If you're looking for a story where things get heavy fast, this might not be your cup of tea. I hope, however, that the rest of you will find the build-up worthwhile and enjoyable. This is the first of more chapters to come.
*
My name is Nate Wrenholm, and I lead a double life. It's not actually sinister at all, but it's mostly true, because it stems from two opposite interests in my life: graphic design and guns. The first is my profession, while the second is my hobby. Of course, these two things run in very different circles of society, but I enjoy straddling the line between them.
I'm thirty-three. I spent ten years of my life working my way up the corporate ladder, doing the usual design and marketing things. Started hourly, went up to team lead and then senior designer, and by the end of my run I had made it to the coveted Creative Director title. But I had the classic problem of designers, namely that titles and corporations get under our skins and make us feel controlled and fake. I wanted to room to do good art, my way, without the client dictating every little bit of the layout.
Long story short, I went completely freelance and started my own studio. I had built up a good client-base over the years that were more loyal to me than my company, and they followed me when I left. Along with the coveted creative freedom that offered, it allowed me to work from wherever I wanted. So I decided to move to where I loved vacationing anyway: Montana.
Remember how I like guns? So does Montana. I pulled a good chunk of my investments and savings and used them to buy and renovate a huge cabin-like house in the southwest corner of the state. It was rustic on the outside, but I made sure that it was comfortable and modern on the inside. If was going to work remotely, I couldn't have creepy crawly internet. I got new appliances, made sure the HVAC was top notch, and put in furniture that sat nicely between chic and homey.
It was a big investment, and I knew it meant I wouldn't be able to move anytime soon, but I was okay with that. If you've ever been out there and seen the mountains rising up over the fields and forests, I hope you know what I mean. There's a reason they call it big sky country. It feels refreshing and wholesome, and while I loved cities and chic designer culture too, my new place felt exactly like the home I'd always wanted to return to.
About four months after I moved in, September came and brought hunting season. And that was when I saw The Girl.
My property backed up against the side of a short mountain a few thousand feet tall, and most of it was designated hunting grounds. I had my Weatherby Mark V out on the trail with me, a solid hunter's bolt action rifle, and had found myself a good spot up on a ridge. I made myself comfortable behind a short blind and began scanning the trees through my scope.
The first thing I came across was not a deer. Trees slipped by the scope's reticle, finding nothing branches, underbrush, and a floor of autumn leaves, when I suddenly saw a pale white something for a moment. I paused and brought my scope back, and was very surprised to find myself staring at a girl. A girl that was squatting with her back to a tree, pissing in the forest.
She was obviously a hunter. If the camo and khaki she was (mostly) wearing hadn't given it away, the fact that she was holding a 1911 .45 caliber handgun would have. There were bears out here, and they were no joke. Obviously, even if she was caught with her literal pants down, she didn't want to be caught with her metaphorical pants down.
I knew I shouldn't really be spying on a girl relieving herself in the woods, but to be fair, she was on public property and knew very well other hunters might be out here. Feeling slightly pervy, I studied her anyway. Although I always found it hard to tell with women, she looked like she was probably just a bit younger than me, maybe late twenties or thirty at most. Wavy brunette hair was tied back in a pony tail that stuck out the back of a camo baseball cap. Her face looked a bit Slavic or European, and pretty, though it was difficult to discern details at—I glanced at my rangefinder—three hundred yards.
There was a rifle leaning against the tree beside her, and I found myself momentarily distracted. Was that...was that an Accuracy International? Holy shit. I couldn't be sure, but they made
nice
rifles. Movement drew my attention back to the girl as she stood up, showing me toned runner's legs and flash of her ass before she pulled her pants back up. I felt my stirring between my legs. That was a nice ass.
She holstered her 1911 and picked her rifle up, then, swinging it over her shoulder, walked off into the trees. I lost sight of her only a few seconds later, and felt a small stab of sadness that I had no idea who she was or where she lived. Cute ass aside, it would have been nice to meet a girl who was a serious hunter. I do not deny that it was a bonus that she was pretty.
It was all moot, though. Short of packing up all my stuff and running down the ridge in a yelling panic, I wasn't going to find her out her in the woods. And somehow I had the feeling that slipping and sliding down a ridge on my ass while waving a rifle was not a way to make a good first impression.
I sat out there for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, but no deer presented me with a good shot, and I certainly saw nothing else as nice as The Girl.
* * *
Weeks went by, and September slipped into the beginning of October. I kept hoping that I'd see The Girl again, and went back to the ridge more than once hoping to catch sight of her again. No luck. Eventually I stopped thinking about it, and my spirits were buoyed by the successful kills of two large bucks.
The first week of the new month I had to fly out to Chicago for work. Not everything could always be as simple as emailing PDFs. I had designed all the marketing and display material for a trade show, and part of my contract included coming out a few weeks prior to work with the printer and event coordinators to ensure everything looked the way it should.
Brooke met me at O'Hare, bouncing up to give me a hug as I reached baggage claim. We had been good friends and a bit more several years ago, but geography and careers had separated us for a long time. We had consistently stayed in touch, though, and it was great to see her.
I might have been in touch with trends in design, but Brooke was in touch with trendiness itself. She had a rainbow-colored pixie cut that retained one punk-ish forelock that fell down the side of her face. A white leather jacket with a zigzag cut and several zippers covered her nice B-cup boobs, and her legs were clad in tight dark jeans and brown knee-high boots.
"Aaaahhhhh Nate!" She collided with me happily, but I couldn't do anything about it with baggage in both hands.
"Brooke, I have no arms."
She squinted and gave me an exaggerated smile. "I know. I'm so disarming."
"Asshole," I said. "Either let go or take a bag, eh?"
Brooke did both, raising an eyebrow at me as she did so. "Eh? Has Montana made you go Canadian?"
"Absolutely," I told her. "I've recently filled my hot tub with maple syrup."
She laughed at me, and we started making our way out to her car. It wasn't a short walk, and we caught each other up on the most recent happenings. I told her about my house and Montana life, my design work and the trade show that was my reason for being in Chicago. I said a bit about hunting as well, although I left out the episode concerning a certain brunette, and Brooke wasn't very interested in any case.
For her part, Brooke was also in design, but worked more on the fashion end of things. She not only did marketing for clothing designers, she also worked with them directly to incorporate different designs or typography into the piece. The results were always both gorgeous and expensive, and it sounded as though she had been busy the past couple years. The fact that her apartment was on Lake Shore Drive might say something to you about the degree of her success.
I realized as we walked and talked that I had not just missed her; I had also missed having close friends. I knew only a handful of people out in Montana so far, and none of them were people I could relax and bullshit with like Brooke.
We finally got to her apartment as the sun was getting low in the sky (evening flight), and Brooke unlocked the door and swung it open and said, "Tada! Behold my fifteen hundred foot palace that is way awesomer than your big mountain house."
While I might have disputed that it was awesomer, I couldn't degree that there was at least a good degree of awesome. A big living room was spread out before us, with Swedish black furniture and a glass coffee table sitting on gleaming white carpet. Behind the couches was a table that looked like it was sitting on an entire tree truck (blackened, of course), with a black marble top. A small but well-appointed kitchenette was to our right, with a breakfast bar poking through the wall. A hallway ran off to our left, and Brooke pointed down it.
"Your room's the first on the right, and the next one is my office. My room is on the left, and the bathroom's at the end. Make yourself at home."
I grinned at her. "You sure about that? Really want a guy in boxers ruining the Scandinavian ambience in your living room."
Brooke returned the mischievous smile as she shut the door behind her. "Nothing I haven't seen before. Besides, not like I don't ruin that image myself pretty frequently." She began unzipping her white leather jacket and walked down the hall, and I stared as a creamy bare shoulder came into view a moment later. No straps. Then the other shoulder—no way.
"Brooke! Did you just pick me up from O'Hare in a leather jacket with nothing underneath?"
She looked over her shoulder and giggled. "Free the nipple!" she said, and then darted for her door as the jacket slipped down her arms. I saw her smooth back as it fell, and then just a glimpse of the side of her left breast as she went through her doorway, hard pink nipple crowning the tip.
The same way she'd seen me in boxers before, I'd seen her lovely tits before. Of course, that didn't mean I was any less turned on by the sight. She closed the door, and though I debated chasing her for a moment, I knew it might be unwise. I hadn't seen Brooke in a long time, and I didn't want her to think I had only missed her body.
So instead I took my luggage to the room she'd indicated and plopped it down. It was your average guest room: bed, nightstand, bookshelves, dresser, all of nice quality though. I plugged my phone in to charge and then stopped in at the restroom real quick.
Brooke's door had still been closed when I went in, but when I came out a minute later it was open. I remembered her saying something about either making food or ordering food, so I went down the hallway toward the kitchenette. I did in fact hear movement in the cabinets, but as I thought it might get crowded in there, I settled onto one of the black couches in the living room.
"Everything good?" her voice called.
"Oh yeah, fine," I answered. "Like I'm going to complain about staying on Lake Shore Drive for free."
"Oh, so you're just here for the apartment. I told you it was awesomer than your...um, chateau?"
