Page 3 of Man Glitter
The overhead lights fluttered on when I hit the switch inside my workshop, the place illuminated like a rock concert stage. Funny how most experts would say bright lights would cause insomnia, not heal it. It wasn’t the lights so much as the methodical way wood always did what I wanted it to do that calmed the anxiety that crept up my spine at night. The smell of wood, the feel of it under my fingertips, the sturdiness of it. All of it combined to make me fall in love with it.
My brother would have teased me endlessly had he known wood would become my lifelong love affair. He was the people guy. I was the artist recluse. It had worked for us until it didn’t.
I shook off all those thoughts and grabbed the cross beam I’d been working on earlier this afternoon. The church in Auburn Hill had hired me to make an outdoor pergola, to be ornate enough to match the inside of the church, but weather proof and functional for outdoor wedding ceremonies. Another few days and the main structure would be built. Then I could let my artistic side loose and carve out a design the likes of which no one had ever seen. I’d cut my teeth on cabinets, tables, archways, and doors when I first got started as an apprentice. Now though? I made one of a kind pieces of art that went for thousands of dollars. I didn’t charge the church that much though. Didn’t need that kind of bad juju doggin’ me.
Stretching my head from side to side, I twisted my torso left and right to limber up. You know what a midnight wood session needed? Music, baby. Maybe a little Tom Petty to set the mood. I found the right channel on my phone and turned on the speakers set up high in the rafters of my work shop with the remote.
For a brief second, right before the music came blasting through the speakers, I thought about the woman next door. Didn’t stop me from turning it on, but I sure did smile at the idea of her getting her panties in a tighter twist. Damn, that woman needed to relax her fingers where they’d been clutching her sweater to her like a last line of virtue defense. Maybe she was just cross because the severe bun on the top of her head was causing headaches. Maybe she needed to do a cleanse or something to detoxify.
The music flared to life and my belt sander sang a sweet accompaniment that absorbed me completely. I had work to do, and thoughts to chase right out of my head. The work had always been a balm to my messy mind, giving me far more in return than a career. I lined up the plank back in the table saw to skim a half inch off to match the other one I’d made last night. Now if I could just get the edge of the final cross beam to look straight tonight, even with that incredible knot in the middle, I’d be a happy man.
“What the actual hell?”
I nearly jumped right out of my jeans as something tapped my shoulder, startling me. I jumped again when the back of my thumb hit the spinning blade. The skin split wide open a second before the searing pain registered.
“Fuck!” I yelped, pulling my battered hand into my chest.
I spun around and saw my new neighbor with her mouth hanging open in shock. Yep, that’s what happens when you sneak up on people working with power tools. Little miss noise ordinance should have thought of that before she trespassed.
She continued to stand there, her green eyes blinking with guilt. I hazarded a glance down and saw blood dripping down my torso. Shit. I probably needed stitches. Grabbing the remote, I killedBreakdown, my favorite song from Tom, and darted a glance around. I should wrap it in a towel and put my hand above my head. After sixteen years, you sort of get the drill down. Cut yourself wide open, wrap, elevate, get thyself to the ER.
“How about you make yourself useful and shut the lights off behind me, huh?” I moved toward the door, irritated, but not angry. I mean, I was playing music at midnight at a level meant to wake the dead, or at least chase the demons from my mind. Not her fault she didn’t know the hazards of these machines. Anger wasn’t an emotion I gave much attention to anymore.
“W-wait! Where are you going?” She finally unfroze and ran after me, her weird shoes making a suction noise on my glazed concrete floors.
I paused to throw her a wry smile. “To the ER for stitches. That’s what happens when you disturb someone working with a large saw.”
She put her hands on her hips, not frozen at all anymore. Oh, here we go. Panties must be twisting right up her arse.
“Sit your ass down, Lumberjack. I’m an ER doctor. I’ll go grab my bag and stitch you up.” She pushed my shoulder more firmly than I anticipated toward the stool by the workbench.
I watched her go, those alpaca pajamas disappearing into the night, surprised to hear she was a doctor. But then again, that profession kind of explained the panty problem. She must be one of those bad bedside manner docs.
“Here we go!” She came hustling back in with a large black bag held high like some Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman, intent on saving my life out in the wild.
I swallowed the snort, but only because if she’d be doing the stitches, I didn’t want her pissed off at me. Before I could ask to see her credentials, she had a bunch of medical stuff laid out and reached for my hand. Her gentle touch fluttered against my naked chest, and despite my concerns about her emotional state given my only two interactions with her had been with her in a snit, I went willingly.
She put a towel under my hand. “This is going to sting.”
I barely flinched when she poured liquid lava over my injury, having done this song and dance many times. My only concern was making sure the blade hadn’t sliced any tendons. I needed my opposable thumb to do my job.
“Can I get your name or do I have to start calling you Doc Anonymous?” I asked with a smile.
She barely spared me a glance. “It’s Finnie. Finnie Dorado.”
Well, that was unexpected. I’d assumed I have to spar with her just to get a name from her. “I’m Charlie. I’d shake hands, but we already are.”
Not a single reaction to our introduction. “Okay, looks like a clean slice. Only a slight cut to the tendon, so I’m going to stitch that up first and then close you up. You’ll need a heavy dose of antibiotics. I’ll start you off with an injection, but also write you a prescription for a ten-day dose. You’ll need to keep it wrapped for at least five days to make sure you’re clear of infection.” She rattled off instructions as she injected my thumb in multiple places and then began to stitch with a steady hand.
I studied her while her head was bent, the better to distract myself. Her dark hair was up in a bun again, the sharp pull on her hairline making me think of a ballerina. She was tall—maybe close to six feet with long limbs—but something about her gruff manners made me ditch the ballerina idea. There was too much aggression in the way she spoke and moved. Like she had a point to prove from the minute she woke up to the second she put her head down at night.
“So, you’re an ER doctor in a town that doesn’t have an ER,” I said, needing to figure out if she was just visiting or if she was staying and I’d have to deal with midnight visitors on a regular basis. Might have to start wearing safety gloves.
Her hand hung in the air for a second in between stitches before looping back and continuing to sew me together. “I have a business plan proposal for the city council about starting an urgent care here in Auburn Hill.”
I nodded ruefully. “Well, if you keep sneaking up on me, I’ll be your best customer.”
Her head whipped up, and she drilled her green-eyed gaze into me. “I didn’t sneak up on you. You just couldn’t hear me over those god awful machines. Which was my point.”
