When the Smoke Clears (Interracial Firefighter Romance) by Kenya Wright Read Free Book Online Page B

faces. Layers of flames sliced their fingertips. Even though I knew it was a solid object, the fire seemed to sway back and forth as if it were alive.
    “That’s a beautiful cane,” I said.
    “You’ve got a good soul,” she said, “But you’re all types of broken. I can smell the fear coming off you, like you haven’t washed in days.”
    I opened my mouth, but didn’t say anything. How did one respond to a statement like that?
    She can smell fear? Stop it. Let’s just rein back the crazy and get to some exercises or something.
    “I don’t do writing exercises,” she said.
    I tensed.
    Did she hear that? No. I’m crazy, but not truly insane. It would make sense for her to start discussing writing exercises. Right?
    Mama Ganga spit a brown glob of saliva onto my porch. “Are you going to sit inside your head or are you going to work with me to begin writing again?”
    “Are you chewing tobacco?”
    She nodded. “Don’t worry about that spot right there. It’ll be gone by the time we leave.”
    “We’re leaving?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Put on your shoes. We don’t have much time.”
    I’m not going anywhere with this weirdo.
    Mama Ganga pointed her finger at me. “You’ll go or I’ll make you.”
    Fuck. She can hear my thoughts.
    I couldn’t move or even speak.
    “No wonder you aren’t writing,” she said. “You’re too busy standing there and studying everything around you, instead of doing something. Put some sneakers on and come. You’ve got ten minutes.”
    “Uh.” I backed up and headed to my bedroom without closing the front door. I did not intend to put on my shoes. Every part of me had decided to call Sam and curse her out. Then, that familiar ache appeared in my gut. It screamed that I wanted to write again, that maybe this weird lady had the answer.
    What’s the most I have to do, besides put on my shoes and go somewhere with her?
    Instead of grabbing my phone to call Sam, I picked up my sneakers.
    If I can hang upside down and sit in a box, I can go with some creative expert to wherever. Maybe we’ll go to an art gallery or museum. Perhaps, she’ll actually help me.
    I met Mama Ganga back at the front of my house. As she said, the glob of tobacco spit had disappeared.
    “Come.” She waved her cane at a hot pink convertible in front. “You take your car and I’ll take mine. You follow me.”
    “That’s your convertible?” I asked.
    “No, it’s a rental. But the style is mine.”
    “So you’re big on pink?”
    The little woman said nothing else as she waddled to her car. Her long dreadlocks swung around her tiny body. “Hurry, before the water gets cold.”
    “What water?” I rushed to my own vehicle and pulled out the keys.
    Mama Ganga spoke no more words, climbed into her convertible, started it, and sped off without waiting for me to pull out.
    “Awesome. The old lady’s a racecar driver. I owe you one, Sam. You’re so going to get it.”
    After a good ten minutes of speeding through Sarasota’s lazy streets and swerving in and out of lanes, we arrived at Siesta Key. Miles of white powdered sand greeted my eyes. Water flowed crystal blue. Sea gulls and other birds squawked and soared above in a perfect sky. Pale blue winds moved among sun-tipped clouds. Salt clung to the cool breeze.
    Damn. I must come out here more often.
    Usually, I went to the public part of the beach. This side had to be private access. There were no sidewalks or parking spaces, only huge residential homes and vacant sand. Mini-mansions made up most of the block. Mama Ganga had parked in one of the driveways, making me think that she knew the owner and might have been staying there during her visit.
    How does she know these people?
    Unlike the public part of Siesta Key, no one walked the beach here. Only a few yachts cruised by. No footprints decorated the sand. It all appeared untouched and smooth.
    Mama Ganga joined me at my side. “Beautiful day. Isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you ready