When the Smoke Clears (Interracial Firefighter Romance) (5 page)

“Alrighty.” She sighed. “We’ll work on that later. Let’s get back to the hero. Why is he dying every chapter and coming back to life?”

“He’s not going to fall in love with anybody. I’m thinking he’ll kill himself. Oh, god but there’s this great scene where he puts his dick into a blender and—”

“Yeah. How about you put that work of art to the side or maybe throw it away in a place where no one will ever read that.”

“You don’t like it?” I stuffed my mouth with cold chocolate yumminess.

“It’s not romance and you’re a bestselling romance author. You need two people to fall in love. Then, the relationship conflict. And of course, the happily ever after.”

“Fuck a happily ever after.” I spooned some ice cream and piled more into my mouth. “I’m thinking, maybe, I should get into horror.”

She shrieked. “I didn’t hear that. You did not say the h-word.”

“Maybe, it will be fun.”

“You spent five years building an amazing platform among romance readers and you want to switch to blender dick stories that disgust people?”

“It’s just a thought.”

“You need to write about love!”

I mumbled between bites, “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sending over Mama Ganga.”

“I don’t know who this Mama Ganga is. Don’t send crazy people over to my house.”

“Mama Ganga isn’t crazy,” Sam said. “She’s just eccentric and has counseled several top authors, artists, and singers on breaking out of their mental jails and finding inspiration.”

“Blah.”

“I’m flying her down and paying for the hotel. This will be coming out of your expenses, by the way. I’ll email you her details.”

“Look, Sam. Do not send Mother Ganja down here.”

“It’s
Mama Ganga.
Not Ganja.”

“What?”

“Gan-Gaa.”

“With that name, she better have some ganja on her,” I huffed. “Don’t send her down here.”

“She’s coming.”

“She’s not.”

“Trust me. She is,” Sam said. “And how’s my nephew?”

I set the carton down, caught her up on Rich’s latest problem, and even gave her a few details about the fireman.

“I’ll call my nephew tonight and talk to him.” Then Sam’s voice brightened. “But on another note, did you say firefighters?”

“Yes.”

“Hot ones?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course. Big arms and pretty eyes. Whatever.”

“Write a fire fighter romance!”

“Oh, please. It’s cliché.”

“It’s not cliché.”

“It’s been over used.”

“Oh, really?” she asked. “When’s the last time you read a new firefighter romance?”

“I’ve only been reading self-help books.”

“Dear God. You’ve stopped reading romance? I think I just vomited in my mouth.”

“You represent nonfiction authors. How do you not like the category?”

“You’re a horrible influence. Here I am trying to better myself and you’re like, ‘No girl, that’s stupid. Read erotica.’”

“At least read romance.”

“Fuck romance.”

“I’m hanging up now so I don’t disown you.”

“Well then, good day.” Smiling, I shut the phone off and thought back to one of the reoccurring arguments my ex and I would have. I’d been trying to get rid of the old memories, but they continued to come back, over and over, hardening my heart and making me hate my life even more.

“You’ve gotten too big.” Ellis packed his bags for another one of his business trips. “When we married, you were skinny and fit. Now, you’re leaning toward obesity.”

“Leaning toward obesity? I’m not even a size ten.” I followed him into our walk-in closet. “I just have a tummy and some extra thickness here and there.”

“You have dimples on your ass, behind, and thighs.”

“I’m working out.”

“You sit around and write more than run.”

I placed my hands on my hips. “Yeah. But you don’t complain, when the royalty checks come in.”

“You used to be in shape.” He gestured to my stomach. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“First of all, asshole. That was ten years ago, and you’re not skinny anymore, either. Maybe you should look in the mirror.”

“I’m a guy,” he yelled back. “I can take on a few extra pounds.”

“When’s the last time you’ve seen your dick? Trust me, buddy, going down on you has been difficult. You want your balls sucked, but half the time I can’t find them through the fat.”

He slammed the suitcase closed and hissed, “This is why I can’t be around you. You’re a bitch.”

“I’m a bitch!?” I hit my chest. “You think I’m going to sit here and let you talk to me that way, as hard as I work? Writing and taking care of our son and dealing with this entire house stuff—”

“Congratulations. You’ve finally decided to be a real wife.” He loudly clapped. “All you do is sit on your fat ass and write stupid books about frilly fantasy guys doing everything for women who don’t even deserve it.”

“You’ve never even read any of them!”

He raised his hands in the air. “Oh, not this again!”

“Thirty-five books and you haven’t at least opened up one and scanned the first chapter.”

“And why would I, when each day with you is a horror story waiting to be written?”

I pushed that stupid memory out of my head. One of the best parts about not being with a douche bag was the silence. I didn’t have to hear the cruelty or argue about my insignificant position in his life. I didn’t have to care, anymore or try to be something more for them.

Everybody figured I swam in broken heartedness.

I didn’t.

I’d been done with my ex years before we separated. I’d read enough self-help books to get what my problem was.

I was a survivor of abuse.

Ellis had never hit me with his hands, but he’d pounded my guts with his words. He had me thinking I wasn’t deserving of anything more than him. He had me questioning my image in the mirror, thinking I wasn’t beautiful. My brain and heart held scars. A black haze surrounded me, and day-by-day, I was waving the stuff away to see life clearer. I hoped the healing would just take time, and not remain permanently.

I headed into the bedroom, set the empty tub on the dresser, and took off my clothes. Everything left me—wrinkled shirt, misshapen bra, stretched out undies, and jogging pants. It all fell to the floor.

Every day, I tried to get my writing back, but I also had another routine. On my mirror, I’d taped three sentences at the top.

I am beautiful, right now.

I am worthy.

I am love.

I stared at those words and whispered them to myself, repeatedly, as I drank my image in.

My stomach had seen better days. At one time, it was flat and something to nibble. Now, it hung over, hiding the cesarean scar from Rich’s birth. Ellis stopped touching my midsection, after the delivery. He found the scar hideous and the barely visible stretch marks disgusting.

But, since leaving him, my eyes cleared and whenever I looked at my stomach, I saw love and beautiful memories.

The night I had Rich, I’d been so scared. It was an emergency C-section. The doctor told me my baby’s heartbeat was erratic. It crushed me. Every part of my body shook in fear. For six months, I’d sing melodies to him and rubbed my swollen belly, and now I’d never get to meet this wonderful gift.

The doctors rushed me in. Ellis hurried to get in his scrubs and held my hand the whole time. We cried and prayed together. The curtain separated my lower half. I couldn’t see what was going on. They’d numbed me. I could only feel pressure and tugging in my abdomen. The scent of blood filled the air. My pulse sped and the nurse kept telling me, repeatedly, to breathe. Tears spilled out of my eyes and I swear I didn’t exhale until I heard Rich’s shrilly cry.

My son ended up healthy and never having any other problems. Ellis had made me feel ashamed of my scar, when I should’ve been happy.

I looked at myself and touched the scar. “I am beautiful, right now.”

My breasts sagged a little, but not much. Even Ellis had drooled, slipping them out my bra. I bet any man would drool, too. If I ever let one around me again, which I didn’t think I would. Although my mid-section was no longer tight and firm, I had a lovely hourglass shape—a bounce in my breasts and sharp curve in my hips. My skin glowed rich and brown.

I was fucking gorgeous!

“I’ll never let another man make me think I’m ugly again.” I turned around and glanced over my shoulder at my plump ass. “I am worthy of love and success. I’m a good mom. I’m a good writer. I’m a good person, and any man or woman who doesn’t see that, can go fuck themselves.”

I finished my ritual and headed for the office.

Read a romance book, Sam says. Fine. I’ll see what’s going on out there in the market.

Chapter 4

Lorenzo

K
assie
never strayed from my mind. I didn’t do well with rejection, especially when it came from such a curvy woman, like her. I would’ve enjoyed sulking in my bed like a big ass baby, but tonight, there was not time to rest, even at three a.m.

Sirens blared. We ripped through the streets and flashed our lights. Cars moved out of the way. Zorro weaved in and out of traffic with full concentration. No jokes. No smart remarks. Comedy didn’t come until after the smoke cleared and everybody was safe and out of harm’s way.

Dear, God. It’s me again. Please, let this be a routine fire. Nothing too much to handle. No one gets hurt.

Moonlit clouds painted the dark sky. Although low on sleep, I was thankful that the job didn’t have us out in the blazing sun. Geared up in the Sarasota heat was no joke. The helmets made me sweat. It was why I kept my head shaved. The bulky coats, bunker boots, and air tanks added so much weight to the body and damn near drowned me in heat exhaustion.

We called our uniforms ‘turnout gear’ because we kept our pants in the boots and turned inside out when not in use. It gave us the ability to jump in everything within seconds and speed out of the station. We had to be dressed in a minute.

I’d just finished strapping on everything in the truck, right as we pulled out.

Merck sat behind me and opened his iPad. When he first was transferred, the redheaded cowboy and I hadn’t gotten along. His bushy sideburns lined his face like long strips of fire. His mustache extended several inches below his top lip. I didn’t know what his people were thinking at his station, but I didn’t play that. With that facial hair, his self-contained breathing apparatus, or SCBA, would never gain a proper seal. We battled for weeks, but in the end, I won. There wasn’t much I put my foot down about, but when it meant not having to watch my men die, I battled to the end.

“Merck, do you have the blue print up yet?” I asked.

“Almost.”

I didn’t like
almost
. He knew it and sped up his typing on the iPad in front of him. For the guys, at Station 8 in downtown Sarasota, and me our reactions had to be quick and precise.

I barked at him, “I want the blueprints before we hit the job.”

We arrived, two blocks later. Clouds of thick smoke hovered over the Grooving Alligator nightclub. A crowd of people hung outside, dressed for a party. Several cops had been motioning them to go across the street.

Station 9’s fire truck had already parked in front. I recognized most of the guys connecting the hose to the hydrant. Flames had already engulfed part of the front. The truck stopped. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I hopped off, grabbed my oxygen tank from the side of the truck, secured it onto my back, and then seized my ax and Halligan bar.

“Merck, what you got?” I headed to the back. More sirens blared. Two ambulances and several police cars appeared on the scene.

Geared up, Merck had the blueprints of the club on his iPad screen.

Station 9 had already hooked the hose and now, began the exterior attack, spraying down the front so it wouldn’t spread. “Tell me something.”

“The building is one level,” Merck said. “There are five rooms, but they’re large open spaces. A bar is on the side. That was where the fire began.”

“Lit cigarette?” I asked.

“No, some asshole bartender tried to make a Bailey’s Comet. Did four of them and knocked two over.”

“Never heard of the drink. What else?”

“He’s fine and just has burns on his legs.” Merck showed me the screen. “There are two bathrooms and an office in the back.”

Susan came to my side, geared up and ready. “Manager said he thinks the building is clear.”

“Thinks? That’s not good enough. Someone could still be in there.” I jogged off, crew following. I yelled over my shoulder, “Merck, have Engine 18 keep the ladders ready in case we need to get on the roof. Susan, get your group in the back. I’m going to do search and rescue through the front and work myself to you.”

Not waiting for a response, I kept it moving.