Page 48 of Full Tilt
“I wrote it.”
Jonah stopped and looked at me sharply. “You did?”
“Surprised?”
He thought about it for a second. “Nope.”
My cheeks heated and I had to look away. “Shucks.”
Jonah took the first blowpipe from the ceiling hook, then sat back on the bench. “Can I ask you a question?”
I grinned. “No.”
He glanced at me, then back to his work. “You don’t seem too keen on being a rock star, so why don’t you do your own thing? Write what you want and sing it yourself?”
“I do sing a little. Back up. Rapid Confession already has a lead singer and Jeannie will never let you forget it.” I smiled ruefully. “She doesn’t mind if I write hit songs so long as she gets to sing them. It’s her band. And I’ve been inherband practically since my dad kicked me out. It’s all I know how to do.”
Jonah married the bottleneck to the round ball of glass, then broke off the whole piece from the first blowpipe. He took it to the big furnace, explaining he was adding another layer of clear glass over it. He returned to the bench for more rolling and shaping.
“I’m starting to see a little bottle,” I said. “It’s already beautiful. You’re so talented.”
“So are you,” he said, not looking up from his work. “But all the pieces of your talent—singing, guitar, songwriting…They’re scattered all over, like my installation. Or aconstellation. Put them together…” Now he looked up, his smile gentle. “The whole might be pretty spectacular.”
A hundred different emotions boiled up in me. Jonah’s words were fragments of my own thoughts. Insights I’d never had the guts to string together on my own. I nearly snapped at him to mind his own business, and in the next heartbeat I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and thank him for…
For what?
I had no idea.
And I desperately wanted a drink.
“It’s done,” Jonah said, rising. He’d broken off the entire piecefrom the blowpipe, cradling it in an oversize glove, like a catcher’s mitt, and took it to yet a third oven. “This is the kiln. It has to cool slowly. It’ll be finished tomorrow.”
He shut the door and turned to regard me where I sat, not having moved from my chair.
“I’m sorry if I got too personal.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, sweat beading his brow. “It’s really easy to forget I only met you yesterday.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. My turbulent thoughts settled, along with the thirst for a shot of something strong. I moved to stand beside him at the kiln. “You’re easy to talk to, Fletcher.” I shot him a look. “Maybe a littletooeasy.”
“Likewise, Dawson.”
I peered into the screened window. “I can’t see it.” I turned so we were face to face, only a foot of space between us. “I want to see it before I leave Vegas.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” he said quietly.
Our eyes met, as if our gazes were reaching for each other. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in his space, feeling his gaze soft on me, breathing the scent of his skin and clothes. His presence glided all up and down my body. The passing seconds seemed to expand and crystallize. If I moved, I’d break them.
I don’t want to go.
I almost said it. The words were in my mouth.
Then don’t,he answered in my mind, and I felt a tangible relief as if he’d spoken aloud. As if I had a different life than the one waiting for me in two days.
“We should get back,” he said, his voice heavy and, to my ears, hung with regret.
I nodded. “Okay…”
The front door rattled open, and a woman’s voice called out. “Hello? Sorry I’m late. You would not believe… Oh. Hi.”
