Page 58 of Screwed

“I want all of you.”

33

Ava

The roar of a diesel engine ripped through the stillness of morning, shattering whatever illusion of safety we had left. Outside, the construction equipment was already moving, turning our ongoing renovation project into a literal fortress.

Inside, the cabin felt totally different from just a few hours ago. Months into the job, the space had finally started coming together, especially when we introduced the huge, floor-to-ceiling modern glass panels I’d designed. I cringed as my own thoughts from long ago flashed through my mind, the very same defense I’d lobbed at Nate when he’d critiqued my choice of glass at all.

Log structures are designed to keep the world out, but I wanted to let the lake in.

What a fool I’d been.

At the time, I thought it sounded whimsical and sophisticated. And on any normal day, the contrast between the rustic, weathered logs and the clean, minimalist glass would’ve been a design triumph, seamlessly blending tradition and legacy with modernity and vision. But today, it was liability numero uno.

“Those low windows are a death trap if someone gets a line of sight from the tree line,” Nate said, his voice flat as he paced the perimeter of the room. He tapped his knuckles hard against the glass frames, his eyes scanning the visual blind spots created by the upper row of glazing. “We need to blind them out completely from the bottom up, or we’re just sitting ducks in a display case.”

He took his role as sentinel very seriously, identifying every single weak spot and mapping out the perfect way to reinforce it.

“The fog works both ways,” Deacon muttered, throwing on his heavy canvas jacket. He grabbed a chainsaw from the back of his truck, his frame filling the doorway for a second before he headed out into the misty woods. I already knew where he was heading. The only person who knew these woods better than him was Ethan, but the latter wasn’t the one adept at setting traps.

“They won’t see the deadfall I’m rigging across the old logging trail,” he called over his shoulder. “If anyone tries to creep up on foot from the south ridge, they’re going to make enough noise to announce themselves. We’ll have the jump on them.”

While he went to work placing traps and early warning systems deep in the brush, Ethan hauled bulky framing lumber and plywood sheets up the worn porch steps, abandoning the finish-work materials we had been using for weeks.

The guys were moving like a single, well-run machine with all the cogs and pieces working flawlessly. After the emotional rollercoaster that had hit us this last month alone, seeing them fall back into that practiced synergy was something that made me happy. I’d grown to find it familiar and comforting. And now, a small part of me felt like I’d earned my place in that dynamic.

“Grab that impact driver, Ava,” Ethan called out, setting down a giant stack of three-quarter-inch ply.

He didn’t waste time with pitying looks. Even when my hands had been shaking, none of the men treated me like I was some wounded animal. Instead, they offered presence. The casual efficiency with which Ethan had been assigning me tasks all morning had done a brilliant job of keeping my mind too busy to spiral. And given the severity of the screw-up we were trying to mitigate here, that was invaluable.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’re going to skin these lower windows. Don’t worry about the view right now. Our only concern is making this wall solid.”

“Ethan, I’m so sorry,” I lamented, taking the tool from his hand. I could’ve kicked myself in internalized disdain. “I’m the one who talked Nate into replacing three quarters of the cabin with glass when we started this.”

“Hey,” Ethan stopped, giving me a firm, steadying look. “We’ll worry about your taste in design choices later. Right now, help me lift this beam.”

I knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t the first time I’d warbled out an apology for inadvertently making their lives a million times harder than they had to be, corporate criminal threats aside. And each time, instead of brushing it off or pretending like I hadn’t royally fucked up, Ethan would give me something to do to take my mind off it. It was the only thing keeping me sane right now.

I nodded grimly, but the faint smile on my face was genuine despite the situation we were in. I used everything the guys had taught me over the course of the renovation job. Deacon’s hands-on demonstration about how to swing a hammer, Nate’s eagle-eyed breakdown on feathering the trigger on an impact driver, Ethan teaching me to use my body weight rather than pure muscle… I wanted to be as helpful as I could, wherever I could.

And from the tiniest flash of a smile I caught on Nate’s face as he watched me swing those framing hammers, I took it to mean that I’d been taught well. But as we discussed the actual plan to reinforce the building against a potential attack, we realized we couldn’t just randomly nail boards all over the place. Because, as Ethan explained, log cabins settle and slide under uneven pressure. Standard boarding wouldn’t hold under any real impact, leaving us once again sitting ducks in a display case.

“The structural load on the header can support a full timber reinforcement layout, Ethan,” Nate said, pointing to the massive, exposed log trusses running across the ceiling. “If we anchor the cross-braces diagonally, directly onto the main log supports here and here, the walls won’t buckle if someone tries to force entry.”

Ethan grunted in approval, and together we started building a rigid, interlocking cage that distributed the weight across the cabin’s frame. I held the last sheet of ply steady while Ethan drove the final lag bolts home. The high-torque impact driver whined a sound I’d learned to handle a long time ago. He backed off, slapped the wood with an open palm to test the hold, then wiped a streak of grease on his cheek. I wiped my face, my hands rough and blistered from the manual labor.

By the time we finished, the beautiful lake view the crew had spent months opening up was gone, choked out by stamped plywood sheets bolted over the glass. No more natural light, no more influx of fresh, woody air. Just the stale stench of fresh-cut cedar, diesel grease, and dusty ash from the fireplace.

Across the room, Nate moved with quiet, restless intent. He was finishing off the task by checking every anchor point we’d just built. He paused at the main doorframe, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from his belt to inspect the gap between the frame and the reinforced headers. He didn’t look back at us, but his shoulders were tight, a solid wall of muscle blocking out the few remaining slivers of light.

Ethan stepped close to me, his arm brushing mine. His fingers lingered at my wrist for just a second—a brief and reassuring reminder that he was still right there with me, regardless of the plywood blocking out the rest of the world.

“Get some water, Ava,” he said softly. “You’ve been swinging that hammer for two hours.”

I smiled, exhausted but satisfied with what we had accomplished today. “Want some?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got a few more things I need to finish up before I start dinner, anyway,” he said, giving me one of those melting grins.