Best Laid Trap

By Rob Rosen

Roy has a crush on Steve, so when a work-related ski weekend is offered, Roy jumps at the chance to finally lay a trap for his hunky coworker. An abandoned cabin nearby is perfect for his scheme, and Roy stocks it with champagne, rubbers, and lube. But fate intervenes, and it’s not Steve, but Ranger Josh, who ends up trapped in the cabin with Roy during an avalanche. Roy’s plan might be ruined, but there’s still a chance for a very happy New Year indeed.

O
KAY
,
SO
it was a trap. I’ll freely admit that in a moment of desperation, I got, well, desperate. See, I’d been in mad puppy love—with a fair bit of lust thrown in—for my coworker, Steve. Steve was six feet of sheer and utter brawny perfection, with dark wavy hair and brilliant blue eyes, a dimple in his chin, and an aquiline nose. Steve was also openly gay and admittedly single. In other words, on paper, Steve was perfect—perfect for me, that is. In case you missed that point.

So when the company offered us a weekend at the ski lodge over the New Year’s weekend, all expenses paid, spouses included, I eagerly jumped at the chance. Mainly because I was spouseless and Steve was spouseless, and a weekend rampant with freely pouring champagne might just change all that.

So yes, I laid a trap. Emphasis on the laid. As in me getting laid. Though that, I assume, you couldn’t possibly have missed. It was New Year’s Eve. The snow was falling, the lodge packed to the timbered rafters, and most everyone in the company was out skiing. Steve included. Me, I’d been skiing the previous day when I noticed the rustic cabin that was—okay, I confess—off of the bunny slope. The cabin was locked. Though it wasn’t well locked. In other words, with some determination aided by that rampant lust of mine, I managed to break in. The lock would eventually get fixed and, fingers crossed, so would I. By Steve. So yes, toes crossed as well. And maybe both eyes too, just to hedge my bets.

I left him a note on his bed while he was off skiing. Okay, so his door was also locked, and yes, also not all that well-locked, which also meant that yet another lock would now need fixing. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say. Or at least when I’m breaking and entering. Which seemed like a frequent occasion as of late, but only in the direst of circumstances. Which this, of course, was. The direst. And, uh… the horniest. Bears repeating in case the police should show up.
Your honor, I plead momentary horny insanity.

Anyway, I broke in and left him a note. After I sniffed the unmade, ruffled, slept-in sheets. The ones with Steve’s unique brand of sweat still on them.
Then
I left the note. Then I sniffed his underwear. The pair on the floor. Though, to be fair, I tripped and fell on them and, while I was down there, sniffed. Honest. And did I mention
in for a penny
? I mean, what was one more harmless crime in the grand scheme of things? Besides, is undies-sniffing even a crime? Not like I left drool on them. Probably.

So back to the note. It said something along the lines of meet me in the cabin, then some romantic mumbo jumbo, and then it was signed by his secret admirer, namely moi. I even drew him a map just to be on the safe side. Because I was a lot of things—namely, a breaking-and-entering, sheet-and-undies-sniffing horny coworker—but stupid didn’t make the long rap sheet of a list.

Then I skedaddled. Quickly. Or at least as quickly as someone with a crowbar of a boner lodged inside their ski pants can in fact skedaddle. So yes, quickly but a bit awkwardly. Which, ironically, was about how you’d describe my skiing abilities. Even on the bunny slope. Even as I sped to the cabin, crowbar of a prick remaining surprisingly crowbaresque. And if you think skedaddling with a boner is difficult, try skiing with one. Even a bunny would have a hard time, no pun intended, with that.

In any case, this time my trip to the cabin came replete with incidentals. Once inside, I removed the items from my backpack. Champagne and cups,
check
. Caviar and crackers,
check
. Candles,
check
. All stolen from the hotel,
check
,
check
,
check
, and
check
—please see that prior penny/pound comment. Lastly, I removed a bottle of lube and a packet of rubbers. Those were not stolen. Those I’d wisely brought with me from home. Cart before the horse, fine, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Apart from all the many and various chances I’d already taken.

Then all I had to do was wait. And since I’d waited for over a year now, what were a couple more hours, give or take? Still, I was sort of tired—what with all the trap laying, breaking and entering, sniffing, skiing, and what have you—so I sat on the cot and rested a bit. I didn’t mean to fall asleep but fall asleep I did, only to wake much, much later with the sky outside dark. That is to say, the sky outside appeared dark. Or at least the windows were dark. Completely. And that’s when my heart began to
lub-dub
in double time.

I looked at my watch. I’d fallen asleep for close to four hours. It wasn’t nighttime yet. So unless there’d been a total eclipse or the sun had suddenly gone kerflooey, the sky outside in fact was not dark. Which meant that the windows were being blocked. And up in the mountains on a ski slope, that could mean one of two things: an avalanche or a heavy snow.

Either way, I was now summarily and utterly and terrifyingly trapped.

I know this because I tried to open the windows and the door, only to find that they would not budge. I also tried my cell phone. No surprises: no coverage. Which meant that the trapper was suddenly the trappee. Karma, it appeared, was quite the bitch. And it seemed she acted mighty quickly.

Still I had a glimmer of hope. After all, Steve knew where I was. Or at least would know once he returned to his room. After he was done skiing for the day. Hopefully without going to the bar or the lodge’s restaurant first. Or—I suddenly realized a tad too late—before the maid made his room and possibly threw away the note. So yes, there was a glimmer in the otherwise dark cabin, now lit by the fire in the fireplace and by my candle, which I held in my hand for nothing more than entertainment value.

And so I sat on the cot, layers of blankets wrapped around my body, and waited for my inevitable rescue. By Steve, my inevitable lover. Yep, cart before the horse again, but when trapped in a cabin beneath acres of snow, that’s the only place for the cart to go.

Did I wait a long time? Um, yeah. Long enough for the candle to burn out. Though thankfully, the owner of the cabin had stocked it with enough wood to last until my rescue. I hoped. Because, in all honesty, I didn’t want to wind up a human ice pop. Plus there was food—some meager canned rations—but at least I didn’t have to crack open the caviar or pop open the champagne. Maybe for breakfast if it came to that, but I was certain my lover, Steve, would arrive long before then. Though suffice it to say, I would’ve gladly accepted short before then.

In the end I didn’t have to wait nearly that long.

I heard the scraping hours into my vigil. An axe, a shovel? Not a clue. A crowbar of a boner? Nice as that would’ve been, it was highly unlikely. But it had to be Steve, coming to rescue me. At last! I imagined street passersby stopping to ask us how our love light had been sparked. Because yes, street passersby are sometimes that nosy. And so my imagined reply was “He rescued me from a most certain and horrible death!” Well, since this was an imagined reply, we’ll say imagined death, but still. I mean, neither kind of death is all that fabulous.

I jumped from the cot and waited by the door, the scraping growing louder with each passing second. Steve was barely a few feet away. I’d be rescued; I’d be married; I’d be well-fucked—not necessarily in that order. Then the door handle jiggled, and with a loud
pop
the door flung open and there he was!

Not Steve!

Wait. What? Not Steve? But only Steve knew where I was.

“Are you okay?” asked the stranger who was clearly not Steve. He was shorter than six feet, lean instead of brawny, brown-eyed instead of blue, dimpleless, aquilineless, and, to repeat, not Steve! Though okay, he was adorable and, dare I say it, my hero.

“I’ve been better,” I admitted, fairly dumbstruck. “But how did you find me?”

He grinned. “A skier reported seeing the smoke from your chimney. This cabin isn’t used in the winter so I came to investigate.” He held his hand out. “Ranger Josh, at your service.”

Flesh met flesh in a thunderbolt of adrenaline as our hands clasped together. And if Ranger Josh wanted to, as he put it,
service me
, I’d be fine and dandy with that. “I’m Roy,” I told him. “But how did you get through? There were tons upon tons of snow out there. An avalanche of it.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through my very bones. “Um, there was a small snow slide blocking your door and windows.”

A flush of red worked its way up my neck. “Oops, my bad.” I looked down. Our hands were still united. “Still, said doors and windows were stuck, so you did rescue me.” I looked outside, past the still-open door. It was dark now. His snow mobile was parked about twenty feet away. “Is it safe for us to make it back to the lodge?”

His grin made a northward climb up his face. Did I mention that he was adorable? Did I mention that his hand was still in mine? Well he was and it was. He looked around before answering. He spotted the champagne and the caviar and the roaring fire and the cot. “Expecting someone?”

I shrugged. “Um, no. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Safe?” he moved another inch closer. His breath smelled minty fresh. Oh, and his eyes weren’t brown; they were hazel with flecks of gold. “Yes, probably.”

“Which implies probably not.”

“If your glass is half empty.”

I pointed to the cups on the table. “Totally empty.” My smile joined his. “For the time being.”

His hand at last let go of mine. A phantom ache remained where once his fingers had been. “You know what,” he said. “It might not be safe to go back to the lodge, at least not until morning. One snow slide in this darkness and, well… you know.” It was then he closed the front door.

I didn’t know. I didn’t care. He wasn’t Steve but, so what, he was Josh. And my cup might’ve been empty but my heart was full. And fine, I might’ve aced Schmaltz 101, but up until a few minutes earlier I was at death’s door, or at least the door of a rickety old cabin, so cut me some friggin’ slack.

“Champagne?” I asked, hot-stepping it to the bottle.

His grin returned. “Well, it does seem like I’m off duty now.”

I handed him a cup, my pinky finger accidentally on purpose sliding over his pinky finger as a spark lit up every one of my spine’s vertebrae. I grabbed for the champagne and popped the cork, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet space we occupied. I jumped. He jumped. We jumped closer together.

I poured the champagne and we clinked our cups. “Happy New Year,” he purred.

My eyes went wide. I’d completely forgotten, what with all the, you know,
hubbub
. I glanced at my watch. “We have a couple of hours yet.”

He set his cup down and pulled me in tight. “What do you think we should do until then?”

I gulped. “Try and keep warm?”

His lips met mine in a crush of just that: warmth. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

Suddenly a plan sounded better than a trap. And the reality of Josh felt far better than the fantasy of Steve.

Josh backed away. I did the same. Slowly he began to undress. Slowly I did the same. His jacket came off first, then the boots and snow pants. Beneath it all lay a green ranger’s uniform, which was snug in all the right places. As for me, I shucked off my boots and pointed back his way. “Together?”

He smiled, the fire twinkling in his eyes. “Sounds nice.”

Sounded nice, sure, but looked a hell of a lot nicer. Especially once his shirt was removed and all that muscle and fur were revealed, the brown down illuminated by the glow of the fire, his abs and pecs cast in rippled shadows. Apparently, ranger work kept him in tiptop form. And damn if he didn’t have a mighty fine tip and top.

“Tag,” he said. “You’re it.”

Seems with all my gawking, I had forgotten to undress, aside from my boots. And so my shirt came off. And yes, as an FYI, both my tip and top weren’t anything to sneeze at either. “Tag right back at you,” I managed to squeak out, eager to now see his southern hemisphere.

His grin returned, setting free a swarm of butterflies inside my belly. He reached for his belt and unbuckled, then unpopped the top button of his slacks, and unzipped the zipper. Each new enticing sound sent those butterflies into a frenzy. And then he pushed the slacks down and pulled them off, leaving him in a pair of tighty-whities that were three-ring-circus tenting something fierce. Oh and yes, the south was just as formidable as the north, with thick thighs and boulder-like calves, all of it covered in the same fuzzy down.