Page 7 of Fractured Fear

“Ha. Ha. Good joke, grandma,” she responds quickly. I swear this girl is too witty for her own good sometimes.

“Hey! I’m only five years older than you.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” She smirks as she continues to stare at the screen and type away.

I sit down with my coffee and we get to work going over spreadsheets. Thank you, God for sending me this girl who knows how to make a spreadsheet her bitch. I’m hopeless with technology. I can do the basics like send a text, make a phone call, write an email.

Oh lord. Maybe I am a grandma.

After I’m done meeting with Iris, I take notice of a few patrons who have made their way into the gallery and strike up conversation about the pieces they're viewing.

Someone’s gotta pimp the art.

Once I’m all talked out, I change into studio clothes. An old, ratty T-shirt will do the job so that I can head back to Clay Creations and finish out my day there. I barely stop to eat lunch.

Paul is the last to leave, as usual, and I lock up behind him. I give myself a moment to look around.

Paul’s completed tea pot is out and drying on a shelf. His wife loved to drink chamomile tea, so now he makes tea pots he thinks she would have loved and sells them in small coffee shops here and there.

Hayes’ massive, three-foot vase that he’s been working on for the last month is covered with plastic bags and wet paper towels, waiting for further progress on Monday. He’s enjoying the challenge. He said his goal is to one day make a pot taller than himself. He’s six feet tall. I’ve never taken on that kind of endeavor, but I know he’ll succeed, he has natural talent.

Alma’s set of plates are glazed and waiting to be fired. She was commissioned to make them and came into the studio squealing with excitement. We ordered her cupcakes and a bouquet of roses—her favorite—to celebrate. It’s her first commission and she is determined to get them right so we’re all pitching in where we can. She’s killing it.

Then there’s a couple shelves that hold the pinch pots made by the day camp kids who took a field trip to the studio. It was complete chaos, but the smiles on the kids’ faces made the frantic energy in the studio worth it.

A shelf towards the back holds some of my works in progress that need to be done for my next show. My agent and I decided to push the date back because I’m feeling stuck and I can’t figure out why.

Iris said I need to “get out there” and find inspiration.

Where the fuck is “there?” If I knew, I’d go. I don’t like feeling stuck. I got away fromhimso I’d never feel that again.

When I’m done looking everything over, I grab my keys, sketchbook, and purse then leave the studio behind to catch some sleep.

CHAPTER 3

SPENCER

Saturday night’s sleep was a joke. A big fucking joke, but no one is laughing.

Well, I’m not. Maybe my demons are.

Thank the powers that be I gave myself Sundays off. I spent the day lounging around in an oversized All-American Rejects tee and my boyshort underwear. No bra. Because no bra equates to ultimate comfort. I watched some Netflix and ate Chinese takeout.

However, the self comfort did nothing to calm my racing heart. Every noise had me ready to grab my bag and go. Even my eyes were messing with me. A few times I thought I saw someone standing in my doorway, but every time I looked, there was no one there. I chalked it up to a trick of the light.

When Monday rolls around, Joey decides after my day of rest that I could take a hit…or twenty. He kept barking at me because I was leaving my left side vulnerable. He proved his point and now I’m sore as hell.

After a soothing shower and devouring the hell out of a quick breakfast, I’m down in Clay Creations doing what normally makes me happy. But right now, I would give anything for a distraction from my inability to come up with an idea.

As I massage my temples with my fingertips, the front door opens and in walks…a man. A very attractive man.

His thick, dark curls hang perfectly, framing his face. His jade-green eyes viciously suck me in; and his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones are what every model dreams to be born with. Flawless couldn't begin to describe his ivory skin. With how much I'm staring I am sure that if there was a flaw, I would have discovered it by now, or it’s covered by his sexy layer of stubble.

He’s wearing a dress shirt, but it doesn’t hide his broad chest and firm muscles. He’s tall. Definitely taller than my five feet eight inches. He’s the perfect height for me to go up on my toes and run my lips down his strong neck.

Nope. We’re not going there.

Iris and Alma tried taking me out one night. They said I needed to have my donut hole glazed. I told them I’d go if they stopped phrasing it like that. Iris brought over a few dresses for me to try on, forgetting she’s a size smaller than me. I ended up wearing the dress that Iris said gave my girls "a killer lift." It was an off-the-shoulder, bodycon, short black dress. Alma curled my hair into waves and Iris applied the perfect smokey eye. I looked hot. Unfortunately, every douche in a five-mile radius noticed as well. Needless to say, the “hooking up” part of the evening was a disaster.

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