Angry Annie Read online

  Table of Contents

  Angry Annie

  Dedication

  Note to the Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Dawn L. Chiletz

  Angry Annie

  Copyright © 2018 Dawn L. Chiletz

  Cover Design: Murphy Rae

  Editing: Emily Lawrence

  Formatting: Uplifting Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For everyone who doesn’t suck.

  You know who you are.

  Dear Reader:

  STOP. Don’t waste your time going any further. This book sucks like a plunger in a toilet bowl. I don’t know what to say about this woman’s lack of talent. I’d like to call her an author, but just because you put a bunch of words on paper doesn’t make you a writer. Heck, my cousin’s five-year-old granddaughter wrote a three-sentence story about pizza that’s better than this. Dawn . . . what kind of ’70s hippie name is that, anyway? People name their kid Dawn when they’re too lazy to think of a real name. I’ve always preferred dusk to Dawn and she’s reminded me why. Go watch TV instead. Save your money. You’re welcome.

  Annie McClintonuck

  “WHO IN THE HELL is Annie McClintonuck and where does she get off?” I cringe, realizing I not only shouted but also swore loudly at work. “Hold on.”

  Lifting my headset off my right ear, I push off from my desk with my feet and roll my chair toward the outer edge of my cubicle. I cautiously peek around the corner to check if anyone is coming to scold me. The murmur of people on their phones and the clicking of keys on laptops is reassuring and annoyingly familiar. No one is paying attention to me as usual. I guess after two years of hearing me swear, they don’t care anymore. I tend to raise my voice when I’m mad and right now I’m angry enough to chop off this Annie’s head and use it for a bowling ball.

  With one forceful push of my feet, I return to the desk in my gray square of hell. I reposition the headset over my ears and tuck a stray strand of my blond hair inside the earpiece. “Okay, I’m back. How dare this bimbo leave such a crappy review of your bakery? How in the fuck does she know you don’t know the difference between salt and sugar? And why would she say your cookies look like they were made by a rookie? Has she ever seen one? No! No one has because you haven’t opened yet!”

  “Relax, Joss. It’s a big deal, but not the way you’re thinking,” she says with a chuckle.

  I don’t know how she can laugh at a time like this. Why is she so calm? Her bakery opens next week and a review like this could ruin everything for her.

  “It’s really the best thing that could have ever happened,” she says confidently.

  Leaning my head on my hand, my frustration grows. Even though my little sister is only fourteen months younger than me, I swear I’m at least ten years older mentally. Jorgie doesn’t get mad. She laughs and shrugs when someone is nasty. I’d call her naïve if I didn’t admire her so much. She’s sweet and genuine, with a heart of gold. She takes in every stray she finds and loves the shit out of everyone. Basically, she’s the opposite of me.

  I trust no one. My weapons are sarcasm and intimidation. I think people are trying to steal my air if they stand too close. People say I’m aggressive, but I prefer assertive. If you don’t say what you want, you’re never going to get it. That is, unless you’re Jorgie. The world seems to come to her while I have to fight my way through everything. It’s hard to believe we grew up in the same house with the same parents. As the oldest, it’s not only my job to point out when she’s too trusting, but also to beat the hell out of anyone who hurts her. This Annie chick did a number on her and, for some reason, Jorgie is completely underreacting to this review. It’s exactly why I need to make it right.

  Scrolling my mouse over Annie’s words on the website, I notice there are ten comments to it. Now fifteen. Holy hell . . . thirty!

  “Jorg! Thirty people . . . oh shit, thirty five people have responded to her review. This is bad. Really bad!”

  “How many?” She claps her hands and howls like it’s the best news she’s ever heard.

  “Did you forget to take your pills this morning?” I ask sarcastically. “Go on there and delete her feedback before it’s too late.”

  “For a journalist who follows every little news blip the way you do, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Angry Annie!”

  “First of all, I’m a wannabe journalist. Researching other people’s information just makes me a paid stalker. Secondly, her nickname is Angry Annie?” I huff. “That’s fitting. She seems like a nasty little bitch.” Reaching into my desk drawer, I open a bottle of ibuprofen and pop two into my mouth. I’m getting a stress headache.

  “That’s what people call her around here. From what I’ve heard, she lives outside the city limits and has made a name for herself by leaving bad reviews for everything she comes across. Go look her up on Amazon. She’s left well over two hundred. They’re hysterical. The millennials think she rocks.”

  I roll my eyes at her. I’ve always hated being called a millennial. Just because I’m only twenty-five doesn’t mean I don’t care about things. It’s ridiculous to be lumped into a group because I was born in a certain decade. I can’t believe she thinks it’s some kind of honor.

  “I’m more concerned about your business than Amazon’s. You’ve worked really hard. Plus, you have your life savings invested in this. It can’t afford this type of negative publicity.”

  “Mm . . . negative. Uh-huh.”

  “Dammit, Jorgina! You need to listen to me. I think we should take out more ad space in the neighborhood Patch. Maybe even retort her claims.”

  “Ooh, we’re using formal names? Okay, Joslyn, are you still on my website?”

  “Yeah.” I’m certain she can sense my irritation by the way I elongate the word.

  “Read some of the comments.”

  Scrolling my mouse over the page, I choose a random response. “If Angry Annie says this place sucks, then I’m definitely going there opening day. Bring your cash, people! If she says it’s bad, it’s probably fantastic!”

  I move to another. “I can’t wait to see if Annie’s right or wrong. I follow all her reviews and I always have to check it out for myself!”

  Each comment contains positive responses to Annie’s negative ones. I lean forward in my chair, awestruck.

  “I can only assume you’re eating crow because you’re quiet,” she says with a smile.

  I can tell she’s smiling because I know how her words sound when she’s gloating.

  “What kind of sorcery is this?”
I mumble.

  “I wish I knew her. I bet she’s a riot.”

  “Hmm . . .” My brain suddenly goes into overdrive as I’m struck with a brilliant idea. “I gotta go, Jorg. We’ll talk later.”

  She starts to say something as I end the call. I’m on a mission and when I’m focused, I can’t talk at the same time I’m trying to think. My fingers dance over the keys and I snarl. “I’m coming for you, Angry Annie.”

  MY LEG THUMPS LIKE a rabbit as I watch Darla scan my article submission. When I found out Darla Fender was the managing editor of The Gaggle, I knew I had to get a job with her. She’s won an Ellie award for her editorials and is extremely well known across the globe for her innovations in journalism and willingness to take risks. I keep hoping someday she’ll take one of those risks on me. Especially today.

  I took a job as a mailroom clerk at the magazine right out of college and have worked my way up to a fact-checker, which basically means I spend all day making sure other people’s thoughts are accurate.

  I’ve submitted an article idea almost every week since I started. At first, she gawked when I had the nerve to approach her, then she got annoyed. Eventually, she learned that if she took the paper directly from my hand, I wouldn’t keep asking her if she got it. Now, she usually skims it and says she’ll get back to me. But this time she’s actually reading it in front of me. I’m about to toss my lunch.

  She places the paper on her desk and slides her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose. “Okay, Joslyn. You have my attention. Explain yourself.”

  I clear my throat and pinch my leg to steady my nerves.

  “Trolls are a source of disdain across the Internet. They are a group of narcissists, sadists, and masochists who take pleasure from inflicting pain on others, usually in the form of reviews for products and services. Another term for this is Schadenfreude, which means someone who gets joy from other people’s failures and humiliation. They use harassment and exaggeration to wreak havoc on businesses, novels, online merchandise . . . anything where they can hurt someone else. I’ve recently learned that one such troll lives in our community. Not only is she well-known on social media, but she has a following.”

  I wipe the sweat from my palms on my skirt as Darla sighs. God, I hope I’m not boring her. Get to the point, Joss.

  “My proposal is that I get close to this troll, learn all about her life and expose her to the world. We would make an example out of her and bring the truth about these savages to light. The world wants to know what makes someone with no soul find pleasure in creating drama for complete strangers. They need to stop.”

  She taps her fingers on her desk and stares at me for what seems like an eternity. She turns to her laptop and moves the mouse around on the screen. “You’re currently working as a fact-checker for Claus, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you not enjoy your position here?”

  I know my mouth is gaping, but I can’t help it. My nerves slip away and my fighting nature pushes to the surface.

  “Of course I do. I love my job, but my goal has always been to be a journalist. All I want is an opportunity to prove to you I can write a gripping story that will draw in readers. Knowing you started off as a courier for a newspaper, I’d hoped you would appreciate my desire to better myself and my position.”

  Did her lip curl or am I imagining it?

  She leans back in her chair and studies me briefly before she stands and walks around her desk. Leaning on the corner, her eyes move from my head to my toes and back up again. She crosses her arms and stares at me. I’m not sure if she’s trying to intimidate me or not, but I’m the queen of stare downs. I will not buckle even though the fact I’m in the same room as her and she knows my name makes me slightly giddy.

  After a few minutes, I realize she’s never going to cave. I’m in the presence of a Jedi master. I’m not worthy. Should I let her win? What do I do?

  “So?” I ask, angry with myself for giving in but knowing it was the right thing to do.

  She shrugs and walks back to her chair. “It has promise, but you have a job here and it’s not writing articles. If you want to pass your idea on to Claus, you can see if he’s willing to do the legwork. Good day, Ms. Walters.”

  She sits down in her chair and begins typing on her computer. Did I just get the brush off? I was so close. What did I do wrong? My legs are frozen. I can’t move. I refuse to move. No. This can’t be over.

  “But, it’s my idea. I don’t want to give it to Claus. I want to write it myself.”

  She continues to type, ignoring me. Am I wearing the cloak of invisibility? I bite my lip. I need to think quickly.

  “What if I write it on my own time? It won’t interfere with my work and if I have to, I’ll take all my personal time to get it done. You can read what I’ve written and if you hate it, I promise to not bother you again for . . . say . . . three months?”

  Her eyes suddenly shift to me. “Three months?” She almost seems happy.

  Am I that bad? My heart drops knowing she wants time away from me. I’m certain everyone I work with thinks I’m a pain in the ass. I guess I can add her name to the list. “Yes. Three months. I promise.”

  She removes her glasses and folds her fingers. Her brows furrow as she speaks. “If you do it on your own time and it does not interfere with your work, then I’ll consider it. However, I’m making no promises to you that anything will happen with it. Even if on the off chance it’s decent, it doesn’t mean it will get published. You can’t simply talk about her. You need to find out why she writes the reviews. You’ll need at least three to four examples, with facts, and will have to define her thought process. I will expect you to remain professional at all times while representing the magazine. We’ll need a signed release. You’ll need to consult the legal department for any possibility of slander, and you will keep your mouth shut about this discussion. The last thing I need is twenty more Joslyns chasing me around the office thinking if they bother me enough, I’ll give them a shot. Do you understand?”

  She might have just insulted me, but I don’t care. I nod excitedly and immediately hustle my way to the door before she changes her mind.

  “And, Joslyn . . . I’m going to hold you to those three months.”

  “Thank you. Once you’ve read my work, I’m confident it’ll be you looking for me next time.”

  She starts typing again and dismisses me with her hand. At this point, there’s nothing anyone could say or do to bring me down from this high. Angry Annie just became my favorite person in the world. Now I just have to find her.

  WHEN I SAID I was a professional stalker, I wasn’t kidding. I once found a guy’s full name, address, and social media profile off a picture on Tinder. Before I met him for coffee, I knew his parents’ names, where he and his best friend went on vacation, and his favorite ice cream flavor. I often wonder if my knack for research is one of the reasons I’m extremely single. But honestly, I don’t really care much for dating. It’s a lot of fake smiles and pretending to be interested in stuff you find boring. I already do that half the day at work. I don’t need it in my personal life too. Lately, every guy I’ve met is just blah and ho-hum. Plus, I’m a career driven woman and men slow you down. Sometimes I have to remind my hoo-ha of that when she’s screaming for attention. But we all have to make sacrifices, even my girly parts.

  Despite my superb investigative skills, this Annie chick has evaded me. How can someone have an Amazon account but zero social presence? She doesn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter account under her real name or nickname. There’s no LinkedIn account and she’s not listed in the white pages. I can find numerous mentions of Angry Annie all over the Internet along with local reviews she’s left, but no one has ever seen her or knows her personally. I’m starting to think she’s catfishing and maybe she’s not really a “she” after all. My dreams begin to slip away like butter off corn on the cob until I remember Adam Donovan. I sit up a little straig
hter in my chair and check the time on my cell phone. It’s almost six o’clock on a Friday night. That means that if he’s still a creature of habit, by seven he’ll be off work and headed to Tyke’s Tavern for a beer.

  I met Adam on a blind date about three years ago. For some reason, my sister thought a cop would make a good match for me. He’s a nice guy and all, and I could tell he really liked me, but he was too eager. He started asking me how many kids I wanted within the first hour. I could tell he was the kind of guy who thought men should work and women should take care of the children. I was done with him when he asked if I knew how to cook. But, I know he’s still single because we’re Facebook friends. I truly believe in keeping all your bridges intact and never burning them. You never know when you’ll need someone. Tonight, I need Adam Donovan.

  I usually stay at work until 8:00 myself, but I’ve already finished all my research for Claus and wrote up all my reports for him even though they aren’t due until next week. Half the staff is here, as usual. We’re all workaholics, but I don’t think anyone will care if I slip out.

  As I walk toward the elevator, I notice Darla is still working and in a meeting with two ad execs. Her office is made of glass and completely visible to the staff. She says she has nothing to hide and I believe her. She’s above reproach, tough as nails, and a shrewd leader who demands excellence from everyone she encounters. She’s everything I hope to be someday. I watch her move about the room and try to read her lips. What I wouldn’t give to shadow her for a day. I could learn so much. I smile as I picture myself at her desk in a designer suit and Christian Louboutin heels. Someday, I’ll have her job. I make that promise to myself every day before I leave work. It’s reaffirming and keeps me working toward the prize when I’m tired.

  After a tense thirty-minute drive, I finally arrive. It’s a Friday night, so I expect Tyke’s to be crowded, but this is ridiculous. I scan the room for Adam and a wave of relief settles my nerves when I spot him playing pool in the back corner.