MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOU READERS! AND 1ST CHAPTER OF THE ANONYMOUS BEST FRIEND

 MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOU READERS! AND STAY STUNED FOR THE ANONYMOUS BEST FRIEND

ALL I WANT TO SAY IS, HAVE A LOVELY GREY CHRISTMAS, ALL OF YOU THRILLER LOVERS WHO READ MY BLOGS AND MY BOOKS. Stay tuned, because my next stalker thriller is waiting around the corner of 1st Jan 2026. As a Christmas gift, I thought I'd give you the first chapter of the anonymous best friend just in case you haven't pre-ordered the book yet.

PREVIEW

 ONE

She’s coming for me. I know in my gut that if I take a minute to hold my breath now, she’ll find me and then we’ll do the same dance, repeatedly. That’s why I keep on strolling along the campus field. I just can’t stop.

Students from all walks of life continue to arrive, spreading out across the field and forming this huge bubble of various cliques within the social life cycle. By that, I’m talking about the rich kids, the party animals, the introvert loners, the sorority girls with fake personalities, the rowdy frat boys, and so on. I used to believe all these cliques were just stereotypes from Hollywood movies, but I ended up being wrong. I am filled with so much envy just seeing them chat with those smiles.

Striding past a couple of boys and girls walking arm in arm while chatting about their lives, the feeling of loneliness builds. Deep down, I wish I could be part of these amazing cliques. Go out to clubs and bars, buy them drinks, or even go to their parties. Humans are created on this Earth to interact with one another. Learn about each other’s backgrounds. Solve each other’s problems. No one is meant to be alone. But judging from what happened to my last best friend, I believe God has made it crystal clear that only I am meant to be out of that cycle. I wish I could have my normal life again, the life I had before losing my one true best friend.

But it’s never going to happen. I’ll have to live the rest of my life alone. Friendless. Breaking that vow would only result in the same thing: ruining someone’s life.

Turning back, my heart jumps when I catch a glimpse of curly blonde hair surfacing between a Black couple holding hands. The sunlight bouncing off her glasses, she curls her lips upward when she spots me, and no matter how fast I walk, her pace is quicker than mine.

“Bambi!” Marjorie calls in her high-pitched voice. “Bambi! Bambi!”

Oh, my God!

Compared to our previous encounters in the freshman and sophomore years, this is much tamer. I am not exaggerating when I say there was a day when Marjorie called my name over fifty times to catch my attention at the school entrance.

Rolling my eyes, I turn and meet her excited gaze.

“Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!”

“I’m listening!” I blurt out, tightening my grip on the strap of my schoolbag. “You can stop calling my name. I’m literally facing you. Jesus, why do you do that all the time? People are going to think you’re not right in the head or something.”

“Oh, really?” Marjorie says, stroking a strand of her curls as though she’s slowly trying to yank it off her head. “I’m so sorry. Right. You’re right. I realize I do that a lot, and I’m sorry. I definitely don’t want people to think I’m weird or anything. I don’t want you think I’m weird. You don’t think I’m weird, do you? Because I so don’t want that.”

I sigh. “No. To tell you the truth, I don’t even think about anybody at this school. I’m the least of your problems.”

I stroll onwards, doing my best to ignore Marjorie and make it to the sidewalk to find a cab to get to my house in peace. But she won’t stop following me. I can tell she’s still pulling on her curls, and I’m past the point of believing it’s one of her nervous quirks. Marjorie is clearly on the autism spectrum, and that’s what draws me farther away from her. The only person I cared about was on the autism spectrum, too, and just talking to someone like Marjorie brings back the guilt.

“Bambi! Bambi!”

“Huh?” I shoot her a side-eye glance.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“No.”

“I asked if you wanted to hang out, and I mean, grab a coffee or something?”

I shake my head. “I stopped drinking coffee three years ago. Espresso is the worst.”

“Man, I hate espresso too!” Marjorie agrees.

I mentally scold myself. Damn it, Bambi. Control yourself. She doesn’t need to know when you stopped drinking coffee. Just say ‘No.’

“I just want to go home and watch American Idol,” I tell her. “Not in the mood for talking.”

“Ooh, you watch American Idol? I love that show. That Simon Cowell dude is a gorgeous man. When he disses everyone in that British accent, I just want to find every British guy in this city and say, ‘Please, please insult me.’ Tell me I’m a horrible singer.”

I stifle the smile forming on my face, and I think about depressing stuff so I don’t get tempted to laugh at Marjorie’s joke. It sucks because in an alternate world, I’d be hanging out with Marjorie at a bar and laughing with her.

“It would be so cool if we watched the show together. I’ve never even been to your apartment before. This could be my only chance. What—”

“Look!” I interrupt, halting to face her. “I’m not looking for friends. I didn’t come to this school to make friends. And certainly not a best friend. My mom just forced me to be here. Sorry. Have a nice day.”

“Please, Bambi,” Marjorie persists, annoyingly catching up with me. “We’ve sat in the same class for two years, and you still won’t hang out with me. Is it because I’m weird? I promise I’ll change. I think we’ll get along just fine.”

I spot a cab drifting closer. “Why haven’t you made friends with someone else for two years?”

“Because I like you, Bambi. I think what you do is fascinating. Living in your own bubble.” She whisks off her glasses, rubs them with her brown t-shirt, and props them back on her face. “Seriously, everyone needs a buddy. Even the loners like yourself. You shouldn’t push everyone away.”

You don’t know that I push people away, I say to myself, because you don’t know me at all.

“Do you even remember my name?” she asks.

I shrug while signaling for the cab to stop. “Marjorie.”

“Ugh!” Marjorie groans. “I knew it! How many times have I got to tell you, it’s Madonna! My name is Madonna. Not Marjorie.”

I tilt my head at her. “Oh, shoot. I forgot. Sorry. Madonna? Like the singer?”

“That’s what you always say every time I correct you.”

The cab finally stops. Thank God.

Nudging the backseat door open, I look Madonna in the eyes one more time. “Please, find someone else to hang out with. I’m not a good person to have around. If you knew what I did in the past, you’d regret ever talking to me. Mark my words, I could ruin your life. Or even worse.”

***

The words that come to mind as I step in front of my student apartment are, ‘Poor Madonna.’

I can’t wipe away the image of her disappointed face when I got into the taxi. I wish she’d stopped worshipping me like some celebrity and find someone to cling to, because at the end of the day, it’s not her fault. Better to be isolated than to risk another innocent person’s life.

Pulling the key out of my back jeans pocket, I’m seconds away from unlocking the front door when laughter echoes from inside.

Despite knowing my roommate, good ol’ Lizzy, is still in the apartment and hasn’t bothered to go to class, I still make sure the door’s unlocked. Lizzy has a track record of refusing to answer doors. I’ve learned the hard way after rooming with her for the whole sophomore year.

I enter the kitchen and go straight for the fridge to grab a bottle of Lite beer.

After two or three huge gulps of the cool liquid, the hairs at the back of my neck and arms stand. It’s not from getting nervous or anything; it’s a reaction I get from alcohol consumption.

Strolling into the living room, I nearly drop the half-empty bottle when I stumble upon such a hideous, unexpected sight. I clap my hand over my mouth to hide a shriek. On the red carpet (which sounds like the Hollywood event whenever I say it), two huge, obese figures are humping each other, and I swear I can spot every trace of sweat on their bodies. Some Asian dude, another obese guy, stands over them holding a camera.

One of the large figures is none other than Lizzy, and I presume the one doing the action on top is her fiancé. He has come here on several occasions, and I still can’t remember his name.

“Aw, Bambi,” Lizzy says in between heavy breaths. “Girl, I’m so sorry! Should have told you I was gonna shoot an adult video with my boo today. Hope I didn’t make you mad.”

The guy turns to shoot me a smile. “You good?” he asks.

As always, I purse my lips, take a sip of beer, and walk away. Just head towards my room and isolate.

“Yup, she good!” Lizzy blurts.

“Told ya!” her man says.

“Now, scoot over. I wanna do a cowgirl.”

There is a huge list of things about my roommate that I wish I could change, but living with her has taught me that it’s impossible. To survive a whole semester living with Lizzy, the key is to simply get used to it. That’s why I didn’t complain about the stunt back in the living room.

Her friends call her Lazy because she loves ordering them around. I call her Lazy Lizzy because she doesn’t do anything but sit around, eat, watch movies, and hang out with her gang.

Finally, the repulsive porno shoot ends, and the place turns quiet. After a quick shower, I place a bag of popcorn into the microwave and let it heat for a few minutes, then perch on the TV room couch. I’m early enough to catch the intro of American Idol, season two.

I don’t laugh at the terrible singers as many people do. I truly feel bad for the unlucky contestants, but the performance of a guy named Nathaniel Golden completely puts me off. He sings off-key but still goes on dissing the judges. Aside from that, the performance of a girl named Angel is the best thing in this episode.

Every day is the same routine for me at Tulane University, avoiding people who want to know me personally and just sitting on the couch to watch TV because I do not want to be here. I’ve skipped over sixty-plus lectures for the past two years, but still managed to pass the exams because of my mother, Beverlyn’s powerful connection to the Dean. Her one goal is for me to pass the LSAT so I can enter law school.

After high school, the only topic she brought up in conversations was how proud she’d be of me if I practiced law and became successful like her in that line of profession. But I don’t want that. I should be one of those people standing in line to audition for the Idol, not preparing for a boring exam. I should be singing for Simon Cowell, impressing the judges, and earning a chance at a record deal.

I’ve tried many times to sign up for the show, but my mom blocked me from entering the website after she caught me. That’s how much she supports my dream. Just because she failed to achieve it, she’s hell-bent on making sure I never do. She compares herself to me all the time.

Speaking of Beverlyn, either I’m imagining it, or I’m suddenly hearing her awful voice blasting through the speakers from the opposite room. I roll my eyes. Realizing that Lazy Lizzy is playing one of my mother’s terrible songs again, I block my ears at once.

The door bursts open, and then my rowdy roommate comes bustling in, the radio clutched in her hand as she swings it in circles. As she shakes her elephant curves, jiving to Beverlyn’s embarrassing music, her boyfriend joins in, wrapping his plump, flabby arms around her while grinding against her back.

“I don’t care what anybody says!” Lizzy bellows. “I love the Misses! They creative as hell. To me, they way better than the Spice Girls!”

“Hate to agree witchu on that!” her boyfriend says. “But since I love ya, hell, I’ll hate to disagree.”

“Oh shoot! Bambi, I didn’t know you was here.” Lizzy stands there, curling an arm against her hip.

I narrow my eyes at her. “I told you I don’t like listening to my mother’s voice,” I say. “We made a promise not to play her music while I’m around.”

Lizzy smacks her lips before shutting it off, and I swear I heard her boyfriend mutter the words, “Party pooper.”

“Don’t worry, boo. A promise is a promise. I’ll say it again, I’m always gonna be a hard-core super fan of your momma’s girl group. The Misses is my shit!”

Lizzy’s the first and only fan of Beverlyn’s former girl group I’ve ever encountered. Since I was four, the kids at school made fun of me because of how terrible that group was. Whenever I’m forced to listen to one of Beverlyn’s songs, I’m reminded of the days when I was called a bunch of names.

“Forget it,” I mutter after an inward sigh. “Just feel free to play her music if you like it. I don’t—”

“Ooh! Don’t tell me they about to end just yet!” Lizzy’s eyes bulge, and she gestures toward the TV. “C’mon, Doug! Sit yo’ fat ass down and let’s watch!”

She grabs her boyfriend, who sports a tiny look of hesitance before plopping down in the space beside me.

As soon as they both sit, the couch sinks slightly, and for a split second, I think it would deflate like a balloon. I feel crumpled up between two large, warm, sweaty bodies.

“Um, I wanted to watch alone.”

 But my monotone statement falls on deaf ears.

“Simon Cowell is a fine ass man, don’t you agree, Doug?” Lizzy says.

Doug smacks his lips. “Get outta here with that Simon Cowell nonsense, babe. Paula Abdul? She’s smoking. She a bad one for real.”

Before I repeat myself and kindly ask them to leave so I can have my quiet time, the door bursts open and four more of Lizzy’s male friends, twice as big as her, wander inside while making loud noises. My space now completely invaded, I get up, grab my popcorn bag, and stride across the room.

Their silly noises continue as I head into my bedroom. Some talk about meeting a girlfriend through a friend-finding website called Besties or something. I have never heard of that before, but I’m too fed up to listen to their unnecessary conversations, so I shut the door.

 

PRE-ORDER NOW ON AMAZON: https://a.co/d/iBGqKI2