A wintery mountain writing retreat takes an unexpected twist when Trent’s car slams into a tree and he’s rescued by the hunky ranger. Seems unlikely that a lot of writing is going to get done, though perhaps a little romance is really what’s needed.
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
I left Portland at the crack of Don, Don being my trick from the night before, his tight little ass swaying as he shut the hotel room door behind him. It was, as asses went, a mighty fine one -- crack, as I mentioned, included. Still, there was no use crying over spilt, well, come; other adventures lay before me.
Lay being the operative word.
But fuck the foreshadowing; I was up and out the door in no time flat, my four-wheel-drive rental zooming across slick pavement. Rain turned to snow, snow to sleet as I passed the town of Sandy, climbing from a thousand-foot elevation to two, to three, heading to Mount Hood, the cabin rented months earlier for my yearly writing retreat.
Ski season was drawing to a close, winter but a distant memory everywhere else in the country but, seemingly, here. In any case, I cranked up the heat and sloshed on through, the road going suddenly curvy, a wall of firs appearing to my right, dark jade topped in a frosting of brilliant white. I smiled, concentrating on the road as best I could, my mind drifting to the peace and serenity that awaited me.
I reached the small town of Government Camp at the foot of the mountain, the same mountain now nearly obliterated in a sea of gray clouds, thick fog, a blanket of dense white. I pulled up to the grocery store, my truck skidding to a halt.
Hopping out, I shielded my face from the stinging elements. The place was nearly deserted, a guy at the register, plus one other customer dressed all in green. Thankfully, the store was well-stocked. I filled a basket with the essentials and went over to pay.
“Headed up the mountain, friend?” the bleary-eyed clerk asked.
“Yep. About another thirty miles.” I slapped my credit card down on the counter.
“Hope you got chains on your car then,” he informed, ringing me up.
“Nah. The truck’ll be okay. Been through a lot worse.”
The guy in green was suddenly behind me. “Just came from up there. Roads are like ice,” he told me. “I’ve got some spare chains in my trunk; you can return them on your way out.”
I turned to face the voice, eyes like brilliant sapphires sparkling back at me, a smile angled upward, a mug that belonged on the cover of GQ. My heart skipped a beat -- twice. I gulped and nodded. “Oh, um, thanks ... um ...”
“Ben. Name’s Ben.” He reached out a friendly hand. “And no problem.” The shake lingered, his hand warm, the contact sending a jolt up my arm that ricocheted in my expanding boxers.
“Trent,” I told him, my voice catching in my throat.
His smile widened, teeth as white as the snow that covered the landscape. Four out of five dentists would’ve recommended whatever he used to brush with. “Pleased to meet you, Trent.”
Fuck, the pleasure was all mine. Every last friggin’ ounce of it.
I followed him outside, my eyes glued to his ass. He helped me with the chains, making quick work of it, hurrying us both out of the wet weather. Then he wiped his hands on his pants, smiled, and said, “There you go. Should be okay now. Enjoy the, uh ...” And he pointed to the mountain, what little of it there was to see.
I laughed. “Thanks.” Our eyes met, muddy brown onto brilliant blue, my smirk suddenly inflicted with a nervous tic. “Can I at least pay you for your help?”
His smile mirrored my own as he inched in a step closer, closer still, his face now a hair’s breadth away. “Can’t put a price on good karma, Trent.” He paused, winked, the smile in full-force, then added, “Just like a perfect kiss.”
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