Author Anonymous: A True Story Read online

  AUTHOR ANONYMOUS

  Copyright © 2016 E.K. Blair

  Editor: Lisa Baker, Adept Edits and Ashley Williams

  Cover Model: Nina Kneblik

  Cover Designer: E.K. Blair

  Interior Designer: Champagne Formats

  ISBN: 978-0-9963970-5-6

  Credit: Penguin Random House LLC, “Corelli’s Mandolin” by Louis de Bernières

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,) without the prior written permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemlance to any actual persons, living or dead, evetns, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products 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.

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note from Anonymous

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  CONCLUSION

  Afterword

  After Afterword

  From the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Other Titles

  To anyone who’s ever fucked up

  Note from Anonymous

  Dearest Reader,

  I was compelled to tell this story, as most writers are, because it haunted me. It consumed me late at night, early in the morning, and every other hour of the day.

  It still consumes. It still haunts.

  Because this isn’t just any story—it’s my story.

  I lived it.

  I am Anonymous, and I’ve made decisions and have inflicted emotional pain I never thought was in me to inflict. It’s been two years of tears, therapy, and penance, but finally through the suffering came healing. And as my history shaped itself, my story began to haunt me in a different way.

  In a way that felt all too familiar.

  A situation far too close to home for many of us.

  I learned I wasn’t alone.

  This isn’t your typical story. It’s not meant to titillate or entertain. It’s a true story—a story that could belong to any woman, wife, mother—it could even belong to you.

  When I finally made the decision to tell it, I knew I couldn’t be the one to write it. Like touching the white-hot flame, I was too close, and telling it would singe my heart all over again. Perhaps I would alter a detail to avoid judgment or change a storyline to protect my family. I knew in the core of my deepest self that this story deserved to be told purely, as it happened, and without the cloud of persecution weighing on my shoulders.

  So I handed it over.

  As an active member of the indie-publishing community, I read much and often. With one particular author and her incredible talent for wordsmithing never failing to astound me, my heart was set to have her tell my story. Every sentence the inimitable E.K. Blair writes yanks at my heart and forces me to see reality from a new and breathtaking perspective. Blair’s words weave emotion into my heart like a rare and awe-inspiring tapestry, and it’s for this reason I asked her to sit down with me.

  I poured every gritty detail out to her, and she took what I gave her, soaked it into her soul, and told my story through her voice. I’ve read this book every chapter of the way—E.K. Blair’s words never ceasing to inspire and shatter in the breadth of a single sentence. It’s heartbreakingly honest and unapologetic in its candor.

  Thank you, my new-found friend, for flying me out to stay in your home and listening with an open heart as I cut mine open and handed it over to you. You brought my story to life with your gifted pen, and I am, and always will be, forever grateful.

  Anonymous

  Author’s Note

  It’s an honor to tell Anonymous’ story. I’m in awe of her bravery to expose her heart and allow me to crawl inside and explore deep down to the cobwebs where her skeletons lurk. When I found them, she allowed me to awaken them. I spoke to them, questioned them, yelled at them, and cried with them. I took her story, wrote notebook’s worth of notes, listened to her words, and then sharpened my tongue to let them bleed through me and onto the pages of this book. This may be told in my voice, but this is her story. Thank you, Anonymous, for trusting me with your darkest everythings.

  “Chaos is an angel who fell in love with a demon.”

  ~ Christopher Poindexter

  The dreadful sound of my alarm wakes me from a dream I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. Giggling from my girls echoes through the door of my bedroom as I blink my eyes open, holding on to the vanishing visions before lucidity erases them entirely. I stretch my arms and legs as I breathe in the scent of pancakes and bacon, the aperitif of familiarity and comfort.

  Tossing the blankets aside, I leave slumber’s fantasies on the pillow and get out of bed. When I slip on my robe, I head out to the kitchen for some much-needed coffee.

  “Look who’s awake, girls,” my husband announces as he flips pancakes onto the kids’ plates.

  They give me a fleeting acknowledgment as Landon sets their breakfast on the table. While they stuff their mouths, I focus on making my cup of coffee.

  “How late were you up last night?”

  Stirring the creamer into my mug, I look over to my husband of eight years and respond, “A little after two.”

  “What kept you up so late this time? A fighter? A pilot? A billionaire with a dark past who finally met the one woman that would change him forever?” He laughs as he says this, and I can’t fight the urge to bust out laughing too. Because he’s spot on. “You read such garbage, you know?”

  “Hey!” I chastise through my own fit of giggles. “I write that stuff too.”

  “So what was it, huh?” he continues to tease.

  With a toying glare, I admit, “The billionaire with a dark past.”

  “Knew it! You like ’em rich and filthy, which is why you married me.”

  “Are you stashing money I don’t know about?” I joke as he begins to wash the dishes. Looking over to our girls, Emily and Jill, I tell them, “Hurry up. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  They shove their last bites in their mouths, jump out of their chairs, and run up the stairs.

  “Get back here and clear the table,” I call out, trying not to sound too naggy, and then grab my coffee before heading back into my bedroom to throw myself togethe
r.

  I’m in the middle of brushing my teeth when Landon walks into the bathroom.

  “Don’t forget that I’m working late tonight. Damon and I are testing out a few new recipes for the menu,” he says and then hops into the shower.

  Landon is the sous-chef at Chin-Chin, an upscale French steak and seafood restaurant in the heart of Boston. We met when I was in college at Boston University, where I majored in film and television studies. During my third year, I took an internship in the props department at FOX25, Boston’s local news station. At the time, Landon was a young, up-and-coming chef and had landed a guest spot for a demonstration segment on the morning show.

  “That guy was so hot.”

  “I wonder if he’s single?” Brooke, my best friend who also interns, says as we are down in the kitchen, cleaning all the dishes from the segment.

  “I doubt it. He’s probably banging some blue-eyed, blonde tart who drinks spritzers.”

  Brooke narrows her eyes at me. “You just pretty much described me.”

  I laugh and shake my head at her as I continue to wash the pans and plates while she dries.

  “Excuse me.”

  Brooke and I turn around to see the hot chef standing in the doorway.

  “I think you accidentally took my knife case,” he says.

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry.” I take my hands out of the soapy water, dry them off, and walk over to the cart that we loaded all the props onto. Kneeling down, I find his knives on the bottom rack. When I move to stand, he steps beside me, and I stumble on my feet, hitting my head on the cart and knocking over a few ramekins of sauce onto my top.

  “Crap.”

  “Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” he says, grabbing ahold of my arm and helping me up.

  Looking down at my blouse, which is now covered in oil and teriyaki sauce, I lie and tell him, “It’s okay.” When I shift my eyes up, I can see the embarrassment on his perfect face.

  “That top is ruined.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll just have to go shopping then.”

  “Let me make it up to you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says. “But it would make me feel like less of a dick.”

  “It’s really—”

  “Stop being shy and let him make it up to you,” Brooke calls out from across the room, her words blemishing my face in my own embarrassment.

  With a smirk on his face, he asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Tori.”

  He holds out his hand to me, and when I slip mine into his, he says, “I’m Landon.”

  His eyes are deep brown, nearly the same color as his hair, which is cut short and gelled. He’s clean-shaven with a preppy look to him that makes the all-American statement.

  “What’s your number so I can call you to make plans?”

  He pulls out his cell and adds my number before slipping it back into his pants pocket. When he reaches down to pick up the case with his knives, my cell buzzes with an incoming text.

  Unknown: Sorry about the shirt.

  When I look up to him, he’s smiling. “Had to make sure you weren’t trying to blow me off with a fake number.”

  He takes the case from my hands and drops his voice when he says, “I’ll call you later.”

  I watch him as he walks out of the kitchen, and as soon as he’s gone, Brooke squeals, “Oh, my God! He was totally flirting with you.”

  Shoving my cell back in my pocket, I roll my eyes and walk over to the sink. “Flirting? He wants to take me on a date because he ruined my shirt, Brooke. That’s not flirting, that’s pity.”

  “Well, you better take it, whatever it is because you need to get laid.”

  I yank the bowl she’s holding from her hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re uptight, Tori.”

  “Aren’t I allowed to be?”

  Brooke dries her hands, and when she sets the towel down, she looks at me with compassion. “Of course you’re allowed. But it’s been months. Don’t you think you should start putting yourself out there?”

  “I am out there.” My defense is weak at best. We both know I’m hiding.

  “You’re a terrible liar. Look, Trey was a grade-A dick, but not every guy is like that.”

  Pain grows thick in my chest, building pressure around my heart that I will to dissolve. I wonder how much longer this will last. She’s right, it’s been nearly seven months since I broke up with Trey. We’d dated since high school—I gave him four years of my life, and I thought he was the one. But it turned out, I was just lying to myself. I was blinded by familiarity.

  From early on, Trey had been physical with me. What started out as meek pushes and shoves eventually morphed into slaps and punches. But I stayed with him because I loved him. At least, I thought I did. I now know differently. I’d convinced myself that if I just loved him a little harder, if I behaved a little better, that he’d stop.

  No one knew what was happening behind closed doors—we hid it well. It wasn’t until Brooke ditched her blind date one night and returned to our dorm room much earlier than expected that she walked in on Trey hammering his fist into my back. That was the moment my world fell from its axis. Our dark secret of abuse and lies had been discovered by the one woman who would fight harder than Trey ever could. The only difference—she fought for me, not against me.

  “If he calls, take the pity date.”

  I swallow past the memories and nod my head. “Fine. I’ll take the pity date . . . if he even calls.”

  “Girls, come on! We’re gonna be late!”

  While Landon finishes up in the shower, I run around the house like a crazy lady with her head chopped off. Typical weekday morning.

  “Mom, I can’t find my other shoe,” Emily hollers from her bedroom.

  “Well, if you’d put your things where they belong, it wouldn’t be lost.”

  I grab a to-go mug from the kitchen and quickly brew another cup of coffee before remembering I never went through the girls’ school folders last night. Shit!

  “Jill! Em! I need your backpacks!”

  Jill walks into the kitchen with her folder already out and is followed by Emily who has one shoe on.

  “Mom, did you find my shoe?”

  “I don’t have time to find your shoe. We should already be in the car and—”

  “Found it!” Jill announces into the chaos of the room with her arm shoved under the sofa.

  With fast hands, I clean out their folders, sign their daily planners, and pull out a note from Jill’s teacher, requesting me to come in on Friday to volunteer in the classroom.

  Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I’m not busy, Mrs. Briman.

  Shoving the folders into their backpacks, I dump an obscene amount of creamer into my coffee, screw on the lid, and grab my keys.

  “Let’s go.”

  The kids run out to get into the car as I shout, “I love you, babe!”

  “Hey, while you’re out, we need more toilet paper.”

  Love you too.

  After I drop off the kids and run by the store, I head back home and am just in time to see Landon’s car pulling out of the driveway. We both stop and roll down our windows.

  “Remember, I’ll be home later than usual,” he tells me.

  “That’s fine. I have a lot of stuff to do before my trip this weekend.”

  “Well, if you’re not too tired, maybe we can spend some time together when I get home.”

  That’s code for sex.

  “Maybe.”

  “Just pretend I’m that billionaire in the book that kept you up all night.”

  I laugh and drive into the garage at the same time he smiles and heads down the street.

  Walking into the house, I embrace the silence and solitude. When Jill was born six years ago, I decided to take a short leave of absence and then return to my job as creative director at FOX25. But before I reached the end of my leave, I fo
und out I was pregnant with Emily.

  After I resigned, my life became focused on the kids and Landon. Though I was happy and content for a while, those feelings eventually waned, and I began itching to have something of my own again. So, in the evenings after everyone was asleep, I stayed up and wrote. I didn’t know what I was writing. There was no plan. I simply enjoyed getting lost in a world that had nothing to do with changing diapers, folding laundry, and cooking dinners. I took parts of my past and present and twisted them into a work of fiction, and pretty soon, it turned into a novel.

  I remember calling Brooke, who lives only a short drive from Belmont, where I live. She has a beautiful home with her husband and son, Ryder. I told her about the book and began sending her chapters to read. She humors me, even though her tastes in books are anything other than the steamy romances I write.

  Writing became my obsession. I couldn’t wait for everyone to go to bed so I could get back to my self-created chimera. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes fantasize about the male lead in my book while Landon and I were having sex. During the day I was mom and wife, and at night, I was something else entirely. I created a world where laundry didn’t exist, sex wasn’t something I had to schedule, and there were no children in the background throwing fits. Before I knew it, four months had passed and I had a finished book.

  After college, Brooke went on to work for a multimedia entertainment agency, and with her knowledge, she guided me to the world of self-publishing. Together, we found a designer to create a cover for the book, we hired an editing company, and next thing I knew, the book was published online for anyone to download and read. I even had a company produce paperback books that people could buy.

  And they did.

  People actually bought the book. Lots of people. The reviews were wonderful, and after two weeks, the book hit the New York Times bestsellers chart! It was a whirlwind when I started getting emails from literary agents who wanted to represent me. Landon and Brooke helped me decide which agency to go with, and once the contract was signed, my book was sent to the top publishing houses in New York City. By the end of the year, my book was no longer self-published; instead, it was being published by none other than Simon & Schuster.