Man Cave

By LC Cooper

A follower and an introvert, Adam is content accepting whatever life throws at him. Eric, Adam's gregarious best friend, talks Adam into a different birthday present, one that proves to be more than a distraction from life's dramas. Although seasoned outdoorsmen, neither man is prepared for what they uncover.

Who can help them? Who can they trust? Frequent dangers they face possess the power to consume their very souls. Adam and Eric must grow together if they are to survive. Will Adam become the man he only dreamed of being? If not, what awaits them in "Man Cave" will most certainly destroy them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LC Cooper
• Release date: Apr 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476428680

LC Cooper

To contact me, please send an email to: [e-mail] name: @LC_CooperI live with my wonderful husband, our great kids, and our bratty cats in our cabin at the base of the smoky mountains. When not writing, I enjoy gardening, reading, vacationing in exotic places, and visiting family and friends. I have degrees in mathematics education and curriculum design, but with the fallout of that lousy system called common core, I prefer to write more than teach. My goal is to publish four novels every year, and I do enjoy writing short stories, so look for a few of those sprinkled in between the Novels. Novels will always have a price tag unless there's a freebie promotion.Interview:I sat down with Author, LC Cooper this afternoon for a quick interview on her latest book. I'm excited to bring it to you here on BeBee!CJ: LC, how has this new book come about?LC: Just Hold Me is my latest novel. It came about due to current events, recent elections, the increasing stories of extra-terrestrials in the news, the possibility of human-hybrids, and the U.S.-Mexico border. These issues on the news medias and social medias are of interest to many of my readers.CJ: Can you tell us about the genre?LC: The genre of this new book is a mash-up of Historical, Political, SciFi, and Romance.CJ: How are the characters creating the mood?LC: The protagonist, Ed McGraw, is a paranoid conspiracy theorist, who, as a world traveled photo journalist, must come to grips with his past to save the future of his marriage.CJ: Does this story have a meaning you wish to express?LC: Yes, I believe we will soon face the situation where humanity evolves, once again, as a result of extra-terrestrial intervention.CJ: Are you excited about writing for this Camp NaNo WriMo Contest?LC: Yes, because I love to write and the time pressure spurs me on.CJ: Do you recommend this type of contest writing to new writers? explain?LC: No, because writers who have already published their first novel have experience and have worked through much of the doubt that can come when writing. That being said, NaNo WriMo has a group for young writers, too.CJ: In closing, LC can you tell your readers what is next on the horizon for their reading pleasure?LC: Next on the writing table is a sequel to Just Hold Me, called T.H.U.D., followed by, Chocolate Barbells; which will be a Romantic Comedy sequel to Christmess (a John and Jennifer Adventure). Also, I intend to complete two more novels waiting in the wings; Fortune Island-- the third in the Collen Rogerro Adventure Series and Second Chance -- a medically ethical "What if?" novel.CJ: Wrapping this up, I'd like to thank you LC for sitting down with me today and giving your fans and followers a glimpse into this new Camp NaNo WriMo writing project! Good luck to you on this endeavor and keep us up to date when these next novels go to publish!CJD.Sign

Book preview

Man Cave

by

LC Cooper

Copyright LC Cooper, April 01, 2012

Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords

Cover image, Gloomy Forest, courtesy of Larisa Koshkina from within public domain photos

Cover created by CJD.sign

LC Cooper's Publicist is [e-mail]

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

* * * * *

Here is the list of my titles, published at many fine retailers:

Novels:

Christmess

Diary of a Reluctant Vampire

Legacy – a Collin Roggero adventure

Man Cave

My Slice of Heaven

Royal Venom – a Collin Roggero adventure

Simmering Consequences

The Voices of Cellar's Bridge

Short Stories:

Barefoot Homecoming

Dan's Accidental Convertible

Halloween's Perfect Storm

Heart's Lust

Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls

One Lousy Wish

There Was a Knock at the Door

* * * * *

Table of Contents

Man Cave

Author's Note

Introducing Diary of a Reluctant Vampire

About the Author, LC Cooper

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Eric called, chattering excitedly about his pickup truck's transmission. Seems the mechanic finally found and fixed the leak. What great news, and it came at the perfect time, as Eric's and my annual trek into Yosemite was to begin the next morning.

At 4:30 a.m., I, bleary-eyed but full of adrenaline and coffee, tossed my gear into Eric's truck-bed and hopped into the cab.

Conversation beyond the customary good morning was limited to grunts, nods, and the usual guy chatter about the weather and camping conditions. After the banter died off, I rested my head against the side window and closed my eyes.

Why are you so tired? Eric asked.

I stayed up too late watching military shows. Ugh, I'm paying for it now. I rubbed my eyes and began to sit upright, but the rhythm of the road was easing me again to the comfortable corner where window meets seatback.

Eric wasn't about to let me sleep. Anything cool? He enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a good combat documentary or weapons show.

My left eye popped open and I gave him the wrinkled-eyebrow grimace. Really? Not obvious enough that I'm trying to sleep?

Don't leave me hanging. You wouldn't have stayed up so late if you were watching reruns or something boring. Come on, spill it.

Man, he knew me well. I wasn't out to hide anything from him; I just wanted to sleep. I knew Eric well enough that he wouldn't let up, so I breathed in grumpily, and then sighed, Over and over, I watched a segment on the most wicked shotgun I've ever seen. The memory instantly perked me up and I shot upright in my seat.

You've seen many shotguns. What's so great about the one in the show?

It was built only for the military – it's not the usual workup from a hunting gun. I shifted in my seat with excitement as I continued the story. This monster, the AA-12, fires between 150 and 300 rounds per minute. It's a 12-gage, recoilless automatic with a 20-shell drum magazine. The freaking thing can also launch grenade-like projectiles at almost the same rate.

Heh, could you see us hunting with a couple of those bad boys? he chuckled.

Yeah, but whatever we killed would be turned into unrecognizable mush. There wouldn't be anything left of the animal to eat, let alone mount on a wall. We both shook our heads and imagined how much fun we'd have shredding every banker, boss, car dealer, politician and anyone else who's screwed us over. I was fondly thinking about my ex-wife's divorce attorney when Eric distracted me from this most deliciously rewarding fantasy.

He cut off our usual early-morning babble with, I got a surprise for you … for your fiftieth birthday, that is.

Caught off-guard, I didn't have a sarcastic comeback. My ex-wife, kids, and friends all knew I was dreading turning fifty, and they had been teasing me all year. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Eric was about to crack another oldster joke. I braced for the kick in the teeth.

Instead, he tossed a folded newspaper into my lap and told me to read the circled advertisement. Still expecting a practical joke, I carefully lifted a distant corner of the paper, believing one of those cardboard-and-rubber-band phony snake gags would go off. I was determined not to react to whatever he had hidden within the newspaper.

Go on, you old fart. It's not like I hid your AARP application in there. Quit stalling and read the ad. I got to know what you think before we get to the highway.

Why?

Your choice determines whether we go on to Yosemite or …

Realizing he wasn't kidding, I turned on the truck's interior light and brought the newspaper up close to my face, which is when Eric teased me about my poor eyesight being tied to my advanced age. I grumbled for him to shut up and drive while I searched for the tiny ad.

Wedged beneath a large banner ad that screamed obscene colors and fonts and another for a tropical cruise was a two-line ad that read:

Tired of the same old thing? Ready for a vacation you'll never forget?

Call Sammy at 555-767-1204 to book your break from reality.

What's this, Eric? I asked; curious and no longer suspicious.

Your birthday present, my ancient friend, he chuckled while patting me on the shoulder. I had planned to buy you a case of adult diapers, which I'm sure you'll soon need, but I decided to get you something that would remind you of your – our – younger days.

I shrugged off his diapers comment. Okay, I appreciate that you might have actually put some thought into a gift, but what does this have to do with our camping trip to Yosemite? A moment ago, you said something about needing my decision before we hit the highway.

Yeah, because I booked us a week at the resort in the ad you just read, Eric said, emphasizing his excitement by tapping his index finger on the ad. I have to call this guy, Sammy, in the next few minutes if you'd rather go on to Yosemite. I'd need to cancel our reservation.

Impressed, I sat silent, which added to Eric's agitation. Why so quiet, Adam? C'mon and make up your mind, would you? I only have a few minutes.

What do you know about this place? I tossed out.

From what Sammy told me, he created a town for men who want to escape the pressures of home and work. The place is loaded with all kinds of things for guys to do. He said he's got several bars, game rooms, and that kind of stuff, as well as campgrounds, a stocked lake, hiking trails, and all kinds of motorbikes, ATVs, 4x4s, and anything else we'd need to go off-roading.

Sounds pretty cool, I grumbled, but I was looking forward to Yosemite.

Yeah, me too, but we've explored most of it, and we were planning to set up camp at the exact same spot we have for the last five years. Don't you want to try something different – something new? The sign pointing to highway 51 was illuminated by the headlights. "Well, do we head on to the same old thing?" he asked. I caught his emphasis of the word old, realizing he was goading me into trying this new place.

Admittedly, I enjoyed the predictability of our Yosemite campsite. The last six years were a blur as all of Beth's and my kids graduated college, got jobs, and had kids. It had only been a little over a year since Beth divorced me. Losing her older sister to breast cancer really messed with her head. I tried to be there for her, but the more I tried, the harder she pushed me away. So, here I sat, in Eric's pickup truck, pondering the choice between the same old thing, with its memories and baggage, or chuck aside the past to embark on a new path.

I wasn't as sharp as Eric, so I was usually comfortable letting him make decisions for us. Given enough time to mull things over, however, I'd eventually make the same choice as Eric. I fondly thought of Yosemite, blinked, and then said, Let's try the new place. I let out a sigh and slightly shook my head. It's not like I was letting go of Yosemite; after all, there would be other years ahead to go there, but I wasn't so sure that after trying something new, I'd ever want to go back.

A flurry of memories flooded my brain, which resulted in me slightly smiling. Eric asked why I had a stupid grin on my face. I replied with, I'm good, Eric. Just thinking about a couple of our more harrowing trips to Yosemite. Hey, we've got nothing to lose, so let's try something new.

Eric wrenched the steering wheel, sending his truck skidding back onto Pendergast Road. I leaned forward and watched, through the side mirror, as highway 51 disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness.

You're going to love this, Eric said, enthusiastically bouncing in his seat.

Too much coffee? Gotta stop to pee? I said, mocking his exuberance.

Wow, not yet 50, and you've already got that grumpy-old-man thing down pat, don't you?

Anyone would be grouchy if they'd have put up with you as long as I have. You're nutty enough to drive anyone insane.

Someone's got to keep you in check, old man – you know, to balance out all that vinegar you spew.

Bite me.

See what I mean?

My moods were all over the place. Eric's taunting wasn't helping my uneasiness, either. I'm a planner. Our annual Yosemite trip was arranged months in advance. My gear was neat and orderly. I could wrap my arms around it and our trip. These were things I understood. The chaos of my kids growing up plus the divorce put me in a tailspin. I certainly did appreciate Eric's effort in arranging this new trip, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time, I had been looking forward to Yosemite as a friendly reprieve. Now, I wasn't going to enjoy that comfortable feeling. Instead of gliding into my 50s, Eric, just like everyone else in my life, was shoving me from 49 into 50, without stopping to let me take a breather.

It's a full day's drive from here, Eric said, distracting me out of my panicky thoughts. How about I drive for two hours, and then we'll stop for breakfast. Would you mind driving between breakfast and lunch, then I'll drive the rest of the way. Sound good?

I'm willing to drive half the time. Not really fair for you to be stuck with most of the driving.

Consider this trip is Natasha's and my birthday gift to you. Relax for a bit. I'm fine being the chauffeur. If you could spell me for a few hours, I'd be able to rest long enough to get us to our destination.

Fine with me, I sighed, relieved that Eric wasn't expecting me to drive the last leg into an unknown location. I tore up his truck once before, plowing into a snow bank on our way to a frozen lake to fish, so I've been reluctant to take the wheel. Eric had sighed, too. It was obvious from his expression that he was just as relieved that I didn't protest.

The resultant silence was awkward, and instead of cracking a couple of jokes to dispel it as I usually would do in this situation, I used the time to look around the truck's tired, old cab.

Eric and I cracked many a joke and a few running gags about his truck. Don't get me wrong, it was a fine vehicle that was always faithful. It saved our hides on more than one occasion. The humor was due to him calling the truck's cab his man cave.

That stupid term came about a few years ago, as it was trendy for an insecure and spoiled man-boy to block off a room in his house where he could store his crap – the stuff that no woman in the world would allow in the rest of the house. The usual arrangement included an oversized TV, beat-up and smelly furniture, some kind of game console or pinball machine, hunting and fishing trophies, and sports memorabilia.

Eric and I never knew anyone who could afford to have a separate room to themselves. Certainly, Eric and I couldn't. Heck, our homes were standard three-bedroom, two-bath boxes barely large enough for us, our wives, and a couple of kids each. The closest thing we had to man caves were our garages, and those were usually crammed full of bicycles, piles of laundry, dusty cardboard boxes, and lawn tools. Somewhere buried beneath a mound of my girls' performance dresses, batons, and other emasculating nonsense was my fold-up workbench. I never invited friends over to crank out weekend projects because it was just too humiliating to dig through all that girly stuff for my puny toolbox and workbench.

So, our sarcastic response to idiots who demanded a man cave in their houses was to name Eric's truck-cab Man Cave. It wasn't much to look at, after all, his truck was over thirty years old and quite the beater, but it suited us nicely. It had tons of history and character in every square inch of it. What wasn't stained from soda and beer spills was coated in dried fish slime, concentrated deer urine, and sweat. It stunk, making it a place no woman cared to go; thus, it was the ideal man cave.

A deep, long gash creased the center of the sun-warped and dust-encrusted dashboard. I used to flick away chips of dried-out plastic from the decaying dash until Eric asked me to stop making his truck look ugly, as if it could get any uglier. Blobs of hardened epoxy kept the rear-view mirror in place. The thing rattled and rocked, but it generally stayed up. The faded strand of rosary beads swayed from the mirror, adding to its instability. The rosary, placed there years before by Eric's oldest and well-intentioned daughter, did so when their family attended church together for a whole month. The crucifix's fake rosewood finish was faded, and the underlying chips of pine were splintered and cracked. It really should have been chucked into the trashcan, but Eric refused, saying it was a memento from happier years.

Another holdover from long ago was the acrylic picture frame velcro'd to the front of the dash. Centered beneath the rocking rearview mirror and swaying rosary, the scratched and pitted frame contained the two photos that meant everything to Eric. The photo within the left side was Eric and his wife, Natasha's, engagement photo, now nearly thirty years old. The other picture was of their three kids. It was taken two days before his eldest, Emily, announced, at the age of fourteen, that she was pregnant.

Since then, Emily went on to have four more kids over the next eight years, all with different men. His other two children, Hunter and Tonya, became bitter disappointments. Within days of Emily's pregnancy announcement and several days of ensuing arguments, a bag of marijuana fell out of Hunter's school backpack and landed at Eric's feet. Screaming and arguing became daily realities for Eric and his family.

Because of the instability at home, Tonya, who was Eric and Natasha's youngest, packed her belongings one afternoon and moved in with Natasha's mother – never to return. Attempts to reconcile the family succeeded in driving deeper wedges between Eric, Natasha, and their kids. Undercurrents, simmering slightly below the surface, boiled into a seething froth when the family attended counseling.

Eric's long absences from home were determined by the over-eager psychiatrist to be the most frequent reason blamed for the family's rupture. Defending his job became pointless. He became the favorite target of everyone's angst. I remember summer was approaching when Eric chose to give up on the counseling sessions. As he told me, the only one getting anything out of the sessions was the psychiatrist. Once devoid of their favorite target, Eric's wife and kids lost their blood lust, and one by one, stopped attending as well.

Eric told me it was nearly Thanksgiving before everyone recovered from the psychiatrist's programming and began learning to co-exist again, but the tenuous bond they had was crushed. They all kept their distance, having lost interest in being around each other. Eric stopped talking to me about his family troubles, and I thought it was something I said, concerned that I, too, had given up on him, but he said he just didn't want to dwell on it any longer.

Instead, Eric replaced reality by clinging to the memories of his wife and kids as they had been when the two photos were taken. Bitterness and remorse surfaced only when I questioned his not getting newer photos. I stopped teasing him after receiving the only black eye I've ever had. Apparently, I pushed too hard. I suggested that a set of new photos might help dispel his family's funk, but my well-intended recommendation enraged Eric. I didn't realize, back then, how scarred he was. After a couple weeks of keeping our distance, Eric and I met in the street outside our homes, shook hands, and apologized.

That shiner's almost healed, was Eric's apology, mumbled while shifting his attention between his shuffling boots and his wife, Natasha's, glare.

You got away with a lucky sucker punch. I never felt a thing, I grumbled; a reply that got me a jab in the ribs from my then-wife, Beth.

That's how Eric and I mended the only rift that ever came between us. Since then, though, I never say anything about the photos. One Christmas, I convinced Natasha that buying a new plastic picture frame to replace Eric's old and cracked one was a lousy idea. I imagined Eric's freak-out and the resulting round of counseling sessions. I convinced her there was no need to piss away any more money. Instead, I helped her buy a radio to replace the one that had been stolen out of Eric's truck.

I don't remember when the radio was stolen, but it had to be a few years past as Eric was using the cavity to store maps and other junk that couldn't be crammed into the over-stuffed glove compartment. The glove box was where the family heirlooms were kept. As Eric was fond of saying, doing so was safer than entrusting them to a greedy banker. The reason he squirreled the family's valuables there was that his son, Hunter, was caught pawning his mother's diamond earrings to buy drugs.

Right before Christmas, while Eric was away on a business trip, Natasha and I replaced the stolen radio with a really nice Blaupunkt. I yanked it out of a wrecked Porsche that we found in a junkyard. To convince the guy working the counter that the radio was worth very little, I had popped off the faceplate so the radio looked like a plain metal box. After all, without a faceplate, everyone knew a radio was useless. The guy thought he was pulling one over on me, but what he didn't know was that I had pocketed both the faceplate and the Porsche's owner's manual, which contained the radio's code. I smugly walked away with an $800 radio that I paid only $20 for. Ethics, shmehics, his loss was my gain. Eric's wife, Natasha, was so thrilled that she was nice to me for almost a week.

Well, the radio was easy to install and looked much better in Eric's man cave than did the stack of stained maps and burger wrappers. Unfortunately, the speakers were shot – all buzzy-sounding and distorted. When I returned to the junkyard in hopes of retrieving the Porsche's speakers, the sales guy demanded $1,000 for the speakers, to make up for the Blaupunkt that he claimed I pretty much stole from him. So, the speakers inside Eric's truck remained where they were, sounding ratty and shot.

The Blaupunkt radio became yet another strange addition to Eric's man cave. Every time we got in the truck, one of us inevitably grumbled about the amazing sound system that never produced a good sound. Replacing his lousy speakers became one of our many summer projects; however, as it is with so many well-intentioned projects, we got no further than ripping the door panel off the passenger's-side door, which explains the insane rattle. Gravity and a handful of paper clips keep the panel from popping out and falling to the ground. The screws and other supporting hardware disappeared in a boating accident on the lake.

The way it happened was one of the mysteries behind the aura of Eric's man cave. The speakers' screws and supports were accidentally tossed into Eric's fishing boat one day and forgotten. I saw the bag of parts fly over the front of the boat and sink the day Eric and I went fishing and he accidentally rammed his boat into a submerged boulder. The bag of hardware zoomed by me as it and I were