Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
June
The music is so loud my ceramic pots on the top shelf are rattling. I grin as Notorious B.I.G. starts rapping in his deep iconic voice. I roll up my sleeves and start rapping along with him.
This is my happy place. An old secluded barn hidden deep in the Greene Mountains and it’s all mine.
I can have lights on at midnight and blast music as loud as I want. I can stay up all night creating. The artist in me is in heaven. It’s just me and my work. Creative freedom.
I rap like I’m a true gangster as I dance on over to the painting easel in the corner.
It’s a painting of the mountains I’ve been working on.
I pick up a paintbrush I forgot to put away this afternoon and dab the light blue paint on my wrist and forearms, painting little symbols on my skin. A sun. A peace sign. A bird. A heart.
I like to paint, but I’m not great at it. What I am great at, is pottery.
It’s the reason why I’m here. It’s the reason I’m so fired up on life.
I toss the paintbrush onto the paint-splattered cardboard on the ground and spin around, rapping the chorus as the bass from Hypnotize thumps through the old creaky floorboards.
This is my new pottery studio. I bought the old barn with what little money I had and spent the rest of my savings—plus a little more—to renovate it and make it just right. I have all I need here. A spinning wheel, boxes of clay, shelves for my creations, and an old decrepit kiln.
I sleep in the loft on top. It’s just a mattress on the floor and I haven’t gotten around to buying a dresser yet, so my clothes are still tucked away in the suitcases I brought them in with. But I got my own pottery studio, so I don’t care.
I grab a half-smoked joint out of the ashtray and tuck it between my smiling lips as I head over to the spinning wheel.
I flick it on, hit the pedal, and grin when I see it spinning around empty. With my heart thumping to the beat, I sit down, grab a chunk of clay, and slap it down hard, right in the center. It lands with a satisfying thud.
The song ends and It Must Have Been Love by Roxette comes on. My playlist, like my creating style, is pure chaos. I like to be surprised at what comes next.
I light my joint, take a few puffs to help me get in the zone, and place it in the ashtray beside me.
I’m feeling like there’s nowhere else on the planet I’d rather be as I dip my hands into the warm water and let it drizzle over the spinning clay. I just focus on the music, on the warm buzz in my head, and I let my hands do what they do.
My fingers and palms move like they have a mind of their own, molding and shaping the spinning clay.
It’s been a long journey to get to this point, but I did it. I sigh as I remember what I had to go through…
Three years in Osaka, Japan, deep in the forest, waking up before dawn, dry hands cracked and aching, my master standing over me in silence while I worked, grunting and frowning in disapproval.
There was no music in Shigeru Hoshino’s studio. No music. No dancing. No smiling. And definitely no weed.
He was a hard man with a sharp tongue and had absolutely zero patience for any American sass. The first year was the toughest.
We didn’t get along so great.
But, I worked hard, and I had talent, so eventually, it got a little better. I think I grew on him. Or maybe I just wore him down. Either way, he became a true master and I became his apprentice.
He taught me everything he knew. Pottery secrets that had been passed down through generations, all the way back to the Muromachi period, way before the Europeans crashed into the Americas and said to the confused natives ‘this is ours now.’
I learned and became proficient at dozens of rare and ancient techniques—Raku-style firing, Noborigama, Tatara-zukuri, Mashiko-yaki, Oribe-yaki, plus many more.
My arms and shoulders got strong in that forest. My hands can crack walnuts. Seriously, I got grip strength for days.
All of that to come home and make fancy vases for rich people.
I grin as I start working the clay harder.
The clay rises under my palms, tall and smooth, responding to pressure the way it always does when I’m locked in.
My shoulders flex as I pull the clay upward, guiding it into a long, thick shape.
I grin to myself as I look down at it.
The round head, the long shaft… It looks like I just made a hard cock.
If someone walked in, they’d think I’m making dildos in this studio.
I’m about to dip my thumbs into it, to open it up, but I hesitate. I don’t know why… But it feels good to have this shape in my hands.
I glance up without thinking—and there it is.
The calendar.
It’s pinned to the wall near the kiln, curled slightly at the edges from the heat. Mr. April.
Mr. Hot Stuff.
I’ve had it open to that page since March.
I feel a pulsing heat between my legs as I look at him laughing, sexy as hell, imaging this hard, wet, spinning, meaty hunk of clay was him.
I tell myself it’s stupid. That it’s just a calendar. A fundraiser thing. A gimmick.
But my eyes linger anyway.
He’s smiling in the photo, dirt in his cupped palms, shirtless, rock hard muscle all blurry behind those big hands. There’s a tiny tomato seedling sprouting out of the dirt and the way he’s cradling it, protecting it, I don’t know, but it really does something to me.
I’ve never been into the whole ‘sexy fireman’ thing. Heck, I was guilted into buying the calendar by the nice librarian who really wanted to renovate the library. I didn’t even want it, but I put it up as a joke in January.
Well, I’m not laughing now. Mr. April has got me all turned around. Maybe I need to get out more. Visit the town. See actual men.
But I know that’s not it.
It’s not the abs or the fireman thing… It’s those hands…
The way he’s holding the fragile seedling so carefully. The genuine smile on his face. Those blue eyes. This is a man built for danger who’s choosing gentleness. The kind of man who could break things—but chooses to protect instead.
That contrast gets under my skin.
It feels intimate. Almost private. Like I’m seeing something I wasn’t meant to see.
For half a second, I imagine those hands on me instead. The thought flashes hot and fast.
I swallow and look back down at the wheel, heat curling low in my belly as the hard clay spins in my palms.
I stroke it up and down, imaging that beautiful smile turning into something else… Those kind blue eyes turning lustful… Those soft hands becoming dominant and demanding…
The song changes and I catch myself with a gasp.
It’s not a sexy song—Thunder by Imagine Dragons—and it yanks me out of my lustful daze and brings me back to reality.
I shake my head, refocus, and dig my thumbs into the clay, spreading the form wider, turning it into a bowl.
A big unsexy bowl.
But still… As I lean over and work the edge, I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel those warm feelings still swirling through me.
I should go switch the month so I can focus.
I shake my head as I pull on the clay, feeling the familiar movements under my fingertips.
I’m not the type to get distracted by a silly fireman calendar.
Or a man.
So, I don’t really get why I’m stuck on Mr. April.
I’ve never really dated. There was never time. I’ve always been so focused on trying to make it as a potter. Japan kept me occupied through my early twenties. And there was nothing sexy about Shigeru Hoshino and his other cranky apprentices.
Then, when I came back to America and set myself up here in the Greene Mountains, I was so busy learning how to renovate this barn and set up my own studio. After that, I was busy getting clients and begging local stores to take my work on consignment.
There was always something to do. Another shelf to build, another piece to fire, another problem to solve.
But now that I got my feet under me, my studio is set up, my work is starting to sell in stores, my bills are paid (mostly)… I guess those long hibernating thoughts and desires are starting to wake up and make themselves known.
This studio is amazing, and I do enjoy the solitude, but maybe having someone to share it with once in a while would be nice.
Maybe my hands can learn some new tricks on something or someone new. Maybe it would be nice to have someone to snuggle with on my bed during these cool mountain nights. Maybe it would be nice to have a guy around.
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.