by J. R. Rogue
Burning Muses
Copyright © 2016 by J.R. Rogue
All rights reserved.
Editor: Alicia Cook, www.thealiciacook.com
Cover Art: Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae, www.murphyrae.net
Interior Design: JT Formatting
Radiant Sky Publishing Group
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
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www.jrrogue.com
For the survivors.
You are good.
Never forget this.
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One – March 1st
Chapter Two – March 9th
Chapter Three – March 9th
Chapter Four – March 10th
Chapter Five – March 25th
Chapter Six – March 27th
Chapter Seven – March 27th
Chapter Eight – April 1st
Chapter Nine – April 1st
Chapter Ten – April 2nd
Chapter Eleven – April 6th
Chapter Twelve – April 9th
Chapter Thirteen – April 9th
Chapter Fourteen – April 10th
Chapter Fifteen – April 10th
Chapter Sixteen – April 16th
Chapter Seventeen – April 17th
Chapter Eighteen – April 18th
Chapter Nineteen – April 20th
Chapter Twenty – May 14th
Chapter Twenty-One – June 20th
Chapter Twenty-Two – July 11th
Chapter Twenty-Three – August 30th
Chapter Twenty-Four – September 29th
Chapter Twenty-Five – October 23rd
Chapter Twenty-Six – November 13th
Chapter Twenty-Seven – November 15th
Chapter Twenty-Eight – November 15th
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Contact J.R. Rogue
some people are
born fractured.
demons deposited
here among us.
I like to think I was born pure.
that for a while I was like an angel.
(my mother named me after one, after all)
I guess it wasn’t in the master plan for me to
stay that way.
this sickness was put inside of me
by familiar hands.
I walk with the pretty people now.
the good.
but I am not.
I am not good.
In everyone’s life, there are definitive moments that change everything. There are lows you reach that kick off the cycle of changing you for the better. Sometimes you forget those moments; sometimes they stay with you forever. For me, crying in the middle of sex in a Las Vegas hotel room was one that would stay with me until the day I died.
No one wants to be that girl, and no man has anything remotely positive to say after an experience like this. I would never write a scene like this in one of my novellas.
My characters were strong and feisty. Yet here I was, their creator, behaving like the sniveling sidekick; the pathetic best friend with a series of hapless romances attached to her name. To make matters worse, the man on top of me took longer than I liked to notice my tears. When he did, he called me by the ridiculous nickname that he had been using for the past week, making the whole scene seem even direr.
“Aw, Ser-Bear. What’s wrong, Babe?” He sounded genuinely concerned. I would give him that; but we were both trashed. ‘Babe,’ too? I found it hard not to groan.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, pushing up on his chest. He disconnected and rolled onto his back, raking his hand across his face. I wondered if he would ask what was wrong again. I told him ‘no emotions’ between us, and he had kept to that, but my actions now were screaming ‘comfort me’. I was not holding up my end of the bargain.
My breakdown had nothing to do with him though. Earlier in the night, I had received a text from my best friend, Kat, from my hometown. “I have news,” she announced. Despite my incessant begging, she would not divulge the information, instead saying that she would call me in the morning. I only had one guess that felt right. She was pregnant.
Kat was married for five years now, and I knew she and her husband had been trying for the last two of those. My friend had always been the mothering type; she looked out for me most of my life. She always knew what to do. In high school, our friend Chelsy found herself pregnant our sophomore year and the first person she ran to was Kat. Not her parents, not her boyfriend, not the school counselor. Kat. Kat had an answer for everything, a soothing voice, and a level head.
If she had her way, a baby would have arrived much sooner, but her husband wanted to wait, arguing that his new law firm had to be more financially secure. Despite how this frustrated her, she was supportive of him in every way. If there was any role besides ‘mother’ that Kat was born to play, it was ‘wife.’
I had never been jealous of the life my friend had. I knew it was wonderful and she was lucky, but it was not for me. I had no boyfriends in high school, and dated little in college. Not for lack of attention, I just hated being tied to anyone, and my attention was hard to hold. Plus, it all made for great writing.
I suppose even the most inexperienced woman could write erotica, but I found that real life experience, to some extent, helped immensely, and was terribly fun. Until you are crying during sex, which brings me back to my current predicament.
After reading Kat’s text earlier, I felt excitement for her. I bought everyone in the bar a shot, even though she hadn’t officially told me. I hooted and hollered; I laughed and told everyone fond stories of Kat. My companions listened to me, drank with me, and eventually grew weary of the stories about some chick from the Midwest they didn’t know and could care less about.
Slowly fear and sadness crept inside me. My intoxicated thoughts ran wild. I was in the last half of my 29th year alive and wasted on a Tuesday night. I had never been in a serious relationship, and my current fling with the lead actor of the Vegas show that was running in my hotel, certainly did not count.
I had nothing inside but overwhelming fear when it came to my profession, which had led me to this sad state I was in. This was the proverbial straw on the damn camel’s back.
In hindsight, I should have known heading to Vegas for a one-month bender was not the cure to any of my problems. At the time, it seemed like the perfect solution but I was too old for this shit
I groaned loudly into the room, threw the covers off my legs, and headed to the bathroom. A scalding hot showe
r always helped somewhat in sobering me up, and I desperately needing to look at this situation with clear eyes.
My companion paid little attention to me as I left the room. From the corner of my eye, I spotted him picking up his phone and quickly beginning to send out a text. On-to-the-next, I suppose.
I set the water to the hottest setting and began to undress. I spotted a fresh bruise on my shin and cursed aloud. Why was I so clumsy when I drank? I sank down onto the cool porcelain floor, flipping through images of the night. Every picture in my head made me cringe. Nothing was worth writing about, the same as every night this past month. Same as every night for over a year.
I had flirted endlessly with the hot as hell bartender at Gilley’s. He was delicious, if any of my readers read about a man that looked like him they wouldn’t be able to control themselves. But I had done this before. I had written about the sexy as fuck bartender that seduces the young innocent protagonist off her feet and introduces her to new and exciting sexual desires. I would not write about the same thing twice. It was writer’s suicide.
I had also already written about the sexy singer, so the delicious man in my bed was a waste of my time. Still, I doubted he would complain about the time we had spent together, minus my tiny breakdown earlier.
This was all getting old fast. I was running out of ideas to help the process.
My name is Seraphina Daniels, but the world knows me as ‘Lexa Fire.’ I have become one of the top ten bestselling erotic writers in the world. My bestselling trilogy, Pinned, was in the productions stages for the film adaptation of the third novel. The first movie was an insane success. I was able to collaborate with the filmmakers on many aspects, and it had been one of the most thrilling experiences of my life, as well as one of the most damning.
My name was everywhere, my work was discussed constantly, and, in turn, sales for all of my books had skyrocketed. All eyes were on me for my next project, and I couldn’t write a single fucking word.
I had tried everything I could possibly think of. I had flown to my summer home in Florida, spending night after night upon the beach, day after day living life with the locals. Nothing. Frustrated, I flew to Alaska, always finding the state to be fascinating. I now had an excuse to spend more time there than my book signings would allow. It was beautiful, romantic and splendid. Still, nothing.
Growing more agitated, I flew to the one place I had always wanted to visit, Ireland. That trip was one I would never forget or regret, but no story came from it. I was at the end of my rope. As a struggling writer, I had always dreamed of visiting beautiful locations upon which to base my stories, always jealous of those successful enough to be able to do so. Now, I was one of them, and I couldn’t squeeze one hundred measly words out a day.
I never saw writer’s block coming. When the movie rights to the first book had been purchased, the trilogy was still not finished. The first book had been released and the second nearly written. The whole world was obsessed with the story as I wrote the third book. None of this stifled my creative eye. I thrived in it. It thrilled me to know the entire world was in love with the characters I created. The words spilled from my fingertips to the screen. The third book came out timed with the release of the second movie.
The worldwide frenzy and my newfound success was astonishing. I started writing less. I traveled and basked in the glow of what my life had become. When filming began for the third movie, hot on the heels of the second’s success, I stayed close to the set. The movies had remained beautifully faithful to my novellas, the female director of the films, becoming one of my closest friends. Months passed by in a blur and I was without a care in the world.
I attended red carpet premieres for the films, the first taking place where I lived, in New York City. I loved the glamour of it all. All day long I would be pampered by hair stylists and makeup artists dolling me up like a star. As a child, I always dreamed of taking the stage in beautiful gowns and singing before audiences of thousands, this dream was quickly forgotten when I realized I couldn’t sing worth a damn. This is the closest I would get.
The film’s sexy British star, Tristan, was my date for each premiere in the various cities we visited. He was the hottest celebrity in the world. When buzz began over the casting of the first movie, his name was thrown around more than others. My readers knew he embodied every physical characteristic of the lead in my books. I agreed. I fantasized about him starring in the film. I fantasized about other things, too. We were not dating, but walking the red carpet together sent tongues wagging. He was extremely private about his love life and would never bring an actual woman in his life to the red carpet. The speculation over if he was dating the beautiful author of the books was great for tickets sales. We maintained that we were just friends, the truth, but tabloids never believed it. It didn’t bother me. If the world wanted to believe I was sleeping with one of the most beautiful men alive, then go for it. It certainly wasn’t difficult to gaze at him adoringly for the camera.
The final premiere for film number two was to be just like any other. I was prepared for the onslaught of questions about my next project. I remained coy about the subject. I gave no details, mostly because I had none, but assured everyone I was hard at work. I didn’t feel at that time that I had writer’s block. I convinced myself I was merely busy, ignoring the fact that I had never gone this long in my life without at least filling my journal. I began writing as a young child to pass the time in our old country home. With no siblings to keep me company, it was one of the many ways I stayed busy. Still, the seed of fear was planted within me and I had yet to admit its presence to myself. I knew I needed a place to hide, but I never expected where I would find it that night.
I was never a particularly brave girl when it came to men without some liquid courage. Small talk was not one of my specialties, and flirting was not second nature to me; but give me a couple Long Island Ice Teas and I suddenly morphed into a much smoother version of myself. Give me too many Long Islands and I become a much sloppier version of that seductress, a mistake I learned the hard way.
I was always told I was too uptight, so a little bit of alcohol went a long way to calm my nerves. That night I got my hand on those drinks, and got in bed with Tristan.
Now, here I was. I stretched my legs out in front of myself in the shower. Letting the hot water beat down, soaking my hair, soaking my fear. I didn’t want to think about that night but I couldn’t stop myself. Memories from the night of my book’s movie premiere came flooding back to me.
I had downed three cranberry vodkas before we sat down to watch the film. I had been on set for most of the filming and viewed bits and pieces during pre-production, but this would be my first time seeing it in its entirety. I was nervous. I was tipsy. I was pissed that I hadn’t been writing and had been too busy with this damn movie. I wasn’t in the film industry. I was a damn writer. I found my seat next to Tristan just as the room went dark.
I write erotic fiction, yes, but that doesn’t mean sex doesn’t make me blush. I was sitting in a dark theater next to the man starring on the screen. I was each of my leading characters. I based them off my real life experiences. Seeing the man next to me act out the actions from my past, act out my fantasies, was too much for me that night. I had been through this before with the first film, but at a safer distance away from him. Factor in the alcohol I had already consumed, and I was screwed.
The first sex scene began ten minutes into the film, at this point in the series our lovers were more than acquainted with each other. They began to slowly strip for each other, the scene was too much. I felt my face redden and my breathing pick up slightly. I sensed Tristan noticing my reaction to him on the screen, so I slowed my breathing. I reminded myself that the room was pitch black, and he couldn’t see my crimson cheeks. He couldn’t tell that the palm of my hand resting next to his arm was beginning to sweat. I focused on the screen. He was too beautiful. Thirty minutes passed and we came to another sex scene. Jesus.
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Okay, yeah, this movie wasn’t based on Shakespeare, it was based on my smut book. I really screwed myself with this one. I uncrossed my legs, and then crossed them on the other side. It wasn’t helping. Tristan was watching the screen just as I was, but I felt his awareness of me. I felt him inside my head. He must have sensed my frustration. It was tangible. It was one thing to lust after the man voted People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive in the privacy of your own home, but panting like a rabid fan right next to him was a whole other level of crazy.
Suddenly his arm came up to rest next to mine, his pinkie grazed the side of my hand, and I lost it. I jumped, what I felt, was three feet out of my seat. The person in front of me slightly turned their head to the side, showing me the furrow of their brow. I mumbled an apology, rose to me feet, and motioned for Tristan to move his legs so I could exit the row. The second from the front.
“Everything alright?” He whispered, a smile in his voice.
“Yes, just need to get to the restroom.” I brushed past him, practically running to the exit. I found the large bathroom empty. Everyone else was glued to the huge screen. I turned the cold water on, bracing both of my arms on the side of the sink. I watched the water swirl around and quickly spiral down the drain. I focused on the circular motion.
Why was I avoiding writing? My success had been unlike anything I could have imagined. I never set out for it. I wrote my first novella in college. I was casually dating a senior named Adam. He was fun and never spent a moment of his life being serious. Getting a job? Not important. Making it to class? Maybe tomorrow. I knew he wasn’t forever, but he helped me let loose. He loved that I enjoyed writing. I would let him read my writing assignments, but never my poetry. I didn’t love him, so he could never see that piece of me.
One night he had a crazy idea. We could pretend to be different people. We could role-play and leave all of our inhibitions behind, and then I could write about it. I resisted at first. I couldn’t write about our sex lives. “But it won’t be us,” he argued.
