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

a story. All inspiration had abandoned me.
    Now, this wasn’t working either
    Okay. It’s lunch now; soon I’ll be grabbing Rich from school. I only have time for one more experiment.
    Last week, I’d ordered a huge box, close to five feet high and four feet wide. A psychologist claimed that artists should get inside of an actual box, stand in the darkness, think about what they’re going to create, and then minute by minute, slowly tear through the box. This was supposed to trigger inspiration.
    Let’s do this.
    I placed the big box in the center of the floor, lifted it, got inside, and felt stupid as hell. Darkness enclosed me. Not one romantic storyline came to mind. Only a horror tale of a serial killer sitting in a home office, behind a weird author as she hid in a huge box.
    So, I don’t have a story, but maybe the ripping away of the board will make something come.
    “Yes.” I rubbed my hands together. “Time to break through the box and break through the block.”
    An hour later, cardboard pieces scattered the ground, writer’s block still seized my passion, and my phone buzzed.
    “Great.” Pissed, I walked over the torn pieces. “That’s all I need is more distractions.”
    Samantha’s name lit up the screen. I groaned. She was my best friend and sister-in-law. Even though her brother and I didn’t work out, she refused to let me go, and I would’ve killed her if she had. However, that wasn’t why I groaned.
    Samantha was also my literary agent and slave master.
    I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
    “How’s your writing?” She asked the question that she always did, every week. “Have you started anything? What did you work on?”
    “Nothing yet."
    “Nothing at all?”
    “No.”
    “You need help, Kassie.”
    “I’m actually trying some things to get over the writer’s block.”
    “Oh, God. What are you doing, now? You didn’t hold another séance with a chicken in your back yard, again, did you?”
    “No. Today, I hung upside down and then sat in a huge box and ripped it apart.”
    Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “Well, that’s just awesome. That doesn’t make me question your sanity, at all.”
    “Jokes on you. I’ve been in a mental hospital for close to a year. If you haven’t realized I’m crazy, then I’m now questioning your sanity.”
    “You should talk to someone about this writer’s block.”
    “I talked to people all last year. I’m done with head doctors. Besides, my next experiment is to submerge myself into a tub full of ice. I’ve got about ten bags.”
    “I don’t have a response for that, but at least you’re not trolling the internet.”
    “Kassie, you need me to step in and help.”
    “I don’t need your help.” I entered the kitchen of my new place.
    In my old house, I had granite counter tops complementing cashmere slate floors, a matching island with full grill, and an elegant backsplash of turquoise tiles. It was a beautiful kitchen—breakfast bar, solid maple cabinets with pull-out shelves, and built-in speakers outlining a small TV in the wall.
    Now, my new kitchen could fit into my old one, and there would still be space left to run around. The new place had a rusty sink, old microwave, ticking fridge, and stained oven. The counter was linoleum or something white with golden specks that cracked on the edges. When I turned on the faucet, loud buzzing sounded.
    In that moment, the noise filled the apartment, as I washed out a glass.
    “I’m not really sure what you’re going to live on. You have a couple royalty checks, but sales are going down.”
    “Stop stressing me out.” I opened the freezer and stared at a tub of ice cream. “I’ll be writing, soon.”
    “Look. My brother is a creep and douche bag for cheating on you. If I could legally disown him, I would. However, it’s been a year, and although you have a right to be sad still and broken hearted, you do not have the right to stop creating stories that makes us money.