Page 6 of Dirty Devil

See? I’m a hot mess express.

And if that wasn’t enough, here I am, stranded on the side of the road in Nashville, Tennessee, in a very puffy baby blue dress, long white gloves, and a blonde wig styled in a fancy up-do.

Why?

Because I’m fucking Cinderella.

All I want to do is get to the ball and try to have a good time.

Only I don’t have any horses or a fancy carriage. I don’t even have a fairy godmother.

Just a perverted neighbor named Gloria, who loves to wear fuzzy unicorn slippers and inappropriate sweaters. She’s also incapable of seeing a man and not speculating about the size of his package. Most of the guys find it flattering.

Well, except the pizza guy.

Right now, she’s on husband number six, who was coincidentally also husband number four.

If she were here, she’d have a running commentary that would be completely unhelpful. Just like her advice tonight,expect the unexpected. Well, that, andit wasn’t going to lick itself, while gesturing to my lady garden.

Some of her advice is more covert, while the rest… well, it’s not.

My car makes a grinding noise and starts to clunk like it’s demanding my undivided attention.Stupid ass car.

I turn it off, tossing the keys in the passenger seat on top of my clutch. I’m not sure how much this is going to cost me, but I’m sure it’s going to be a pretty penny. Regardless, it’ll be too much for a new-to-me car that shouldn’t have any problems to begin with.

Luckily, I’ve got a good amount of money stashed in a savings account, but it won’t last forever. Eventually I’m going to have to find a job that doesn’t involve changing diapers and pays more than sloppy kisses and gummy smiles.

My options are a little limited though; there’s only so much you can do with an English degree.

Sometimes I wish I listened to my mom and majored in something more practical, like accounting or nursing, but the thought of doing math for the rest of my life makes my skin crawl, and I get a little queasy at the sight of blood, so I knew neither of those would be right for me.

Nothing felt like it fit, except English. When I was younger, I wanted to be like the greats—Jane Austin, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Emily Dickinson, Mark Twain, and William Shakespeare. I wanted to inspire people with the stroke of a pen, to make people feel, to give them passion.

More than anything, I wanted my words to give people an escape from their ordinary lives and help them disappear into a world I created.

I still want all that, but with a lot more sex.

Once I started high school, I found myself in the contemporary romance section of a bookstore, and I fell in love. I knew right then and there that’s what I wanted to write—steamy romance.

The only thing stopping me is a finished manuscript, and finishing a story is easier said than done.

I groan, gripping the top of the steering wheel and leaning forward to rest my head on the backs of my hands.

I’d love to finish my story, but I’m stuck.

Uninspired.

Blocked.

Maybe I’m not good enough.

Maybe it’s the lack of romance in my life, or the fact that the last man I dated dumped me as soon as the plus sign popped up on the pregnancy test.

Although when we dated, he wasn’t exactly the romantic type. Not that I have a shit-ton of experience, but all the guys I’ve dated turned out to be shit-bags.

I need to get a better imagination.

That’ll be more beneficial than a shit-bag boyfriend.

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