Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
I glance up at the calendar and I get so distracted by that gorgeous laughing face that my finger trips up on the bowl and it collapses into a heaping mess.
I lean back with a sigh as I watch it spinning all broken and lopsided. It slows to a stop as I take my foot off the pedal, take my joint, and have a few puffs.
My eyes dart right back to Mr. April. I watch him through the curling smoke drifting up to the ceiling wondering what his name is, what he’s like.
“He’s probably some arrogant fuck-boy,” I mutter as I exhale long and hard, watching the smoke instead of him. “Firemen usually are.”
I crush the joint into the ashtray, dip my hands in water, and get back to work.
This time, I don’t lose focus. Ole Hoshino would be proud.
I whip through six pieces, working until my back is screaming and my arms are aching.
A few bowls for the shop in town, two large vases, and one cup. They look good, even to my severe, unforgiving eyes.
I’ve got three shops selling my work, but I’m trying to build up an inventory for the day I can open my own shop in town to exclusively sell my pottery.
I yawn as I wipe my hands on my apron and head over to fire up the kiln. The old beast groans as it comes to life.
This is the only thing that sucks about my studio. This kiln sucks. It’s old and decrepit and it was the only thing I could afford.
“You going to work for me?” I ask as I turn nobs and pray to the pottery gods. “Or, are you going to be difficult again?”
She’s a loud, temperamental, unreliable old bitch. I had to drive six hours to get her and she repaid me by burning my first batch of vases to death.
“Don’t even,” I warn as it groans loudly.
I slide my pieces in, close the door, and say another silent prayer.
She seems to be working well tonight, so I slide on over to my painting, looking at the mountains and wondering what part of it I should work on tomorrow.
I don’t like that tree in the corner… I tried to put some shadows between the branches, but it just looks like a dark blob.
The music rolls on. I decide to make a snack before I start work on another batch of bowls.
That’s when I smell it.
Not clay. Not weed.
Smoke.
I freeze.
“Oh no.”
I gasp as I spin around, my eyes snapping to the kiln.
The rusted metal bottom fell out. Flames are tumbling down.
The cheerful music keeps playing, oblivious that my worst nightmare is occurring in real time.
My studio, my happy place, my floor…
…is on fire.
CHAPTER THREE
Ethan
“Ican’t believe I’m stuck here during Fight Night,” Doug whines as he sulks around the fire station like a kid grounded on prom night.
I don’t look up from my book. Bubba is sprawled across my legs on his back, looking and feeling like a sack of warm potatoes. He’s snoring with his paws twitching in the air, probably dreaming of something, but all he does is nap, so he’s probably dreaming of taking a different nap. I don’t have the heart to move him even though my right leg is cramping up.
Doug stops at the punching bag and shadow boxes, barely tapping the bag with his knuckles.
“You think James already won?” he asks.
“Probably,” I say, turning a page I didn’t actually read. I sigh as I turn it back and start over at the top.
Doug starts pacing again, his eyes darting to the door. “You think Lincoln remembered to place my bet?”
“Yes.”
“You think he’ll forget the twenty-five percent thing?”
“Not a chance.”
Doug groans and drags a hand down his face. “This is bullshit.”
Bubba lets out a louder snore, like he agrees.
“Let’s go drive around,” Doug says, heading to the window. “It’s a beautiful night. I bet a lot of girls are out.”
“We’re on duty.”
“It will only take a minute.”
I just ignore him.
He huffs out a frustrated breath. “What are you even reading?”
“At the moment, nothing. Because you keep talking to me.”
“I never understood people that read,” he says. “Why read when you can do literally anything else?”
“It’s relaxing, it’s fun, it makes you smarter.”
He scoffs. “I’m smart enough, thanks. I’m smart enough to know that reading is stupid.”
“We’re stuck here all night,” I say, rubbing Bubba’s chest. “Try to sit down and relax.”
He pulls out a chair, but he doesn’t sit down. Instead he tilts it onto one leg and spins it. “You think girls will come and see me in May like they’re coming to see you?”
I look up at his hopeful face and swallow hard. I don’t know what to say to that.
But, before I can say anything, the alarm blares through the quiet station.
Bubba jerks awake as I jump up. He rolls off my legs and lands on the floor with a thud as I race over to my gear.