White Pawn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  White Pawn

  Stevie J. Cole

  Contents

  A note from the desk of Stevie:

  Get WRONG, Free.

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Alternate Ending

  Acknowledgments

  white pawn

  STEVIE J. COLE

  Copyright © 2017 by Stevie J. Cole

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.

  White Pawn: Copyright ©2017 by Stevie J. Cole

  Published in the United States of America.

  E-books are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole.

  Editing: Indie Editor Jones

  Cover Design: Cover Me Darling

  A note from the desk of Stevie:

  To anyone who has ever fallen victim to a player, or been someone’s dark little secret, just remember #HavingAGreatTimeWith... because we all have a little Marisa inside us. And please, please just take all the drama in this book as it was intended, to be an entertaining form of dark, twisted humor. It is only fiction after all...

  Get WRONG, Free.

  Wrong - FREE

  Prologue

  At first you may think this is a story about love, well, it's not. It's not at all. It could have been. It had the potential to be, but he fucked all that up. They always do…

  The moment our eyes met, a storm of static electricity buzzed between us. It was violent and all-consuming, sucking up every last ounce of oxygen like a vacuum while threatening to combust like a Molotov cocktail. Justin Wild wanted me. I wanted him. And the universe knew we belonged together. Fate. I strongly believe the notion that every moment of our lives is driven by some unseen undercurrent.

  I love him to the point of hate. I’m obsessed with him so there must be a love story somewhere within the madness. And somewhere within the twisted fragments, the burning wreckage, there is a beautiful, perfect, storybook love.

  You’ll see... #YoullBeHavingAGreatTime

  Chapter One

  “Bad Things”- Mieko

  “So, no suicidal thoughts, no ideations?”

  Dr. Hallman sits at his mahogany desk behind mounds of patient files. The deep lines set around his mouth reminds me of a marionette and I wonder what he’d look like with those little strings tied to his arms, someone forcing his arms and legs up and down. Inhaling, he folds his hands as his eyes set on me. “Yes? No?”

  I smile. “No.”

  “So the medication has been helpful?”

  “I think so, I mean, I feel better, but I haven’t noticed any weird side effects or anything like that.” The air conditioner kicks on, the tick-tick-tick of it causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I want to get up and slam my fist over it.

  “That’s good.” He makes a note in my file as he scratches over his salt-and-pepper beard. Depression. It’s a pain in the ass. You have one moment where you think life’s not worth living and slit your wrists, and then you’re whisked away to a hospital and put on fucking suicide watch. I’ve been here for three weeks and I am ready to get on with my life. I bounce my leg anxiously, watching as the light blue gown slides up my thigh. Dr. Hallman glances up from his paperwork. “The orderlies said you’ve been reading.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Why does it matter what I’ve been reading? If I say Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep are they going to think I’m a crazed murder who wants to off an entire family? “Um, Justin Wild, ever heard of him?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Any good?

  “Yes, very good actually. Dark romance, I think is what the genre is called.”

  He doesn’t respond, just keeps jotting something down on his little pad. And then, he looks up and smiles. His thin lips curl around coffee-stained teeth. “Ms. Dawson—”

  I cringe. “Marisa. Please call me Marisa.” I can’t stand hearing that last name because it was John’s. And
John is the reason I’m here in the first place.

  Dr. Hallman’s lips twitch ever so slightly as he taps his heavy, silver pen over the desk. “Marisa, nervous breakdowns aren’t that uncommon, especially in people who have dealt with what you’ve dealt with.”

  I close my eyes and sweat slowly pricks its way underneath the collar of my hospital gown. I feel the thin material begin to stick to my back and I grip the armrests of the chair, my fingers squeaking over the leather. All I can see is John, his lifeless body slumped over, blood splattered all over the $7,000 French oil painting we bought at auction on our honeymoon. He blew his brains out because he couldn’t be with her—with his whore. His blonde fucking whore.

  “Marisa…”

  I open my eyes and stare through Dr. Hallman, my vision swimming behind tears. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, “you were saying?”

  “You’ve been through a lot. The affair, all the unraveling of John’s lies about what he did, who he was, and then, his death.” He closes the file folder in front of him, pushes the stack of files to the side, and leans across the desk. “But you are going to be okay.” I nod even though I don’t believe him. I just want out of here. I just want to go home. Back to whatever life it is I have left.

  “Just make sure you keep up with your medications and appointments, and you call us if you ever need us. Okay?” He stands from behind his desk, the wheels to his chair squeaking as it rolls back. I take that as my cue to leave.

  “When do I get to go home?” I ask.

  “I’m putting in orders to have you discharged this afternoon. Do you have someone to come pick you up?” I nod as I stand from my chair and head to the door. I don’t need to tell him I’ll call an Uber, that I don’t have any friends left after John had isolated me from everyone. My pathetic life is no longer of his business. “Good. And Marisa,” he says, “try to take it easy on yourself, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper as I place my hand on the door and walk out into the overly-sterilized hallway of the psychiatric ward. I go to my room and pack my few belongings: a toothbrush and the three copies of Justin’s books one of the orderlies gave me. The have the little barcode from the hospital library, but, I’m not returning them. My tears have seeped into the crème paper. The words within each chapter stole the little remnants left of my heart, so, I’m keeping them.

  The nurse comes by at noon and I receive my discharge papers. There’s no fanfare, no farewell party. I just sign out and walk through the front doors. Alone. The white Camry with the Uber sticker is waiting for me in the roundabout. I place my bag in the trunk and give the driver, Adam from Georgia, the address to my old house.

  The rural Tennessee landscape whirls past the window. Pines and cow pastures lined by wire fencing, but it’s all a blur because I’m in a daze, dreaming about Meredith and Lucas—the characters in Justin’s book. I have three chapters to go until I finish the last in the series, and I’m on pins and needles. Everything is so up in the air at this point. She’s been kidnapped and Lucas is on a killing rampage trying to find her. I worry how this will end, but I believe Justin will have them together. I can feel it. It’s as though—I don’t know, as though I know him. Like reading his words, well, like I’m reading my own words. I can feel what’s going to happen. I can finish the next sentence.

  The cab rolls to a slow stop in front of my house, the large white antebellum home with the beautiful navy door and shutters. I loved this house when John first showed it to me. Everything about it was perfect. It had four bedrooms and three baths, a formal living room and dining room. A fireplace in the master bedroom and rich cherry bookshelves in the study. My stomach knots and slips when my gaze lands on the red “Under Contract” addition to the For Sale sign. We put it on the market after I found out about his affair. His affair with that slutty blonde that worked as his paralegal. The sign’s still crooked, I’d hoped someone would have corrected that by now. It’s just another fucking reminder. The sight of your dear husband’s head blown to bits is quite the horror, and I ran out screaming. I made it as far as the sign before my head began to spin and I passed out, hitting the sign and landing on the lawn.

  I tip the driver, grab my bag from the trunk, and stand at the end of the sidewalk, staring at the huge blooms on the Magnolia tree in the front yard. I hate this house now. I hate everything about it, everything about my life. I don’t want to go inside, so I don’t. I drop my bag at the end of the sidewalk and sit on it, opening my book and losing myself in a world I wish I belonged to.

  It only takes me half an hour to get through the last 50 pages. My heart thumps and jumps, my lungs fight to pull in my next breath as I turn the page and then…I gasp, shaking my head angrily. “No. No. No!” I mumble, my throat growing tight as I stare down at the blurry words. Tears fall, staining the page. The words “The End”.

  Meredith shoots herself because she doesn’t want to live without Lucas. That’s it. Puts a gun to her head and pow. And Lucas is left heartbroken and alone, never to love a woman again. Where is the happily ever after? My face heats. My nostrils flare. “No!” I turn and chuck the book at the crooked For Sale sign, the chain to the “Sold” addition creaking as the sign sways in the breeze. I stare at the book sprawled out on the green lawn, it’s pages bent and spine split, and then, guilt consumes me. I quickly stand and jog across the yard to pick it up and dust it off. It’s not what I wanted, but, after all, it’s not my story.

  It’s not my story. It’s Justin’s.

  It’s Justin’s…

  Chapter Two

  Marisa

  “Book of the Month” - Lovage

  A year later

  It's half past midnight, the white light from the city spills in through the living room window and pours across the blonde hardwood floors. Sighing, I get to my feet and stretch. My muscles ache, my neck is stiff from shuffling around moving boxes. I’ve spent all day unpacking, putting everything in its place in my new home on Water Street. The insurance money came in a month ago, twelve months to the day that John killed himself. Evidently, he’d renewed the policy two years to the date before he died, ticking up from a one-million-dollar policy to two. The insurance company squabbled about it for months, even though the clause says two years before a suicide and the money goes to the spouse. I guess they want it to be two years and a day. Idiots. And It couldn’t have come in a day sooner. My bank account was slim, having lived off mine and John’s savings for the past year. I never worked when I was with John. He didn’t want me to, and besides, being one of the best defense attorneys on the east coast, it’s not like we needed extra money. I just needed to get out of that house, that town. Everything reminded me of him. Everywhere I went, I pictured him and his whore. I needed a fresh start. And here it is. Manhattan. DUMBO. A padded bank account and the opportunity to start writing books with the endings they deserve.

  I curl up on my sofa with a half empty bottle of wine, a blanket, and my well-read copy of Reality open on my lap. I swore I’d never read those books again because they gutted me, but, after a few weeks, when I couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas…I found myself reading them again and again. And each time, the ending hurt just as much as it did the first time. I run my finger beneath the printed words, reading them aloud: And in the end, that is all there is. Perception. Be it deep or shallow, love is nothing more than a figment of our imaginations. And, oh what a shame it was when I discovered that it all, every miniscule piece of it, was meaningless. All of it except for Meredith because for a moment in time, she was mine. She was my story and I was hers…

  I draw in a breath. A deep breath. Those words. His words—unmatched by any other author. I close the hardback book, flipping it over to look at his picture, and I find myself swooning. Justin Wild’s face is as beautiful as his words. I skim over the author bio, which, by now, I know by heart: Justin Wild is the self-published author of the worldwide bestselling books Delusion, Illusion, and Reality. He began writing as a graduate student studying For
ensic Psychology at Emory University, publishing his trilogy a week after he graduated with honors. He lives in Manhattan, New York with his beloved Great Dane, Cobain (named after the world's greatest musician: Kurt Cobain. God rest his soul).

  Closing the paperback, I sink into the couch cushions. I think this makes the 77th time I’ve read this book. I have the lines memorized. A person capable of writing such an epic story—there must be something immeasurably deep to him. And there is…I’ve read every interview he’s done with blogs and any article he’s had a hand in. I follow him on every social media platform that exists, and thanks to his posts, I feel like I know Justin. I know where he shops, what his favorite foods are. I know what TV shows he watches, which actresses he fantasizes about. He likes brunettes and I can’t blame him. Blondes are trashy sluts. Sometimes he posts about his dreams... his day to day thoughts. The selfies. The livefeeds. I know that if I ever run into him, he’ll realize we belong together. Fate. Sometimes I am certain it was fate that had John take his own life. If he’d never killed himself, I’d have never ended up in that psych ward and I’d never have found Justin’s beautiful books. Never known such a perfect soul was out there, wandering, waiting, searching…

  I set the book on the coffee table and trudge into my bedroom, skirting around moving boxes. I lie down, close my eyes, but I can't find sleep. The noise of the New York City traffic is loud. Different than the silence of the country. The windows in my apartment are old and thin, and every sound seems to amplify when it passes through glass, but I do love my apartment. DUMBO is a wonderful little neighborhood, expensive, but so worth it. I can see why Justin chose to live here. On Water Street.

  Don’t worry, that had little to do with why I moved onto Water Street—it’s just such a nice area, with an amazing view of the city. And I’m certain, one day, fate will have me run into him.