Blank Slate

by Olivia Saxton

  Blank Slate

  A Series of Secrets Book 1

  By: Olivia Saxton

  Copyrighted Material

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This work is for adult audiences.

  Copyright © 2019 by Olivia Saxton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used to reproduce in any manner without the written permission of the author; except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning

  This work of fiction contains explicit language and graphic sexual scenes.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Epilogue

  Other Works

  Copyright

  Warning

  Chapter 1

  A few miles outside of Tampa, Florida, Layla Miles sat on a rose-colored couch in Dr. Victoria Samuelson’s office. The psychiatrist had been featured in medical journals for having an eighty-six percent success rate in helping patients recover from memory loss.

  Dr. Samuelson was in her late forties and wore wire-rimmed glasses. The light in the ceiling made her short, light brown hair shine. Layla judged that she was a size eight. Dr. Samuelson looked up from her notepad. “Thank you for answering my questions. I am willing to take you on as a patient, but I need to make you aware that the longer the memory loss, or in your case amnesia, has lasted, the lower the chances are to recover your memories.”

  Layla nodded. “I understand.” Four years ago, she had woken in a clinic outside of New York City with no memory of her life or even her name. Her fiancé, who was now her husband, had filled in the blanks as best he could about her past. But she wanted to remember on her own.

  Dr. Samuelson smiled. “Okay. I’m only at this office on Thursdays and Fridays. I have a private practice location in Tampa. You won’t have to drive fifteen miles here if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I want to see you here. You see . . . my husband doesn’t know that I decided to see a psychiatrist.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Because when I have mentioned seeing a psychiatrist about my memory loss in the past, he has gotten upset. It’s the only times he gets inpatient and annoyed by me. I let it go for the longest time, but our daughter is getting older, and I’d like to be able to tell her stories about her grandparents. So, I’m doing this for her and me.”

  “How are you planning to pay me without him knowing? You said you were a housewife.”

  “I am, and I handle the household bills. Half of his monthly income gets deposited into my account automatically. Plus, he never looks at the mail unless it’s one of his magazine subscriptions. He only reads things online and on the iPad if he really has to. So if a bill or an insurance summary comes to the house, he won’t think anything of it and leave it for me to open.”

  “All right then. Of course today was a consultation, so it’s free. I think we should start our sessions as soon as possible.”

  “How about next Thursday?”

  “That’s fine. Are mornings good for you?

  “They’re great for me, but nothing before nine-thirty. I want to make sure my husband is gone to work before I leave to see you. That way I won’t have to tell more lies than I have to concerning my appointments.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Samuelson said and made notes on her pad.

  ****

  By noon, Layla was turning onto Sunset Boulevard, a suburban neighborhood where keeping up with the Joneses was an art form. Layla and her husband, Damien, had moved into the neighborhood and Tampa from Washington, DC. They had lived there for a year.

  She pulled her white BMW into the garage and cut the engine. Before she could close the garage door, her next-door neighbor and closest friend on the street jogged up her driveway. Lacey had on a tight, dark blue jogging outfit. Her auburn weave was in a ponytail.

  “Hey, you. Been shopping?” Lacey asked as she pulled the white ear buds out of her ears.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t see anything that I wanted. I just window-shopped,” Layla lied as she walked to her friend.

  “Darn it. If I didn’t have to push my work out for this afternoon, I would have gone with you,” Lacey said as she lightly jogged in place. She was a few inches shorter than Layla, who was five-foot-six when she wasn’t wearing heels. She had chocolate, flawless skin, which contrasted Layla’s light, urban hue.

  “Maybe next time. It’s not like we’ve never been shopping together before.”

  “I know, but I like shopping with you because you’re fun and you don’t rush me. You’re my favorite shopping buddy.” Lacey lived to shop.

  Layla smiled. She couldn’t remember any friends she had in the past, but Lacey more than made up for it. “I like shopping with you, too. It’s always a rare experience with you.” The reason shopping with Lacey was so exciting was because she would spend an outrageous amount of money on the most exotic clothes. Her husband was worth a small fortune.

  A horn blew. Katelyn Austin pulled up next to the curb in front of Layla’s driveway in her brown Lincoln. She was eight years older than Layla and Lacey, and she was part of the high society in town. Her husband was a successful businessman who sat on the board of the hospital and other charity institutions in Tampa. Her blonde hair shone in the sun. Katelyn smiled at them. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Good afternoon,” Layla said.

  Lacey waved as she smiled. She slowed her jogging to a march-in-place rhythm.

  “Layla, I just had to stop and compliment you on your yard. Your rose bushes are thriving, and it adds color to your home.”

  “Thank you, Katelyn,” Layla said with pride. She had worked her tail off for six months to improve her landscaping to be on par with the rest of the neighborhood.

  “I can tell you worked really hard on it. You know, you might win the neighborhood garden award this year,” Katelyn said.

  “Let’s hope,” Layla replied as she crossed her fingers.

  “Lacey, dear, I’ll see you on Satu
rday, right?” Katelyn asked.

  “Absolutely. Corey and I would die before we miss one of your dinner parties,” Lacey said with excitement.

  Katelyn laughed. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Bye-bye.”

  Layla and Lacey waved as the socialite drove off.

  Layla blew out in frustration.

  “What is it?”

  “How come Damien and I are never invited to Katelyn’s famous parties? I know I got a slow start with getting to know the neighbors last year, but I got around to everyone eventually.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it? If anybody would know, it’s you. Does she dislike me?”

  “No. Matter of fact, she always tells people how personable and friendly you are. It’s just . . .”

  Every time Layla asked Lacey why most of the ladies on Sunset Boulevard didn’t invite her to their private luncheons and parties, she would either clam up or say she needed to have patience and let people get to know her better. Layla wasn’t going to let Lacey get away with it this time. “Lacey, I’ve asked you for the past eight months why the ladies on this street don’t invite me to anything unless it’s a neighborhood event in the cul-de-sac, and every time, you make up some BS excuse.”

  “I invite you to my cocktail parties,” she retorted defensively.

  “I know, but you’re the only one, and that’s because our houses are right next to each other, and we’ve been close friends. Now, tell me the truth. Do I smell bad? Does my breath stink? What?”

  “No, of course not.” Lacey sighed and stopped walking in place. “Layla, you wear the right clothes, the curb appeal of your home is great, and you and Damien drive the right cars, but there’s one thing you are missing to become a real socialite around here.”

  “And what is that?”

  Lacey’s dark brown eyes met her chocolate ones. “Clout,” she said simply.

  “Clout?” Layla repeated a little too loudly. “I’m the wife of one of the highest paid and most experienced neurosurgeons in the city.”

  “It’s not enough around here. Any good-looking woman can marry well as far as society is concerned. You have to build your reputation and clout. I know it’s harder for you to do that since you have a long-term memory loss. It makes it harder for people to get to know you because of it.”

  Layla’s face scrunched up.

  “I know it’s not your fault,” she stated quickly. “You just have to get more creative concerning building a ladylike reputation.”

  She exhaled. “People act like I don’t have a three-year-old daughter to take care of.”

  “Wendi Adams has three kids, and she is one of the most popular girls in the neighborhood.”

  “She has a full-time nanny,” Layla said.

  “And now you do, too,” Lacey countered.

  “Part-time,” Layla corrected.

  “Whatever. The point is, take advantage of the free time you have now. Did Damien agree to let you have a maid?”

  “Yes, she starts next week. Two days a week,” Layla said. She was able to handle the household, but she was so busy doing it that she had no time for herself. She had explained to her husband that she wanted more free time to get to know the neighbors better and to find a hobby to keep her mind stimulated. He had shrugged and told her to do whatever made things easier for her. As long as the house was clean and he had breakfast and dinner served in a timely manner, he didn’t care. Damien was a good man, and she knew she was lucky to have him.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt to improve on your cooking for when you have people over. People, meaning not just Corey and me.”

  “What the hell is wrong with my cooking?” Layla yelled.

  “Shh. Keep your voice down. There’s nothing wrong with your cooking per se. Your food is great. Down home like, but that’s the problem. You need to learn how to cook more exotic dishes – or hire a caterer for parties like I do.”

  Layla scoffed at the suggestion. “My cooking is comfort food.”

  “Yes, and like I said, it’s great, but one of the main reasons people are willing to die for an invitation to Katelyn’s parties is because she serves the most eloquent and tasty cuisine. She also serves top-shelf alcohol.”

  Layla nodded. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through all that just to have a couple more friends and to be part of a group.

  “You know the best part about being on the inside?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The gossip. People share more things with you.”

  She shrugged. What gossip Lacey told Layla was more than enough. Hell, the questionable things she saw out her own window was more information than she wanted to know.

  “I better get going. I need to take a shower and eat a little lunch. I did eight laps this afternoon.”

  “All right. See you later. And thanks for being honest with me.”

  Chapter 2

  A few days later . . .

  The sun had set. Layla sat on her front porch watching Mercedes, Escalades, Cadillacs, one Aston Martin, and one Rolls Royce SUV drive by her home and pull in front of Katelyn Austin’s brick house.

  She let out a sigh as she cocked her head down the street to watch the semi-formally dressed guests get out of their vehicles under the streetlights and saunter up the Austin’s long walkway. Then she noticed several neighbors coming out of their homes dressed in cocktail party attire.

  Layla’s upper lip curled. She was watching the activity so intently she didn’t hear Damien come outside. She jumped when he said, “Izabella is going to stay for another hour or two to watch Keisha so we can enjoy a little quiet time together out here.”

  “Good grief,” she said loudly as she placed her hand on her chest. Damn, now everyone knows I’m out on the porch watching everything.

  “Sorry, baby,” Damien said with a sheepish smile. He was carrying a wine glass and the bottle of wine she had served with their lasagna dinner.

  “Hey, guys,” Corey said as he and Lacey walked by.

  “Hey,” Damien said with a smile and a wave.

  Lacey smiled and nodded.

  Layla did the same.

  “What are you two drinking?” Corey asked as he slowed the pace of their walk.

  “California Riesling,” Damien answered. “It’s a light white wine that’s usually served with Italian food.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll have to pick some up to try it. You two have a good night,” Corey said.

  “You do the same,” Damien said and sat down in the chair next to Layla. “You want me to top you off?”

  “Yes, please,” she said as she held out her glass.

  He filled her glass halfway and then filled his own. He set the bottle on the porch floor.

  She sipped as she quietly watched her neighbors chatting happily as they walked in their finest wear. For the past few days, she had wracked her brain for ideas on how she and Damien could get the doors of society to open for them. She had thought about volunteering at the local homeless shelters and food pantries like she did in DC, but she had the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough for Tampa’s high society. Layla had to make a big splash to really get noticed by the right people. She had thought about hosting her own semi-formal party, but since she wasn’t well connected, she was afraid no one would show up. Then it finally hit her. She could host a charity event to benefit the hospital. Damien was a partnered doctor there. The money raised could be donated to the neurology department.

  “Baby!” he shouted.

  Her body jerked. “Huh! What?”

  “You haven’t heard a word I said.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said as her nerves simmered down from being startled again.

  Damien exhaled. “If you are that bothered by us not being included in social functions, then throw one of your own here at the house.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “Can’t we get some sort of recommendation or something? It didn’
t bother me before, but I think I’m missing out on some good investment opportunities and networking benefits because we are not well known.”

  “I don’t think it works that way, but I think I know what will work,” she said as she looked around at the well-maintained homes.

  “Lay it on me. I’m all ears.”

  “We’ll host a charity event for the hospital’s neurology department. I can place blurbs in the paper and the local magazine.”

  He nodded. “Not a bad idea, but it would be better if we do it for the oncology department. Most people like supporting functions and donating money concerning cancer.”

  “Yes. That’s a great idea. We can have an auction and serve a three-course meal afterward. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good, but what will we auction?”

  “I can go around to local businesses asking them to donate items from their inventory. After all, I am the wife of a local doctor,” she said with a smirk.

  He chuckled. “All right, but before you do anything, you should consult with the marketing department at the hospital. Oh, and the hospital foundation. They handle all charity events and donations.”

  “They won’t take over the event, will they? We need to be able to take full credit for this.”

  “Oh no, they’ll probably advise you and help you where they can. The marketing department will help with promotion of the event.”

  “Well, looks like we have a plan,” she said with a grin.

  “It looks like,” he agreed and leaned over.

  They kissed each other on the lips, and then clinked their glasses together.

  They casually chatted until they ran out of wine. They stood to head inside when Izabella came out. She was in her early fifties and overweight. Her olive skin glowed as she looked at them. “The little señorita was tired this evening. She fell asleep an hour early.”

  Layla nodded. “I’m not surprised. Keisha didn’t take her nap today.”

  “Ah. I’m heading home. See you Monday. Adios.”