The House At Sunset (Sunset SEALs #5) - Sharon Hamilton Page 0,1

told himself he was too good—too experienced—to be dealing with this, but that was the truth.

This is rookie madness. He gave himself a quick imaginary kick in the seat of the pants and shouted internally, “Get over it!”

But as he stared at the grinning face of his IBM Selectric typewriter, he identified what was happening. He had a full-blown case of writer’s block. The word made his bowels churn.

Standing up to stretch, he walked to the sliding glass door, crunching on balls of wadded paper as he did so. This sweet little beach house was the refuge he rented every time he wrote a new book. This house at Sunset Beach, had always been his lucky charm. It was sort of his secret dose of kryptonite. Well, not kryptonite exactly, his secret dose of vitamins. His secret weapon. This little place at Sunset Beach overlooking the tiny waves and the sugary sand had always been inspirational to him. The words always seem to flow, and the stories just kept coming.

But this time it was different. As if he had a defective muffler, the words choked like chunks of carbon caught in a filter, causing pressure and an invisible black cloud. He told himself he was too talented to have writer’s block.

But that’s exactly where he was. He was blocked, tethered to this royal blue typewriter. The contract he was in danger of blowing off would cost him a lot more than the first one he’d bought back. It was money his soon-to-be ex-wife had already spent on God knows what. He was backing out on that contract with her, too, and at an even greater cost. His demanding wife back in New York City, his children and all his adoring fans were waiting with bated breath for his new release for all sorts of reasons.

Sadly, it was beginning to look like he was going to fail this time, again! And just like the grand schemes in his epic novels, his failure would sweep over his career like an epidemic. He had fears that he would never be able to write a book again. That no one would want to read him. Maybe no one wanted to read him now. Maybe that’s why it was so difficult for him to write.

“Christ! What the hell am I doing with my life?”

But not one of the menageries of characters in his head answered him. The sliding glass door fogged up, and then cleared, revealing a beautiful, sunny day at the beach. Life was perfect for everyone else in the world, even the imaginary world, except him.

How he wished he could play in the sand like the people he watched through the window. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world. There were children with family members parked under umbrellas and on lawn chairs. There were groups of young men spread out on towels viewing groups of young women also spread out on towels. There was generous sharing of suntan lotion. Everyone had sunglasses. Some had floppy hats, which Hank would have to wear, because he hadn’t been outside on the beach one day since he’d arrived a month ago.

Well, maybe it was time for him to venture outside, face the ocean, face the sand, face his would-be fans—as if they knew how famous he was. Maybe it was time to get baked like a lobster, wear Noxzema on his nose, a floppy hat. Or perhaps, like his main character, Captain Sampson and his alcoholic blue vampire android second-in-command, he should down a half a bottle of scotch, hit the warp speed and boomerang to another galaxy in his drunken stupor. Maybe then, as he ached in his sunburned state, he might be able to write again. It might take something like that for him to be able to perform. It would be like lighting himself on fire.

He shuddered. This was bad. Very bad indeed.

Hank’s estranged wife was out shopping for townhouses in very expensive neighborhoods, anticipating a settlement that would put her up in style for the rest of her life. He didn’t mind paying child support, as he figured was owed, and he appreciated that his wife agreed to have full custody of the girls, so that he could visit on special holidays. After all, he was Hank Borges, the famous science fiction author. He felt uncomfortable being daddy, and always had.

He loved his girls, but he didn’t think he was very good for them, and, according to his wife,