Author Anonymous: A True Story

by E. K. Blair

  “Hi, how are you?”

  “I’m good. Look, we need to talk deadlines, but first I want to congratulate you on hitting the New York Times again last week. I’m keeping an eye on sales, and with luck, I think you might find yourself on that list for a third week. I have marketing getting some advertisements ready to go up onto Goodreads, and Target has already agreed to move the book to an endcap for more visibility.”

  “That’s great. Thank you. I still can’t believe it’s doing so well,” I respond as I head back into the kitchen for my coffee.

  “It is, and with that being said, it’s important we get the ball rolling on your next project. Look, I’ve granted you leniency with time because I know you’ve been struggling creatively, but you are under contract for three more books. I’m going to need a minimum of an outline by Friday. If you can get me a few chapters by then as well, even better.” Tabitha’s urgency awakens the anxiety in me. She’s right. My name is hotter than it’s ever been, and I can’t allow that to fade if I want to stay relevant. The industry is cutthroat these days with the influx of people who are now self-publishing. I know this because I’m what’s considered a hybrid; I’m both traditionally published and self-published, thanks to the non-compete clause my agent fought against.

  “No problem. I’ll get to work today. I understand timing is everything, so as soon as I get the summary done, I’ll email it to you so you can review while I work on hammering out some chapters.”

  “Good. We’d like to aim to have the book on shelves within the next five months, so we are pushing a tight deadline. Get working on it and I will email you today or tomorrow with hard deadline dates for each stage.”

  “Thanks, Tabitha. I’ll talk to you later.”

  With an exhale, I plop down on the sofa and kick my feet up onto the coffee table. There have been a few fleeting ideas that have come to me in the past few days, but nothing that’s anywhere near fleshed out enough to write a summary for. I swipe my phone and open the app to voice chat with Brooke.

  “Brooke, you there?”

  While I wait for her to respond, I take the pad of paper that’s on the coffee table and jot down a few notes. This is the first book I have to develop under a time crunch. Up until the last contract, I’ve pitched story concepts to the publisher that they have liked and contracted me for. But with this contract, not only did they take the two-book series I pitched them, but they also wanted three more books beyond that. Now that we are at that point, I feel more pressure than ever since I normally wait until a story naturally comes to me before I start writing. Now I have to manufacture a story without allowing it to form organically. I know this is how most authors in the traditional world operate, and I’m sure I can do it too. It’s just new and uncomfortable.

  “I’m here. What’s up?”

  “Tabitha just called.”

  “Uh oh. Are you in trouble?” she teases.

  “I could be,” I tell her. “I have to have a summary for the next book to her by Friday, and she is pushing for me to also have chapters for her. So I need your help.”

  “Of course. What can I do?”

  “Well, I have a few ideas I want to run by you and get your opinion. I know you’re more of a murder mystery girl, but I need to get some direction here.”

  “Tell me what you have.”

  “Okay, well, what if I did a student/teacher type th—”

  “No,” she interrupts. “There’s too much of that out there and it isn’t you. It would just get lost in the sea of other books just like that. You need something more original.”

  “Oookay. Well, you shot that one down fast.” I laugh as I cross that idea off the list.

  “Sorry, but you asked for honesty. Next.”

  “Military. I was thinking maybe the husband gets wounded at war and is now disabled. It takes a toll on the wife and—”

  “And she falls in love with one of his combat brothers while turning to him for support.”

  “What the hell, Brooke?”

  “It’s been done a thousand times. And what do you know about the military anyway?”

  “Well . . . nothing, but that’s why I have you.”

  With a sarcastic moan, she says, “As if the workload you give me isn’t full enough, you want me researching military shit? Pass. Next.”

  “Oh, my God. I want to slap you so bad.”

  “I bet you do, hooker.” Her response is followed by a loud, bellowing laugh.

  Going to my next idea, I read, “A girl who winds up in a mental institution for some reason I can come up with later. But she should be young, fourteen or so. Her therapist is the crazy one and winds up developing a very unhealthy attraction to her. Fast forward, she’s a young adult and that therapist from her past is obsessed with her. I don’t know where the story goes, but I can develop one around that premise.”

  There’s a pause as I cringe at what her response will be, and then she says, “I like that.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. But you can’t make it sleazy and slutty. I mean, obviously he’s gotta be psychotic . . . like clinically diagnosable.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Totally. It would be a dark story.”

  As I sit here, ideas spark in my head faster than I can talk. “Brooke, I’ll talk to you later. My mind is running a million miles an hour now.”

  “Okay, well, message me if you need me.”

  Tossing my phone aside, I open my laptop and type out all my thoughts as they come to me. It’s amazing how sometimes talking things out with someone is all it takes to get the creative juices flowing. The more I type, the more excited about the story I become. Random scenes play in my head, and I write them out so I don’t run the risk of losing any of these ideas.

  Time passes as I lose myself to this developing storyline, and when I come to a standstill, I see two hours have gone by. I’ve written four pages of notes as it pertains to the plot, scenes, and different characters along with their names, traits, and background details. Mindlessly, I pick up my mug, take a sip, and immediately spit the cold, stale coffee back into the cup.

  “Oh, gross,” I mumble and then walk over to the sink to wash out the mug so I can make another cup of fresh coffee.

  Returning to my laptop, I save the document and open my email to send it to Brooke, as I do with everything I write. She will typically read what I send in the evenings once she has her son put to bed, and then she will message me to discuss. Doing this helps me stay on track and it’s always good to get a second opinion.

  Once the document is sent, I scroll through the mass of emails that came through while I was in Vegas. There are over a hundred of them, so I flag the important ones I need to come back to and delete all the random ones. As I’m going through, I stop when I see several in a row from FetLife.

  I click on the first one to see I’ve received a private message from someone on that site. The other two emails are also notifications of users who have sent me messages. It’s a little strange that anyone would message me since I provided no personal information, not even a photo. For all they know, I could be a wretched, morbidly obese woman who has a bad case of acne.

  I stare at the message in the email I have open.

  ALEC107: Why so secretive?

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I click the link, which takes me to the login screen on the website. I enter my username and password, and when I hit the submit button, I’m directed into a private chat room where I can respond. I notice the message was sent to me at five o’clock this morning from the timestamp.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard as I think of a reply. This should be easy, considering I’m a best-selling author and all, but I’m unsure of what to say, so I just type the first thing that comes to me.

  ANONYMOUS: Secretive?

  I watch the screen for a minute, and then open another window to check my social media sites. As I’m reading a message concerning a book signing I’ve been asked to attend, an alert dings fro
m the private chat.

  ALEC107: No picture. Not a member of any groups. No information. All I know is that you’re a 32-year-old submissive female who lives in Boston. I question the accuracy of that though.

  Before I respond, I notice the small photo next to his profile name and click on it. A new window pops up and I’m taken to his profile page. His photo is a candid shot of him standing on a pier. I doubt it’s even him, because no one that good-looking would be on a site like this. He probably just catfished the photo, but I’ll pretend it’s him instead of the troll I’m sure he really is.

  I then read his profile stats:

  Gender: Male

  Ethnicity: Caucasian

  Age: 41

  Hometown: Boston, MA

  Fetishes: Breath Play (giving), Impact Play (giving), Munch, Play Parties, Rough Sex, Sensory Deprivation (giving), Swinging, Subspace (giving), Topspace (receiving), Voyeurism

  Holy shit! I don’t even know what half of those things are. I click back to his photo, and I know this can’t be him because he looks way too normal to be into this kind of stuff. Hell, not that I live under a rock or anything, but I always associated this kind of stuff with movies and books—never with real life. At least not the life I’ve been living.

  ANONYMOUS: It was late when I made the profile. I was tired.

  While I wait for him to message me back, I go back to his profile to read through his list of fetishes again, but he’s quick to reply.

  ALEC107: What made you join this site? Looking for like-minded people? Looking for a play partner?

  ANONYMOUS: A play partner?

  ALEC107: You’re a submissive, correct?

  I wonder if I should play along or just fess up to the fact that I’m simply a curious intruder.

  ALEC107: Do you have any other fetishes?

  Knowing he’ll probably bust me due to my lack of knowledge, I decide to go with the truth.

  ANONYMOUS: Umm . . . actually, I’m not a submissive. And I don’t have any fetishes.

  ALEC107: So why are you here?

  ANONYMOUS: I don’t really know. Curious, I guess.

  ALEC107: You do know that you could’ve simply selected “Vanilla” instead of “Submissive.” It’s an option.

  I’m an idiot.

  ANONYMOUS: Oh. Apparently I didn’t scroll down enough to see it was there. So, are you a dom?

  ALEC107: No, doll. I’m not a Dom. And I can see you’re pretty green, because if I were a Dom, I would have your ass for not capitalizing the “D.”

  ANONYMOUS: My ass? Doubtful. Can I ask you a question?

  ALEC107: Sure.

  ANONYMOUS: I looked at your list of fetishes on your profile, and assuming you aren’t randomly selecting choices like I did, what is “Munch?”

  ALEC107: What do you think it is?

  ANONYMOUS: Umm . . .

  ALEC107: Don’t be shy.

  ANONYMOUS: If I’m wrong, don’t laugh.

  ALEC107: Promise.

  ANONYMOUS: Ass eating?

  I immediately cover my face with my hands and start laughing, wondering if I’m right.

  ALEC107: No. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not into “ass eating” as you call it. Have you ever tried it?

  ANONYMOUS: OMG! NO! That’s so gross!

  ALEC107: How do you know it’s gross if you’ve never tried it? You might like it.

  ANONYMOUS: Have you tried it?

  ALEC107: Yes.

  ANONYMOUS: And?

  ALEC107: As a receiver, it didn’t do much for me. As a giver, it got me hard to see how much pleasure she got from it.

  His candid response takes me aback. I never talk about this stuff with anyone other than Brooke, but it’s always jokes and laughter. Nothing serious. I may write in a sexually straightforward way, but that’s make-believe. Plus, there’s safety in anonymity, and since I hide behind my pen name, I feel a sense of freedom.

  ANONYMOUS: So, are you going to tell me what “munch” is?

  ALEC107: It’s a small social gathering of friends who share some of the same fetishes. We meet for coffee or dinner. It’s low-pressure. You tend to see a lot of newbies, as yourself, at munch gatherings.

  ANONYMOUS: I’m not a newbie.

  ALEC107: No? I thought you said you were curious.

  ANONYMOUS: I mean, I am. But only to broaden my knowledge, not to actually do anything.

  ALEC107: Are you scared to try something new?

  ANONYMOUS: No. It’s just not my thing.

  ALEC107: How do you know? Don’t be so quick to think you know what you like and what you don’t like. Have you ever been spanked?

  ANONYMOUS: That’s a pretty personal question.

  ALEC107: I’ll go with something easy then . . . what’s your name?

  ANONYMOUS: Tori.

  “Shit!” I mutter to myself the moment I send the message and realize I probably shouldn’t have given him my real name.

  ALEC107: Is that short for Victoria?

  ANONYMOUS: Yes, but no one aside from my grandmother calls me that.

  ALEC107: I’m surprised.

  ANONYMOUS: Why?

  ALEC107: It’s a beautiful name.

  Is he flirting?

  ANONYMOUS: So, Alec . . . what do you do for a job since it’s the middle of the day and you’re chatting online with a stranger.

  ALEC107: I’m a partner at an advertising firm in the city. And you’re not a stranger, Victoria. I know you’re a 32-year-old who lives in Boston and isn’t into eating ass. We’re practically friends. ;)

  ANONYMOUS: Well, if that’s your basis of a friendship . . . LOL!

  ALEC107: And what is it that you do for work since you’re chatting online in the middle of the day too?

  Finding no harm in telling him my job since Tori has no link to my pen name, I go ahead and reply.

  ANONYMOUS: I’m a writer.

  ALEC107: What kind of writer?

  ANONYMOUS: An author. I write fiction, mainly romance.

  ALEC107: Anything I would know?

  ANONYMOUS: Maybe, maybe not.

  ALEC107: Again, you’re being secretive.

  ANONYMOUS: I’m being cautious. You see, I have different standards of friendship than you do, and to me, you’re a stranger. If I were to tell you what books I’ve written, you could easily Google me.

  ALEC107: And you don’t want me to Google you? Why? Are you ugly?

  ANONYMOUS: No. At least I don’t think I’m ugly. I’m just private. Not secretive . . . private. There’s a difference.

  ALEC107: I can respect that. Most women who get on this site usually put everything out there without regard for their safety. I like that you’re protecting yourself. But I can’t help but wonder what you look like. It doesn’t seem fair since I’m sure you’ve already looked at my profile picture.

  ANONYMOUS: You mean your fake photo?

  ALEC107: Fake?

  ANONYMOUS: There’s no way that’s you.

  ALEC107: And why is that?

  ANONYMOUS: Because that guy in the photo is hot and pretty normal looking.

  ALEC107: And what am I? Abnormal because I have different sexual preferences than you do?

  ANONYMOUS: I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. That sounded extremely judgmental and that wasn’t what I meant.

  ALEC107: What is normal? Are you normal?

  ANONYMOUS: No. It’s just that . . . I don’t know. I guess I have you stereotyped, if I’m being completely honest. In fact, you’re easy to talk to, which I didn’t expect. Again, preconceived perception and all. I didn’t mean to offend you.

  ALEC107: I appreciate your honesty. You admitted to being vanilla, which is far from my world, but just because we are different doesn’t mean one of us is normal and the other abnormal.

  ANONYMOUS: I agree.

  I stew in my foot-in-mouth moment, and after a long pause, he finally messages back.

  ALEC107: So . . . you think I’m hot?

  Oh, God. I can’t believe I
said that. But for all I know, it could still be a fake picture.

  ANONYMOUS: No. I said the guy in the photo was hot. How do I know that’s even you?

  Another long pause.

  ANONYMOUS: Are you there?

  No response. After another minute passes, I’m about to exit out of the chat room when I see he’s sent a file that I need to download.

  ALEC107: Open it.

  I click on the file icon, and as soon as it downloads, a photo appears on my screen of the same guy that’s in his profile picture. But, he proves himself to be legit as he’s holding a piece of paper with today’s date on it along with a note that reads: To my new friend, Victoria, who doesn’t like ass eating.

  Holy shit! It’s really him. He wears a big smile on his face that crinkles in shallow wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. His hair is a dark brown that’s graying throughout. He’s wearing a suit, but I know he’s in shape from the photo of him on the pier where he’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

  ANONYMOUS: I guess you weren’t lying.

  ALEC107: Now it’s your turn?

  ANONYMOUS: I’m not sending you a picture of me.

  ALEC107: Okay then. Let me ask you something. Do you drink coffee?

  ANONYMOUS: Yes. Why?

  ALEC107: I drink mine black with two sugars. None of that sugar substitute bullshit. Real sugar.

  What a weird thing to even say.

  ANONYMOUS: Why do I care how you take your coffee?

  ALEC107: That’s up to you whether you care or not. I have a client meeting I have to get to. It was nice talking with you, Victoria.

  Before I can send my reply, his status switches to “offline.”

  “That was fucking weird.”

  It’s been two days since I’ve spent any time with Landon. The food critic from the Times will be at the restaurant next week and he and Damon have been working on perfecting a couple new items to be added to the menu. They’ve also hired an interior designer to make some tweaks to the entrance and main dining area. With his busy schedule and me trying to get my editor some chapters, the only time we see each other is in passing each morning. After taking care of the girls all evening, I’ve been going to bed earlier than usual and am asleep before Landon gets home.

  I was able to talk Brooke into watching the kids tonight so I could meet Landon for dinner. Mid-week is typically slow at the restaurant, so even though he’s at work, we will still be able to spend some time together. It’s not often that I drive into the city, mostly because Boston has the most screwed up streets I’ve ever seen, and I never fail to get myself turned around and going in the wrong direction. But I’m a sure shot when it comes to Damon’s restaurant, and when I pull up, the valet is right there to open up my door.