Life Unwritten

by T. I. Lowe

  Life Unwritten

  T.I. LOWE

  Copyright © 2016 by T.I. LOWE

  All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  DEDICATION

  To every person struggling with body image. Strive to be the best person you can be, never allowing someone else the power of measuring your self-worth. Go out there and claim the life God has written for you to live.

  Chapter One

  Fun fact, two-hundred-plus-pound women are magical. Even with such a wide girth, these darlings possess the ability to form invisibility shields. How do I know? I’ve lived most of my life with these powers.

  Hiding behind my obesity, I was able to successfully walk through nearly two decades of life unseen. No one noticed me on the plane when the small seat barely held me. No one saw when the booth at my favorite bistro refused me in its tight space.

  All alone, just shuffling through an unwritten life. Too much of a coward to even get past the prologue.

  Now that I’ve managed losing the excess weight, the world’s blinders have been removed to the one and only Harper Blume. They watch me now and smile while meeting my eyes after perusing my slim frame. Always quick to compliment my blonde hair that looks exactly as it did when I was two hundred thirty-some pounds—long, golden waves that rest at the small of my back. And always oohing and aahing over my pale green eyes, commenting on them being such a unique shade.

  Society acknowledges my existence now that this body of mine is almost one hundred pounds lighter, yet all I want at the end of this complicated transformation is to have my invisibility magic back. The attention scares me and also ticks me off. Why didn’t my radiant hair and alluring eyes matter before the weight disappeared?

  Yes, I’m stubborn enough to say the heck with it all and cram candy bars and fried chicken in until I blow back up. But that stubbornness of mine has another tenacious side that refuses to allow me to go back on this rash decision to get fit. If I ever decide to do something, it’s all the way, baby, or not at all.

  “I have lost my ever-loving mind.” The words whisper out through my clenched teeth as I glare at my decision to go all the way this time.

  “Get the lead out,” a big guy barks out from where he stands in front of a few dozen more idiots as I scoot off my golf cart. Mr. Hunk of Man wears a whistle around his thick neck that intermingles with a set of authentic military dog tags, making it easy to guess he is my worst nightmare.

  His authoritative tone does nothing to make my tired body get the lead out. This fiasco is situated on a dimly lit shore in Outer Banks, North Carolina at five in the freaking morning, so there will be no pep in my step any time soon. Dude is gonna just have to deal with it. It’s what he gets anyway.

  “Your name.” His deep, raspy voice rings out over the sleepy morning.

  Looking up, I find his vivid blue eyes fixed on me. “Harper Blume,” I answer. My defiant chin jerks up like a thug instead of the recluse ghost writer I really am.

  “This class begins at five.”

  “Yep.” I place my water bottle down on a picnic table with a bit more force than I should, sending a popping echo to clang out. Choosing to act like I did it on purpose, I jut my chin out a bit further and move to stand beside a thick woman with brown hair at the back of the group who still holds her invisibility shield. Sure wish she’d share it with me.

  “It’s almost five after.” He crosses his intimidating arms. Those babies are roped in taut muscle and defined with a few impressive tattoos.

  Well, they should be intimidating, but it’s not working on me. This isn’t the first round I’ve had with the jerk. I know this retired Army Ranger’s name is Beck McCaffery, and I’ve paid him a ridiculous chunk of change to take his class. I now also know it’s a nonrefundable chunk of change. A fact learned after sobering up the next day and realizing my tipsy-self online shopped for a senseless body boot camp of all things.

  Why the drunken idiot couldn’t buy a ticket to Hawaii instead of signing up for pure torture is beyond my understanding. It would have cost the same amount!

  “What was I thinking?” I mumble under my breath.

  Ok, so I know darn well what Miss Tipsy was thinking. I’m staring at the gorgeous evidence right now and must admit that I’m right ashamed of her shallowness. His black hair is cropped close on the sides while the top is long and unruly. A square jaw sprinkled with just the right amount of stubble, and let’s not get started on that masterpiece of a body. This entire debacle put a nonrefundable dent in my checking account all because she couldn’t control her inebriated hormones when glimpsing a photo of a shirtless sergeant who was gracing a sponsored post on Facebook.

  Only a year ago most links on my newsfeed would try to entice me to try a gazillion calorie dessert recipe or buy women’s plus-size fashion that looked nothing like the photos. Now they constantly try luring me to try new fitness crazes. And just how do these suckers know what to tempt me with on my social media? Internet spies, I tell ya! No internet search engine is safe and that’s helped me get into hot water this time.

  At least the ad wasn’t marketing anything false for a change. The photo had captured the soldier from behind—broad shoulders bare except for an impressive tattoo veining out along his right side, tapering into a lean waist with only a pair of fatigue cargo pants hanging dangerously low on his hips—with him peering over his shoulder. Just let me say for the record, never has the definition of a smolder been more clearly represented.

  I compare the real-life version to the photo. From the clingy muscle shirt showing off ripped abdominal peaks just under the material to those workout shorts showcasing a toned set of tanned legs, the man defines appealing on a whole new level.

  I’m over being ashamed of my tipsy-self and am giving her an attaboy when I notice he’s barking something. My eyes zip back to his stern mouth, but have missed the lecture he was divvying out.

  “Do you understand?” Plump lips move, flashing a set of pearly white teeth from just behind the snarl.

  My gaze peels away from his mouth and roams up to find him looking right at me. Not good.

  “What?”

  The trainer’s thick brows pinch as he releases a harsh sigh. “For every minute late after today, the offender will owe me a mile. I won’t waste your time and won’t put up with you wasting mine.”

  He begins pacing as I mutter, “Yes, sir,” but my sarcasm halts his steps.

  Shoot.

  “Mrs.—”

  “Miss,” I correct, but don’t know why.

  “Miss Blume wants class to begin with one hundred jumping jacks. Go!”

  The entire class jumps at his order like frightened kittens, but when I hesitate, he wraps his mouth around that whistle and the group instantly freezes at the annoying sound he elicits from it.

  “We do this class as one sound unit. Begin again. Together this time. Go!” he yells with those aqua-colored peeps glued to me.

  Oh, how I wish I were magically invisible again. I’m about to throw my hands in the air and fake the jump when he blows on that darn whistle again. This time the group joins him with glaring in my direction. Perfect. Now I’m gonna be deemed the troublemaker of the class when all I wanted was to be the wallflower.

  “Again. Go!”

  An hour of agony dredges by with that stupid whistle haunting my every move with its high-pitched squeal. By the end of the session, my spandex shorts designed to hold my body into respectable place feel like they’ve shrunk two sizes with the addition of a gallon of sweat that seeped into the material. The cooldown and stretches do nothing to alleviate my discomfort. And my lax performance ea
rned me no friends today.

  Gathering my empty water bottle, I give it my best effort to not limp away from the beach, but I’m totally failing. My muscles are already having a temper tantrum.

  “Blume!”

  Oh shoot. A shadow creeps over my shoulder but my legs hurt too bad to make a run for it, so I have no choice but to acknowledge him.

  Tightening my wilted excuse for a ponytail, I keep my back to the instructor and mumble, “Yes?” I sweep the long mass of hair over my shoulder, noticing the natural curls have rebelled into frizzy disarray from the sweat and humidity.

  “Be on time and leave the attitude home from now on. I won’t tolerate it.”

  Well, I have no choice but to spin around on my sore heels and face off with this bossy giant, barely containing a wince from the painful action. “Give me my money back like I so kindly asked over the phone last week, and you won’t ever have to tolerate me again.” We went several phone rounds to no avail.

  With his arms crossed, jaw flexing in a menacing tick, it’s obvious there will be no give on the subject today either. I’m ready to concede to my monetary loss and limp away for good, but halt when he goes to flapping those annoying lips.

  “I already told you, no refunds. I don’t go back on my rules, no matter the excuse. And let’s be clear here, that’s all you got.”

  “Signing up for this class was a huge mistake.” My hands wave around the beach, as though it’s to blame.

  “Maybe this will teach you a good lesson on making hasty decisions without proper thought first. Won’t hurt you to learn what commitment means while you’re at it.”

  “You know nothing about me.” The words hiss out of me as my own arms cross, although they aren’t anywhere close as notable as his tanned toned ones. “I’ll have you know, I’ve lost close to a hundred pounds over the last few years. I think the lesson on commitment has already been aced.”

  My words pull no resolve from his stern glare. “Good. You should have no trouble seeing this course to the end.” With that, he turns and walks away.

  “What? No goodbye? No kiss my—”

  “See you Thursday. On time,” he calls out over his broad shoulder without slowing.

  That man walks way too gracefully to be that big. I have no choice but to stand here and observe his fluid stride, confused and at awe, until he disappears behind a small patch of trees that conceal the parking lot from the beachfront park.

  With no fluid grace to be found on my part, I hobble over to my golf cart to begin the short trek home. This man has ticked me off just enough to see this boot camp torment to the very end.

  Even if it kills me…

  *****

  Feminine elegance is what the white sundress and delicate stiletto sandals would be considered if I wasn’t walking around in this outfit as bowlegged as an ancient cowboy who has ridden one too many horses in his day.

  Every stilted move my body makes screams a reminder of the morning’s torture session. Squats and suicide drills are of the devil! And trying to sit or pee? Forget about it!

  For this reason, I have vowed to not take one sip of anything during this book release party. Fear of a potty break ending in a 911 call keeps my thirst in check, even though some liquid courage sure would come in handy right about now.

  “Tea?” A cute server presents a tray of mason jars filled with the maple-colored temptation. No doubt the southern nectar is as sweet and syrupy.

  Parched. I’m absolutely parched. I need the entire tray to quench this thirst.

  After trying to swallow the desert residing in my throat, I manage to croak out, “No thank you.”

  The server offers a polite smile before moving through the crowded yard that’s hosting tonight’s shindig. He makes a beeline to the guest of honor for the evening and the confident beauty gladly accepts the offered mason jar, raising it slyly toward me in a private salute as she winks one of her golden eyes.

  Wishing for my invisibility shield will do me no good tonight. Every part of my dream is front and center to be celebrated with the masses. Even though tonight is honoring my accomplishment—formed from the very words that poured from the recesses of my soul and created another #1 bestseller overnight—Roselyn Scott stands in my rightful spot to take the glory. And I was the idiot to agree to it. She radiates southern elegance in a creamy lace dress with her dark hair swept into a soft updo. No one knows that gorgeous black woman is the beautifully fabricated face for this cowardly white woman’s stories. An unlikely team is what we’ve become, but it somehow works.

  A little over seven years ago, I was too shy, too depressed, too uncomfortable with my obesity, too everything to be the face behind my novels. When my agent approached me with this idea of ghost writing, it felt like a win-win at the time. I got to express a created world through my words without having to be in the public eye.

  “Might I offer you a glass of iced tea, ma’am?” another server asks, nudging my attention away from my musings.

  My mouth is pasted shut, so I can only respond by shaking my head. Once I’m alone again, I pop another mint into my mouth and beg it to form some moisture while edging along the group of jovial guests. In the beginning of this well-constructed act, I would have hid in the corner somewhere, but I’m overwhelmed with the need to step out of this sticky shadow that has no desire to release me.

  Tired of limping around the pristine yard that is glowing like a field of fireflies from the strands of twinkling lights strung high in the trees, I search out something to lean against and decide the side porch rail will have to do.

  “Great location, isn’t it?” The familiar huskiness of Maxine’s voice reaches me as I head up the stairs, trying not to wince with each step.

  “It’s quite sophisticated.” I glance up at the gracious antebellum home with her wide wraparound porches. She is a grand hostess and her lawn holds several tables with an abundance of southern cuisine.

  “So it meets your approval?” Maxine looks at me over the top of her bright-pink glasses. The spectacles cast a violet hue to her gray eyes.

  A light breeze carries the savory scents of food to me. Inhaling the aroma deep enough to send a rude growl through my stomach, I scold myself for setting this latest book in the heart of the south. You cannot have a setting deeply rooted in the south without having southern food specialties springing from the branches. That would be like serving tea without the sugar—a cardinal sin in the south.

  I gaze longingly at the table serving grits cakes topped with shrimp, mini buttermilk biscuits, and fried chicken drummettes. The table next to it is just as tempting with various mini pies. My mouth waters from just thinking about the chocolate pecan pie. As a recovering food addict, I penned my own personal hell in this thriller and am now snared in the midst of this traditional porch party to celebrate my self-inflicted suffering for at least another hour.

  “Well, does it or not?” my feisty agent demands.

  A soft laugh draws my attention to the other end of the front porch before I can answer, finding Roselyn clinging to a handsome man while she giggles about who knows what. All eyes are trained on the dark beauty, but as another one of my favorite songs from The Lumineers starts filtering through the outdoor sound system, I’m reminded that the entire night has been catered to my likings. Not hers.

  That should make me feel better. Should being the operative word. It doesn’t.

  I glance at my petite literary agent who considers herself my angel, but can be confused as the devil’s assistant most of the time.

  “You did good, Maxine. This place looks right out of the pages of the book.”

  “That cover was quite inspiring.” She motions to the six-foot banner on a stand beside an ancient oak tree. A small group of people are gathered, studying the book cover. “We should see about the Thortons doing the next cover as well.”

  I discovered the image of the aged barn on a magazine cover a few years ago and knew instantly it was the barn in my book wher
e the murderer took his victim. Luck would have it, JP Thorton and his wife Willow were happy to work some editing magic to transform the tranquil night scene into an eerie image full of foreboding, clueing the reader in to the evil lurking just inside the hard cover.

  “About the next book, have you considered what we discussed?”

  She bites her glossy pink lip, giving me all the answer I need. Rolling my eyes, I start to leave but she reaches out to stop me.

  “Lovely, can’t we just celebrate you tonight and figure that out after this book tour?”

  “Maxine,” a deep voice interrupts.

  We both follow it to where a distinguished yet a tad bit geeky man is settling onto the top porch step beside the railing I’m stiffly leaning against. The bowtie and the thick pair of glasses sitting askew on his nose scream it. His salt-and-pepper hair and deep laugh lines suggest he’s getting close to the fifty-year mark. A silver fox in geek’s clothing for sure. He would make one interesting book character. One that seemed harmless, but by the end… BAM! It’s discovered the quiet professor is the killer. I blink the scenario away, filing it in the back of my mind to explore later, as Maxine lays her charms on thick.

  “Adrian,” Maxine coos. “So good to see you.” Her grin could be best described as a bit maniacal.

  The gentleman doesn’t seem to notice her rabid manner. His scrutiny lies on me. “Who is this young lady?”

  I offer my hand for him to shake. “I’m Harper—”

  “She’s Roselyn’s assistant,” Maxine adds quickly.

  “Is that so?” Adrian asks with hints of amusement in his tone.

  I narrow my eyes at Maxine and say, “That’s what they keep telling me, but I’m not quite sure. How about you? Who do they tell you to be?”

  Adrian releases my hand and chuckles. “I’m the president of Wild Idea Publishing House. No one tells me who I have to be but me.”

  A brutal spasm hits my sore abs from the shock of his words. Holy moly, I just sassed Adrian Wild, who is sort of my new boss. I can’t help but shoot a sidelong glance at Maxine, only to be hit with another spasm in my gut. If her eyes could literally pierce, I would be bleeding out on the floor right this minute. I swear her peeps hold a red tinge to them now. Get back, demon.