When the Smoke Clears (Interracial Firefighter Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

it?
    Nothing filled my head. I moved on to other elements.
    What about theme? What do I want this story to say? Hmmm. What’s something I learned recently? Hmmmm. Men are pieces of shit that can burn in the flames of hell. Hmmmm. Not a good theme for a romance at all. Hmmmm. What do I want to say with this book?
    Nothing.
    I had nothing to say.
    My life had crumbled into shambles. What the fuck did I have to say to anybody? My real life story was a cliché—broken woman shattered by a sick man. People had heard that before.
    I’d learned nothing from the situation. I’d shot my ex-husband in the leg three times. They’d rushed him to the hospital and arrested me. However, I used to be a lawyer, so I had a friend get me a sweet deal. There’d been no reason to scream non-guilty . At least ten people, at his law firm, witnessed the shooting. So, my legal team and I took the obvious route. Insanity. There was no denying that I’d lost it. I figured I might as well own it and get some help.
    I served a month in jail and then eleven months in a mental facility. The entire time my ex, Ellis, pawned our son off to my mother in Sarasota. By herself, Mom took Rich back and forth to school, attended his events, and pretty much raised him full-time.
    Ellis only visited Rich one or two times a month. That bastard never stepped up. Our boy sat with his grandmother, confused and alone. We ruined our son’s life. One day, Rich had been in a large home in Miami with two loving parents. The next day, he sat in my mother’s apartment in a new city and at a strange school. Ellis could’ve done more. My ex-husband’s lack of action made it even easier for me to get over him. Not only had he broke my heart, he’d hurt our son.
    When my sentence at the crazy bin ended, I vowed to get out, be better, and do right by Rich.
    I’d been free for only a month.
    Though, not a fan of Sarasota, I moved up here to keep Rich in the same school he’d been in last year. He needed balance. Things needed to remain the same for a little bit, before I decided my next move.
    I just need to get my writing back so I could pay the bills.
    I hadn’t seen Ellis since the courtroom. So far, my ex hadn’t called, visited my son, or sent a check.
    The douche bag will call soon. Let’s just hope Rich doesn’t continue to get hurt in the process. He keeps breaking my baby’s heart, and I might have to shoot his ass one more time. And, this time, I will aim for the heart.
    I stared at the blank screen.
    I’ve lost it, and I can’t get it back.
    “Fuck!” I hit the desk. “That stupid inversion table cost three hundred dollars and I couldn’t even get three words out.”
    Why am I even doing this? Maybe I should give up. Maybe writing isn’t for me. Maybe I should get a 9 to 6 and just. . .oh shut up. Maybe I should just figure this out and stop doubting myself so much.
    “On to the next experiment.” I got up from my desk and paced in front of my home office’s doorway for several minutes. “I’m not going to let this writer’s block bullshit ruin me. Not going to happen. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
    But, nothing had worked. For the past four weeks, I’d tried it all—researching the writing habits of famous authors and reading the bios of amazing artists. I had tested out all of their methods.
    One famous literary author used to beat himself for twenty minutes before he wrote. He claimed it opened up all of his senses and made him describe settings better than before. I’d bought a whip and hit my back several times, only to scream out like a mad woman, cry, and bitch about the tiny marks the rest of the week.
    I discovered more idiotic techniques to get rid of writer’s block and tried them—meditating at sunset invoking mythological muses with prayed-over candles, and cutting out lines of newspapers and gluing them to a paper, creating a collage to come up with an inspiring story.
    None of those things worked. I couldn’t find