Page 3 of Open Liner
“Vomit up?” I asked. “Way to make it sound nasty.”
“Fine, spread your legs and push because you’re about to birth some new art.” Rory’s eyes gleamed with amusement. I flipped him off.
“All right, I’m going to go ‘birth some art.’” I pushed up from my slump on the couch. The fact was, I was more distraught over not having someone than missing Serena a mere hour after our breakup, and that was pretty telling. Yet, as with anything, the urge to spill those images and feelings onto the page grew stronger by the second. Art had been a part of my life since I was a kid, and I’d gotten lucky as hell when Owen took me on as an apprentice.
Sure, I might not have the partner I’d been dreaming of, but I had a solid group of friends I wouldn’t trade for the world.
For now though, I’d get my feelings out on the page.
Chapter two
Drake
Serena had asked for weird favors before, but dropping off her ex-boyfriend’s shit topped the list.
After a twenty-four shift, I was exhausted as hell and practically dead on my feet, ready to just crash out, but I owed Serena a favor, and she was cashing it in. And I’d rather get this errand done now than after I got cozy at home or prolonged it for my day off. Castillo women weren’t to be fucked with, as both of my sisters had proven our entire lives. I’d swung by Wawa for a coffee and chugged it down as I drove to the address she’d provided.
Why couldn’t she do this herself? I might be the youngest, but I’d leap to my sister’s defense if she’d gotten in trouble with some asshole. From the way she’d talked about the guy she was dating, I hadn’t gotten that vibe, so maybe she just didn’t want to see him again.
The coffee wasn’t doing shit to wake me up, but it helped a little. At least my shift had been relatively chill. I’d been on cooking duty, and Dooley and Jacobs were on cleaning, and they were some of my favorite people to work with. It could’ve been worse—I could’ve been on duty with Hannigan. Fucking hated that guy.
I cracked my jaw with a yawn as I turned onto the road where this ex-boyfriend was supposed to live.
At least this offered a change of pace. My life had become so routine, and I couldn’t say I loved it. I’d gotten into firefighting thinking the action would keep me engaged, but hell, lately even that had felt same-old, same-old. It didn’t help that Serena was a lawyer and Blair was a doctor, so I’d never quite escaped the cycle I’d grown up in.
Every accolade, every step forward had already been achieved by one of them.
I just wanted something that belonged to me.
I pulled up in front of the house and yawned again. Sleep would feel so good. The two boxes she’d asked me to deliver were in my backseat, so I snagged the odd array of shit—an air fryer?—and strode up the chipped walkway.
The slap of my footsteps in my heavy boots echoed loudly in my ears. Maybe I should’ve changed out of my sweaty Kennett Fire Company shirt, but if I did that, I’d be heading home, and then I’d be passing out in a bed.
The moment I stepped up to the door, my senses went on high alert.
There was a distinctive scent, one I’d faced so many times in my line of work I couldn’t shut it off. Smoke.
A loud shout came from inside the house.
Instinct kicked in.
I dropped the boxes on the ground and twisted the knob, finding it unlocked, then shoved my way inside the house. Clouds of black smoke poured from the right.
“Shit, shit, shit.” A deep, male voice came from the same direction, and I burst into what was clearly the kitchen to see the glimmer of flames on a stovetop.
“Grab salt,” I called out as I yanked my T-shirt up to cover my nose and mouth.
The guy in front of the stovetop glanced at me, blinking. He held a glass of water in his hand.
“Don’t throw the water. Use salt.” Fuck it. We could discuss later. I marched past him to what looked like a spice rack. The crackle of flames amplified the emergency, as this could quickly expand into a larger fire.
A large iodized salt container lay in front of me. I snagged it, raced back over, and dumped as much as I could over the fire on the stovetop. He let out a shout, and his hand clapped down on my shoulder, but he didn’t yank me back.
The flames sputtered, and I tossed more salt onto the remaining flickers.
My shoulders tensed, my arm poised as I prepared to throw more salt if needed. The few glimmers of flames wavered, more choking, black smoke pouring into the kitchen, but then they zapped out, smothered by the salt.
Coughing sounded beside me.
