CHAPTER THREE Blake

I hated him at first sight. Tall, blond, perfect teeth, and a five-day growth of beard that every hunky, outdoor god sported in the Northwest. I'd fantasized about his breed of man for as long as I'd lived in Seattle. I was born and bred here and loved the exquisiteness of this corner of the union. This man was a part of that beauty, and I was sure he already knew he was stunning. His short-sleeved, khaki button-up was open to a bare chest that shimmered with light perspiration. A pair of ridiculously tight fitting khaki shorts barely kept his thighs and bulge encased in fabric. Fuck! He was hot.

"Still want to see the permit?" I asked, ignoring him now that I'd decided he was too hot to be a decent person. I went back to removing gear from the car. I knew his type and how they breezed through life with a lifelong pass to perfection. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of one ounce of my drool. Besides, I hadn't had the taste of flesh in months. I could hold out another day.

"Everyone knows Mr. Jensen is the commissioner," he stated. "So, yeah, I'll need to see the permit," he added, nervously looking away for a second.

"Suit yourself, boy scout," I muttered, reaching for my backpack. "What badge you working on?"

He shook his head in disgust at my juvenile behavior and I suddenly felt embarrassed. He was right. I was a jerk. I was mad at him for questioning me and for being there. Hell, I was mad at the entire fucking world for that matter. I wanted to walk through the woods behind me and forget about life and assholes like him, but he was intruding on my hike of misery. I hoped the permit was in the pack.

"The permit please," he said. "Your copy will be yellow."

"I fucking know the damn thing is yellow," I exclaimed. "What I don't know is where I put it." I patted my vest pockets and rubbed my hands across my cargo shorts. "How about I show you my license and you'll see I'm related to your boss?"

"Does your license proclaim that you're the son of the Commissioner of Public Lands?" he quipped. "Because I've never seen one of those."

"What it says is that my last name is Jensen, smart-ass."

"Oh, yeah . . . hmmm, Jensen," he began, frowning and nodding his head up and down as irritatingly as he could. "Yeah, sure. That's a rare enough last name to convince me."

I threw my backpack on the ground after rummaging through it and glared at him. "Are you always such a piece of work?" I asked. His face was emotionless. "And I suppose you're gonna stand here like a Neanderthal until I find it?"

"You'd be correct."

"Fucking asshole," I grumbled, heading to the passenger-side door and the glove box inside.

He followed me around the car, probably making sure I didn't have a gun in my car. "I'm sorry? What did you say?" he asked, in a tone that told me he knew precisely what I'd said.

I ignored him and opened the door, leaned in, and opened the glove box as well. The bright yellow paper was there like a shining beacon of fuck you, cadet. Is this what you want? I handed it to him and stepped back to the open hatch and removed a rolled-up sleeping bag, tossing it next to my backpack and a folded-up blue tarp.

Cadet Numbnuts, as I'd now nicknamed him, joined me at the back of the car. "Blake Jensen, huh?" he asked, reading the single sheet of paper. "I guess it checks out."

"And who the fuck are you?" I asked, noticing he hadn't handed me the permit back.

"Dirk."

I laughed out loud. "Of course you are."