Page 106 of Bitter Heat

She wanted to leap off the cliff, wanted it so desperately she could taste it. Freedom. That was what he was offering. She was lightheaded with terror and hope. She hadn’t realized she was in a cage until she met him. He was her knight in shining armor, willing to slay dragons for her.

His eyes moved over her face before he said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I-I won’t have money for college.”

“Drop out. Be a writer.”

“No. I’m so close to getting my degree.” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe… maybe I can get a job and do school…”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“You can’t do that!”

“And the apartment.”

“Roth—”

He kissed her. “Say yes.”

“But …”

“Say it.”

Her face was streaming with tears as she smiled. “Yes.”

“Your father will come around,” he said as he kissed her and backed her toward the bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

Chapter 18

Jasmine opened her eyes with Roth’s assurance echoing in her ears. Even as she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, she could feel his hands moving over her. He consummated their engagement by fucking her until she screamed. Even as she indulged in the graphic memories she couldn’t forget, her inner critic began to point out all the things she had overlooked. He hadn’t given a clear reason for wanting to marry her. He had proposed (sort of) and she had agreed. She had been so desperate for love that she took a chance on him and jumped. Stupid girl. She had uttered the L word many times over the two years they were married. He never had. Roth assumed Maximus would come around. He hadn’t, so he considered giving her up because she was bad for business.

She rolled out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. The best thing that came from her relationship with Roth was her writing career. He had encouraged her to invest in her dream instead of going into the business world to get pummeled and constantly sabotaged by her father. Roth paid the bills while she wrote the Thalia Crane books that later helped her build a life without him. Writing helped her cope with her demons, gave her purpose, and a community of people who gave her the support she never had in real life. And she couldn’t let them down now. Her personal life might be in ruins, but she still had her writing.

She trudged into the dark kitchen and started the coffeemaker she had requested. Once she had a steaming cup with just the right amount of creamer, she perched on the window seat with a notebook balanced on her knee. Her mind was a stress ball of anxieties. As the sun rose, she listed every fear plaguing her. It went on for pages, but once she had it on paper, the sharp tip of the imaginary knife pressed against her throat disappeared.

Roth made her feel trapped, vulnerable, needy… He made her feel like that insecure college girl again, and she hated him for it. She owned her own business and had more money than she could spend in this lifetime, but she still couldn’t win in a fight against him.

A seething mass of grief, fury, and lust pulsed inside her. Her father’s passing combined with Roth’s relentless siege back into her life was taking its toll. On top of that were professional worries. Everyone was waiting for book five. The brief burst of inspiration had long since lost its shine, and she was adrift again. She had to bring the story to a solid and satisfying conclusion. Everyone expected the story to be epic. What did that mean? Between both pen names, she had almost twenty books under her belt, yet she still didn’t know why some books hit, and others didn’t. Thousands of messages poured in, giving her advice on how her story should end. Before her success, it was just her and the characters. Now there were tens of thousands of people who all wanted something different. She couldn’t write for them; she had to write for herself. She watched many authors crack under pressure, and she was feeling it now. The knowledge that Sarai, Roth, and even her sisters would read the book paralyzed her. She tried to tell herself they were just words. Her job wasn’t rocket science, but still… They weren’t just words, just as music wasn’t just noise. Stories were meant to transport people to a different world and make them feel. To accomplish that feat, every word and paragraph had to be laid down with purpose, precision, and care.

She left the window seat, refilled her cup, and booted up her laptop. She put her hands on the keys, closed her eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. There was a direct connection between her emotional state and her writing. Whatever she was feeling, whatever was going on in her real life affected the actions/decisions/thought processes of the characters. The reason the Thalia Crane books had been so successful was because there was no filter between her and the character. They were one and the same. Readers could feel her pain and related to her struggles. The readers were rooting for her. She thought she had moved on with a bang (well, many bangs), but life had thrown her a curveball and she didn’t know how to pivot and get her mind back in the game. Her past was right in her fucking face, forcing her to realize that she hadn’t overcome it, she had avoided it. How could she give her character the closure she needed when she was back at the beginning?

She stared at the blinking cursor. She had nothing to offer the book right now but her own heartache and confusion. It would have to do. Life wasn’t an upwards trajectory. There were ups, downs, and long plateaus. There was only one way to write the book, and it was going to fucking hurt.

People thought writing was fun. Sometimes, it was. But the books that moved a reader emotionally were the ones where a writer sewed pieces of their soul into their work and dripped their blood on the page to give the characters life. Great writers sliced open their scars, sifted through their pain, and transcribed it on paper for the world to read and judge. Her job was to blend fact and fiction so seamlessly, no one could tell one from the other. It was brutal, draining work, but if done right, it could heal others and give them hope.

Her fingers tapped on the keys.The fucker was back. She bit her bottom lip and then shut off the judgmental voice in the back of her mind and continued.The years in between turned him into a stranger.

As the sun rose and filled the kitchen with light, silver flecks in the quartz countertops shimmered around her laptop. She chose to believe they were magical sparkles, and she was being anointed for a great writing day. Words filled the screen, not in a steady stream, but in choppy spurts as she grappled with the story. Things she didn’t allow herself to dwell on in real life filtered into the heroine. She gave herself up to the characters to let them mold her as they would. Hours passed. She took a break and decided to order food. She took some notes, checked social media, and then lost two hours talking to fans and thanking them for their well wishes. She reassured them she was working as she munched on a salad and side of fries. Having her heroine kick Roth’s ass on the page was therapeutic and raised her dragging spirits. In the story, the heroine gave him the middle finger as she drove away, leaving him stranded. God, if she could have done that in Colorado, that would have been the best thing ever. It didn’t matter that he fucked like a god or that she liked his craggy face or even his facade of calm that vanished if she provoked him. He was such a bully.

Now what?

She tried a few scenarios, none of which panned out. Her fingers fell on an empty plate. She had finished all the fries, so she picked up the fork and stabbed a crouton. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her phone light up. She didn’t get up to see who was calling. She returned her attention back to the screen and read over what she wrote. She changed some things and jumped around, prodding ideas to see if they had any life. More hours passed. She paced, checked her email, and delved once more onto social media, reposting hilarious memes before she hopped off again. She tugged on a story thread, following the path before she slammed into a wall. Her fingers stopped their tap dance over the keys.

A man stood by the lake. As she approached, he turned. Her father didn’t smile. He couldn’t anymore, but he held his hand out to her in invitation.

“Come, daughter, tell me a story.”

She retracted her hands. They dropped like lead weights onto her lap. The fantasy world fell away, leaving her with no protection from the pain. Maximus hadn’t been a perfect father or even an admirable one, but he was hers. She fanned her face as the tears came and when that did nothing, she went to the large double sink and splashed her face with cold water. She braced her hands on the counter as she tried to control her roiling emotions, but writing had opened the floodgates, allowing grief to take over.

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