, there's obviously nobody here.

  He opened the door and looked in. There was a big wooden desk and chair, some filing cabinets, loose papers. On the front wall was another bed, thick woolen blanket pulled roughly up over it in a hasty imitation of bed-making. A pair of boots sat at the foot of the bed, and a rough bureau was shoved rather crookedly against the wall.

  He heard a slam, and hastily closed the door again. He stood there in the hallway, feeling distinctly out of place and twitchy.

  A very large man wearing boots, jeans, and a leather jacket rounded the corner, walking all loose-limbed and rolling like someone who was infinitely comfortable in his own skin. He saw Carter and froze.

  He looked Carter up and down. "Who the fuck," he asked slowly, "are you?"

  * * * * *

  Nate had had a shitty morning already and it didn't look like it was going to get better any time soon. The rain yesterday morning had left them sitting in the bunkhouse for most of the day, and now the skidder had totally crapped out on them. Flash said it was just the drive belt, a quick fix.

  He drove down to the bunkhouse and parked next to the storage shed. He went in the shed and spent fifteen minutes rifling through the shelves looking, with no luck. They had a belt that went to the Cat, and one that he thought might go on the yarder, but not the one they needed for the goddamn skidder.

  He'd have to call around and see if anyone nearby had one they could beg, borrow or steal. He headed for the cabin, not bothering to drive around.

  When he turned the corner toward his office he was just about knocked flat by the sight of a guy standing there in the hallway.

  Nate looked him up and down. Jeans, flannel shirt that he wore like someone used to them and not just someone putting on a front. Long hair pulled back, glasses. Folder under his arm. Geek.

  "Who the fuck," he asked slowly, "are you?"

  The guy fidgeted and just about dropped his folder, then seemed to give himself a mental shake and relaxed. He stepped toward Nate and offered his hand. "Carter. I'm here to do the research survey? Interview the crew?"

  Nate shook his hand briefly and then pushed past him, opening the office door and perching on the edge of the desk while going through the rolodex looking for the number of the closest garage.

  "Right," Nate said finally, after mulling it over in his brain for a little while. "Gabriel."

  The guy shook his head. "I don't go by my first name. It's Carter."

  Nate shrugged, flipped a few more cards. "Whatever. I don't have time for this shit right now -- got other stuff to deal with."

  Carter stood up a little bit straighter. "That's fine. I don't need anyone to hold my hand. Is there somewhere I can unload some of my research notes and my computer?"

  "Wherever. Just don't go poking around in other people's stuff. Other than that, I don't care what you do." Nate turned his attention to the phone.

  He called Pearson's, but they didn't have the right belt. They could order it, but it would take three or four days for it to come in, and fuck it Nate didn't have three or four days to spare. They gave him the name and number of somebody else to call, and wonder of wonders, when he called there they actually had the part. Of course, it was two hours away. He needed to leave, and now. Or get one of the guys to go. Yeah, that would be better. If he left now Keith would try to copy his YUM system and screw the whole thing up.

  Inwardly grouching, Nate pulled his door shut and tromped back up the hallway. He just about jumped out of his skin when someone said, "Are you going up to the site?"

  Fuck. He'd forgotten all about writer-boy. He cursed Jackson for having made him agree to this stupid arrangement, cursed him for having forced the agreement. Just because the guy Jackson contracted for was friends with some half-wit of a literary agent or something, Nate was stuck with this idiot.

  "Going up to the side," he said. "Yeah."

  "Can I come with you? I'd like to look around, talk to some of the guys..."

  "'The guys are working," Nate growled out around the lump of disgust in his throat. "They don't have time to answer your little questionnaires right now."

  "You said -- on the phone -- that you couldn't keep working until you got that belt."

  Nate rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "You going to listen in on every conversation I have?"

  "I was standing in the doorway," Carter pointed out. "If you wanted privacy, you could have told me to get out. Or shut the door."

  With great restraint Nate managed to avoid telling the guy that he'd turned away and completely forgotten Carter even existed. "No, you can't come up to the side. Find something to do here. Don't get into anything."

  "You said that already."

  "I'll keep saying it until I think it's sunk in." An evil thought gleamed at the edge of his brain. "We'll all be back to the bunk around seven. You want to do something to smooth out your welcome, you could cook dinner for the crew."

  Carter eyed him warily. Okay, at least the guy wasn't a complete moron -- he had enough sense not to trust Nate. "Like what?"

  "Kitchen's through there. Got a freezer full of meat, pantry full of other stuff -- you're such a smart guy, you can figure something out."

  "I don't -- " started Carter, but Nate was already turning and walking down the hallway and out the front door. He let the door slam behind him with a satisfying thunk and then sighed. There were days when he really, really hated his life.

  2.

  The big man, who hadn't even introduced himself but who Carter guessed was probably Nathaniel Tavaras, the on-site boss, had turned and walked out before Carter could even finish his sentence.

  "I don't... eat meat," he finished to himself. Great. He hadn't been expecting a joyous welcome, but he'd kind of thought that people would at least be polite. Maybe this guy was just an asshole. Maybe everyone else would be friendlier.

  Maybe he was in for the most miserable month of his life.

  Carter went back into the large room. He hadn't known where to put his stuff so he'd piled it on the coffee table near the fireplace. Laptop, folders, cell phone. They looked ridiculously out of place here, like one of these log cabins would look in the middle of Los Angeles. He glanced at the far wall and then went over and pushed open the door that led into the kitchen.

  It was kind of primitive, but that wouldn't be a problem. He'd cooked over open fires often enough -- a bottled gas stove wasn't an issue. The refrigerator and freezer were good-sized, but then he supposed they were in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't like someone could just run down to the corner store for a loaf of bread. Or, for that matter, that a loaf of bread would be enough for however many men ate their meals here.

  He looked back out through the window at the large table. Ten chairs. Possibly that many for dinner, then. Maybe less, but better to make too much food than not enough, especially in the case of men who were working outdoors.

  Carter opened the freezer and looked at the big packages of assorted meats that were wrapped up. He tried not to shudder as he closed it again. There was no way he was going to be able to cook meat. Sometimes he felt slightly
sick just looking at it on someone else's plate -- if he had to touch it he'd probably throw up all over the kitchen. It had been -- what, eight? nine? -- years since he'd eaten any animal flesh. Almost a third of his life.

  He went and inspected the pantry. There was plenty of rice, canned and dried beans, noodles, flour. He checked his watch -- a little after two. He could make bread or rolls or something in that time, if there was yeast. An inspection of the contents of the refrigerator didn't turn any up, but then he found some of the little individual packets in a cabinet. The stuff was supposed to be refrigerated, but it might still be good. No way to know until he tried.

  The yeast proofed enthusiastically, so he found a large bowl and mixed up enough dough for three loaves of bread. It would take less time to do bread than rolls. He covered the bowl with a clean towel and left it on top of the refrigerator to rise, and then went through the pantry again and dug out canned beans (because dried ones wouldn't have time to soak before seven,) rice and some canned tomatoes. He peeled carrots and sliced onions and put together such a huge casserole that it had to go into two separate dishes. He covered them with aluminum foil and put them in the refrigerator, checked on the rising dough, and then went back into the large room and sat down in front of his computer.