Turning Wood Read online

  Turning Wood

  By Ofelia Gränd

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Ofelia Gränd

  ISBN 9781646562251

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  I want to say a special thanks to Carole Reid, Leonie Duncan, Jean Malherbe, Gabi Cervenka, C. Allen, Amy Spector, and Bealevon Nolan.

  * * * *

  Turning Wood

  By Ofelia Gränd

  Mason Dager slowly spun the misty whiskey tumbler between fingertips grown cold from the prolonged contact. The beautiful, egg-shaped glass didn’t look well balanced. He was almost afraid to let it go. When he forced himself to release the glass, it sat perfectly still on the bar disk.

  The ice cubes were nearly all melted, but he had yet to take a sip.

  “Not to your liking?” The bartender, a blue-haired woman with tattoos struggling to climb her neck despite her attempt to hide them under a scarf. It was a black and gray sugar skull scarf. He frowned. She was probably not trying to hide them at all. Glancing at her face, he noticed a mark underneath her bottom lip.

  “Not allowed to wear piercings while working?” Mason almost chuckled. He was amazed that a posh winter resort, River Cove—such a lame name—allowed a blue-haired woman to tend the bar.

  Her eyes, a lighter shade than the hair, crinkled at the corners. “I can do whatever I want to…after hours.” She winked.

  “Mhm.” He went back to stare at the amber liquid in his glass.

  “You want me to put it on your room?” She nodded at the whiskey when he looked up.

  “Ah…erm…yeah, that would be good.” He put the glass to his lips and took a sip. Nice. Though how he would pay for it when checking out, he didn’t know.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket for the hundredth time. He didn’t look at it, didn’t need to. He’d checked it the first twenty times, but now he didn’t have the energy anymore.

  Every time Joel’s name came up on the screen, a part of him died. How had it come to this?

  He downed the whiskey and asked for another, and another…and another. The bartender went from looking curiously at him to frowning.

  His life was over, his money gone, his car—Joel had sold his car. He rubbed his forehead. It was his own fault. He’d signed everything over to Joel, believing him when he’d said he could get a cheaper car insurance. The insurance part wasn’t a lie. Mason was twenty-four, Joel thirty-three, so he did get a cheaper insurance. But signing over the apartment and getting a joint bank account instead of the one he used to have…He was so fucking stupid.

  How would he get out of this? He had bills to pay and food wasn’t free either.

  The only reason he’d come here at all was that it was already paid for and breakfast, lunch, and dinner were included in the price. It was going on a holiday over Christmas or starve. There was no way in hell he’d tell his mom what had happened, not now. New Year’s Eve was the highlight of her year. She put so much time and effort into making the party as perfect as could be. He would not ruin it. If he could walk around smiling at friends and family, pretending everything was fine, he would.

  He raised the glass to his lips only to find it empty. “Could I have another?” He smiled at the woman. She was getting a little fuzzy around the edges. Mason blinked to clear his vision. Normally he didn’t drink.

  “Are you gonna keep it up till I cut you off?” The woman grabbed the bottle, looked around, and refilled his glass. She was pretty in an odd way, like a drawn superhero or something. She raised an eyebrow as he studied her.

  “I like your hair.”

  She snorted. “Sure you do. Most men mingling around here in their fancy suits and constantly buzzing phones love my hair.” She put the bottle down and wiped the counter.

  “Yeah?” He believed the opposite. Why Joel had booked them a week here, he didn’t know. Mason wore a suit, he’d even put on a tie before coming down to the bar, but he was pretty sure his entire ensemble cost less than what most of the men in the room paid for a pair of socks. And maybe he was being prejudiced, but he didn’t think they appreciated tattoos, blue hair, and piercings. But then again, Mason knew nothing about what people thought. He’d believed Joel loved him, had believed all his pretty lies, and now he didn’t dare trust anything anymore.

  River Cove wasn’t a place Mason would have gone voluntarily—too expensive, too far away from civilization, and he didn’t ski, so what the hell would he do at a winter resort? How could a resort, even an expensive one, survive in a town named Snowmelt? Snowmelt. Mason shuddered. This far north, the snow probably didn’t melt before midsummer.

  “No, silly. They hate it as much as my boss does.” She grinned, a dimple appearing in her right cheek. She was cute in that way Ryan liked. Thinking of his younger brother, he groaned. Ryan had never liked Joel, and, in a week, he’d have to go to the New Year’s party on his own. There would be no end to the comments. He’d have to come up with a reason why Joel couldn’t be there—flu? Ski accident? A group of assassins?

  “Are you here on a conference? You don’t look like a doctor.” She tapped a finger to her lips. “What else do we have this week? Computers, right? Wait, we have the affiliate summit or whatever.” She frowned. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a marketing guy.”

  “Eh…no, I’m here for the food.” Mason rubbed his forehead and, when she looked at him funny, he added, “I’m a transcriber, business-related most often.”

  She kept on staring. “You’re a what?”

  “I listen and type.”

  She made a face. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mason stared at her. What had he said? Damn, he was getting dizzy. His phone vibrated in his pocket again. Perhaps he’d talked about Joel without realizing. “Yeah…” He tipped back the whiskey. It burned on the way down. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  The bar spun as he got to his feet. “Yeah.” He nodded but stopped when a wave of dizziness hit him.

  “Which room is yours?”

  Oh no, had he given her the wrong idea? She might be pretty in a cartoony way but…“I’m queer.”

  “Good for you, now where do you belong?”

  He pursed his lips. Belong? He didn’t belong anywhere. He had nothing left.

  She made a sound of frustration and searched for where she’d noted his room number earlier. Silently, or as silently as he could, he slipped away.

  * * * *

  Otho Newcomer started the lathe and reached for the spindle gouge. The air was nippy. More than nippy,
it was freezing. Not the best day to do outdoors work, but the snow was glistening, and he had the entire day off. He might not build his porch in the middle of the winter, but he would have the poles ready for when the snow melted.

  Moving up here had been the best decision he’d ever made. Not that it had been his idea. He and Joslyn had been friends since kindergarten, and a little while after she’d moved here for a bartender job, the resort advertised for a maintenance man. It might not be the kind of future he’d seen for himself, but Joslyn had begged him to apply, and he didn’t regret his decision.

  Living next door to his workplace had its pros and cons, but he loved his little cabin and once spring arrived, he’d build himself a cozy little porch.

  He adjusted the safety glasses and brought the tool up to the spinning wood. Wood chips rained over his arms and he did nothing to stop the grin forming on his lips. Wood, he loved wood. The texture, the smell, the—what the hell?

  Looking up from his work, he saw something move—a man walking out on the ice on the river. Was he insane? The currents were too strong there; the ice wasn’t thick enough to walk on. It had closed over yesterday when the temperature had dropped, but it broke open now and then, a constant struggle between the current and the ice.

  Before Otho’s brain caught up with what he was doing, he’d dropped the gouge on the ground and ran out from under the carport.

  “Hey!” He waved his arms, but the man didn’t look in his direction. “Hey! You, hello!” He ran, his heavy boots sinking into the snow. He jumped over the snowdrift on the other side of the narrow gravel road passing by his cabin. The reeds buried underneath the snow tangled around his ankles, but he kept going.

  “Hey, you!” He waved more, but the man didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Shit. When Otho stepped onto the ice, he slowed down. This close to the land it shouldn’t be any danger, but Otho feared he weighed more than the man. It was a grown man, though, not some teen who didn’t know better.

  “Come on, man! Come back here!” Otho took one slow step after the other, and in that moment, the man turned around to face him. Otho blew out a breath and waved.

  The sound of the ice breaking shouldn’t have been so loud, but it was. It was as if it was moaning a protest before opening its jaws to swallow the man. Otho’s heart stopped. “No!”

  For half a second, he stood immobilized, then he dug into his pocket for his phone and called the emergency service center. He slid down on his stomach and crawled over the ice while waiting for the call to connect.

  A sharp intake of air was all he heard from the man as he hurried the best he could. A woman talking in a clear, calm voice answered.

  “A man has gone through the ice of the river.” Otho almost hung up before adding, “By River Cove on Lakeside Lane in Snowmelt.” He disconnected. He probably should have said more, but the man was freezing to death or drowning. With the pulse drumming in his ears, he pictured the man sliding in under the ice. His breath froze, and he pushed himself forward.

  The edge of the hole came closer. The black water looked alive, angry, and threatening as it tried to pull the man under. Only his head and part of his shoulders remained above the surface. His skin was white, not pale, white. His lips blue, his eyes wide, and his body stiff. Otho dragged himself forward, spreading his weight over as large an area as possible.

  “Easy.” He was talking to himself as much as to the man. “Can you grab the edge?”

  He still had about four feet to go to where the water lapped at the ice, but he didn’t know how much closer he dared move. The man’s wide eyes latched on to his, and Otho forced a calm expression to his face. “Good.”

  The man had done nothing, but Otho figured he couldn’t go wrong with praise. “Now can you try to swim?”

  He didn’t move, did nothing but stare at Otho.

  “Come closer and try to put your elbows on the ice.”

  The man continued to stare and his dark lashes were turning whiter by the second. Damn, he needed out of the cold. Otho crawled closer, listening to the ice as he did. His heart was hammering in his throat. If he went through the ice, he would curse himself his entire afterlife—if there was one.

  “Come on.” Desperation seeped into his voice. Reaching out, he realized he was still clutching his phone. Dropping it, it slid over the ice closer to the hole. The man looked at the moving phone, his brows furrowed.

  “Here, don’t mind the phone, come to me.”

  The man turned back to him, his entire body quaking in the water, making it lick at the ice. With a sloshing sound, he raised an arm over the surface, his hand as pale as the snow, and tried to heave himself up. He failed and slid back into the black water. Otho held his breath and forced himself forward. He curled his fingers around the man’s wrist and pulled.

  Nothing happened. The skin was wet and Otho’s hold awkward. The man tried again and Otho hauled him closer. The ice broke under the man’s elbow and Otho hurried to propel himself backward. He didn’t let go of the man’s wrist, he couldn’t, not now.

  Water soaked the snow under his arms and chest and his breath froze in his lungs. The roar in his head was deafening and fear unlike any he’d ever experienced swamped his brain.

  All that mattered was to get off the ice.

  Otho pulled at the man with one hand and pushed himself backward with the other. The man kicked, his legs coming out of the water, and Otho’s phone fell into the river. It didn’t matter, the important thing was that the man was out of the water and the ice held.

  For a moment, everything stilled. Otho didn’t move, and the man didn’t either, then he moaned.

  “Are you okay? Can you move?”

  “It’s so warm up here. Burning.”

  Otho narrowed his eyes. The man had stopped shivering. Not good. “Come on.” He tugged at the man’s wrist. “Crawl.”

  The man made some clumsy attempts to follow the order and Otho pulled him along as fast as he could while he scrambled to get a grip on something, anything. The wet snow made the ice slippery, but, as soon as they reached an area that hadn’t soaked up any water, it was easier to move.

  When they were closer to the shore, he stood and dragged the man onto his feet. The ice should hold, and, if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be more than waist-deep here.

  He took the man’s arm and wrapped it around his neck while winding his left arm around the man’s waist. He was taller than Otho had thought, not as tall as Otho, but almost. “What’s your name?”

  “Mason.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mason.” Otho kept a firm grip on him. The way Mason’s legs buckled now and then was not reassuring. “I’m Otho.”

  Mason didn’t respond, but Otho didn’t care. He kept his gaze locked on his cabin, each step brought them a little closer to warmth and dry clothes.

  The going was slow and Otho feared his joints would stop working, for the cold in them ached worse than he’d believed possible.

  Once they reached the door, Otho pushed it open and stumbled inside.

  Where the fuck is the ambulance?

  He hauled Mason into the bedroom. His head lolled, and he’d stopped walking on his own. Shit.

  With shaking hands, Otho began undressing him. One garment after another landed on the hardwood floor with a wet sound. When he reached Mason’s underwear, he hesitated, but the navy-blue boxer-briefs were as soaked as everything else. With a deep breath, he pulled them down and, without looking, he guided Mason to the bed and in under the duvet. The door of the old linen cupboard shrieked as he took out a spare cover. Putting it on top of Mason, he bent over him. His skin was too pale, and he was too still, too quiet. What worried him the most was how he kept his eyes shut the entire time.

  “I’ll just run out and see if I can spot the paramedics.”

  Mason didn’t react and Otho hesitated. Leaving him was the wrong thing to do, but he needed to find help, and without his phone, he couldn’t call anyone. The cabin didn’t have
a landline.

  * * * *

  Mason was shaking so hard the bed was groaning in protest. Where was he? He looked around. This wasn’t his bedroom. His entire body burned, his throat ached, and his eyes stung. Lifting the cover, he looked down at himself and groaned—naked. The bed smelled nice, though.

  Bolting upright, he remembered. He’d been out walking and…Santa had been there. He rubbed his forehead. It couldn’t have been Santa, but some guy dressed like Santa.

  A kidnapper.

  He’d been kidnapped by a guy disguised as Santa who had stripped him and put him in a bed. What was he planning on doing with him in bed, naked?

  Mason flung off the cover and put his feet on the floor, a nice old hardwood floor but cold enough to make him want to climb back into the bed. So typical of him to get drunk and kidnapped by a Santa lookalike. He couldn’t go anywhere without getting in trouble.

  Meet a nice guy and he’ll clear out your bank account, sell your car, and have you evicted from your apartment. Go up north on a holiday and a sex offender looking like Santa will kidnap you and bind you to a bed.

  Though, in Santa’s defense, he wasn’t bound, and…Mason rubbed his neck. An image of frantic blue eyes behind…He tried to pinch the bridge of his nose, but his fingers weren’t working as they should. Had that been protective glasses?

  Maybe the guy hadn’t looked like Santa at all. Now when he was thinking of it, his hair had been dark, and had he been wearing a white sweater?

  A door opened somewhere in the building and Mason’s heart leaped to his throat. Shit, he’s back.

  Pushing off the bed, he stumbled a few steps only to once again realize he was naked. Gripping the cover, he wrapped it around his shoulders and turned toward the window. His fingers shook as he tried to open it. He had to push with all his strength to get it to yield, with the ice working in his kidnapper’s favor.

  He got it open and one leg out. The snow on the windowsill chilled the inside of his bare thigh.

  “Hey! Stop.” A tall, dark-haired man with icicles in his beard took a step into the bedroom.