White Pawn Page 10

  “Demolished... I just, it’s on over 100 pirating sites.”

  I shoot out of my chair, angry heat seeping from my pores. “What!”

  “Darryl is livid. It’s a breach of your contract and—”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I pace, dragging my hand through my hair. “A breach of my contract?”

  “Who have you shared the file with?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ. You didn’t give it to one of those damn girls did you?”

  “What? No.”

  “I swear to god, you are a PR nightmare, you do realize that?”

  “Fuck you. You aren’t my publicist—”

  “No, but I’m your agent. And your publisher is pissed. The book has been leaked, it’s all over the damn place and... the worst thing, the reviews on Goodreads are terrible. Terrible.”

  Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I lean over my keyboard and pull up Goodreads in my browser, click on my profile, on Demolished—“2.5 stars? Are you fucking kidding me? That book is goddamn poetry.”

  “Maybe it is, but the consumers sure seem to think it’s a pile of shit, well, that and they think you are an asshole.”

  “What?”

  “Go read some of your reviews, Justin. I told you it was only a matter of time before things came back to bite you in the ass. It seems like you would have learned after you had to get the restraining order on that one girl, but, I’m not your mother. Hold on... ” I hear her lower the phone. Someone says something in the background.

  A sarcastic laugh slips through my lips as I read over the reviews: Terrible. A four-year-old could write with better prose. Utter drivel. Then I come to the really heartfelt one: Justin Wild is a complete dick. He’s a misogynistic butt-pirate that treats women like they have been put on this earth to bow down and worship each turd that fall from his virgin asshole. Don’t let his charm fool you, ladies. He is a massive fuckface.

  “Shit,” Denise groans. “Darryl wants to meet with me and the lawyers to talk about canceling your contract. Amazing. Just amazing, Justin.” And then, she hangs up and I’m left with the phone to my ear, my fingers twitching over it.

  “Fuck.” I chuck the phone onto my desk, throw my head back, and stare at the ceiling as I drag my hands through my hair. I’m pissed that someone got ahold of that book. Worried about how it got hacked. But more than anything, I’m more bothered by those reviews. They shouldn’t bother me because the book is carbon copy of what my publisher instructed me to write. Some stupid shit about a second chance romance that involved a cartel boss. The girl was annoying and the guy was a pussy. My messenger dings and I drop my chin to my chest, glaring up at the tiny box that’s popped up on my screen.

  Amy Smith: Hey Hotstuff: So, I saw this closed group that’s called: Justin Wild is a Manwhore... thought you should know. And then up pops a link to a page with a black and white banner, a picture of me in the left-hand corner. I can’t see anything that’s been posted, but I can see the members and there, at the very top, is Tori. “Shit,” I mumble under my breath. “Bitch.”

  I grab my phone and angrily jab out a text telling her what a bitch she is while I walk to the bathroom and plop down on the shitter. Cobain follows me inside and sits on the floor by the door staring at me as I scroll through my newsfeed. “Get out of here!” I snap at him, but all he does is lie down, folding his paws and resting his head on them. Damn dog.

  New Release. New Release. Dirty teaser—holy shit…what the hell? Preston groans. Tobias groans as they shove my mouth from one cock to the other. Who the fuck are LP Lovell and Stevie J Cole? Nasty bitches I need to meet evidently... and then I see a picture of Marisa and that cocksucker Chris Talon. I clench my jaw. My nostrils flare. Out of all the damn guys. I stare at the picture. He’s kissing her cheek, all snuggled up to her. Oh, the fuck, if she’s ditched me for this sack of...

  I click off the app and text her: I want to see you.

  I go back and try to scroll my newsfeed, but I keep seeing that picture because everybody is sharing it. Is this Chris’ new girlfriend? Oh, she’s so pretty. Super cute couple. I roll my eyes at each stupid comment. So, I basically sit here and stare at it until my legs go numb and then, I drop the phone to the floor. Cobain jumps. I flush the toilet, spritz some cologne on me, and grab his leash. “Come on, fucker. We’re going for a walk.”

  On the way to Marisa’s apartment, Amy texts me again. God, she’s annoying. I quickly assign her that awful foghorn alert so I’ll know to just ignore it, then shove my phone back in my pocket. A kid comes barreling down the sidewalk on a skateboard and nearly runs me over.

  “Watch it you, little shit,” I shout, turning to glare at him. He tosses a glance over his shoulder and flips me the bird.

  Just as I reach the sidewalk leading to her apartment building, Marisa steps out of the front door in jeans and a tight t-shirt—a Gremlins t-shirt. God, we are so alike. She pauses on the bottom step for a second. A nervous smile crosses her face. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  She hops off the bottom step and pats Cobain on the head. “You going to the coffee shop?” she asks.

  “Nah, I was coming to see you.”

  “Oh... ”

  “You staying with me this weekend?” I ask. Her eyes narrow. Her brow wrinkles. Ah, come on now, this girl can’t possibly be confused. “South Beach? The signing I got you a table at?”

  “I got my own room” she says, walking off. I follow after her.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because... I needed a room.”

  “Jesus, woman,” I shake my head. “I told you to stay with me.”

  She stops and I almost walk into her. Cobain keeps going, yanking on his leash and nearly knocking my off balance. “Justin,” she says, “I just don’t know how I feel about you.”

  “What?” I shrug and grab her arm. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She yanks out of my grip. “Look, I’m trying to start a writing career and I just... ” her eyes fall to the ground and she scuffs the toe of her Converse over the crack in the sidewalk. “I just, you know, don’t need that reputation.”

  “I’m sorry,” I scoff. “That reputation?”

  “Yeah. I’m not going to be lumped into the category with the rest of your friends you’ve fucked.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “Sorry. I just need to get my head on straight, okay?” She sighs and that pretty face of hers goes all soft. “I thought you were different.” And then she turns and walks off.

  I glance around, but no one’s there. Cobain’s sniffing a half-eaten hotdog laying in the gutter. And I am actually at a loss as I watch her head down the sidewalk, hips swaying. The last girl that straight up ditched me was Meredith.

  Marisa disappears in the crowd heading toward the subway, and all I can think is that fucking Chris Talon had a hand in this. But that’s okay, because I don’t give up that easy, and besides, I’m a better man than he could ever hope to be.

  That damn foghorn blares from my pocket. Groaning, I pull my phone out and read over the text:

  Hey you! Didn’t you say you would be in South Beach this weekend? I’m going to be down there visiting my fam. Would love to come by your book signing and see what it’s about. <3

  And so there is a god...

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Marisa

  “Ugly Boy”- Die Antwoord

  “I’m sorry Ms…” the concierge stalls.

  Shit, what name did I use this time? “Ms. Vaughn.” I tap my finger over the balcony railing, staring out over the dark beach.

  “Yes, Ms. Vaughn, but you are not listed as a contact. I can’t give out his room number to you.”

  I sigh. My cheeks flame. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I’d be happy to transfer your call to his room.”

  “No.” I groan. “Forget it.” And I hang up. I’ve tried saying I was his mother, his publicist, his PA. And still, the hote
l refuses to tell me what room he’s in. Sure, I could text him and ask him, but where’s the fun in that? The wind kicks up, swathing me in the sticky south Florida heat. Music floats up from the mixer set up on the pool deck. I’ve watched from this damn balcony for two hours, waiting to see if Justin’s out there. I have no other reason to go down. I only wrote for him! Shaking my head, I turn to walk back into the cool hotel room, when I hear a girl scream. “Justin,” she slurs.

  I glance over the railing, and, sure enough, he’s strutting onto the patio. With—my breath seizes in my lungs—her. I grab onto the edge of the railing, my knuckles cracking as I squeeze it. My heart’s a quivering lump in my throat as I watch her blonde hair blow in the breeze. They walk side by side and it makes me feel crazy. Like I want to climb over the ledge of this balcony and hurl myself to that pool deck, my head splitting open and getting blood and brain splatter all over those white shorts she’s wearing. Some girl hops off a barstool and stumbles over to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. Amy stands there. I bet it’s eating her up. Well, get the fuck used to it, #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy.

  I can’t take it, so I turn and walk into the room, slamming the glass door closed behind me. I grab the Klonopin out of my carry-on, take two, and swallow them down with a lukewarm glass of chardonnay. It’s the only way I’ll rest. And I can’t have bags below my eyes in the morning. Justin can’t think for one second that I give two shits about him and his precious, little, fucking blonde Amy.

  It’s amazing what some medication can do for you. I feel well-rested and refreshed. I sing in the shower, I blow dry my hair, I even dance around the hotel room a little before I put on my tight, white dress. And I take my time making up my face. Eyeliner. Eyeliner. Eyeliner.

  I pout as I apply a layer of fire-engine-red lipstick to my lips, making sure to accentuate the deep cupid's bow I've been blessed with. That Amy bitch has ugly, thin lips. And the moment I step back to admire myself, well, I smile. Knowing what tools you have and exactly how to wield them is a must. A must when dealing with an asshole named Justin Wild. "He will be sorry," I whisper to my reflection before I walk out to the elevators.

  The doors slide open and the buzz of conversation and giggling fill the elevator. The line for the signing is already flooding down the stairwell and pouring into the lobby. I excuse myself through the crowd of people and head toward the ballroom. The second I see the doors, I find Justin's table at the center of the room—of course. He's sitting at the table while a volunteer sets everything up for him. And there is Amy, right next to him, right where I once sat. She’s all nervous smiles and straight, pageant queen posture. That cotton-candy lipstick looks ridiculous. She smiles at him. He smiles back. She's a pretty girl. But pretty isn't sufficient for that asshole. He needs stunning. He needs someone who causes people to turn their heads. He likes the girls most men can't dream of snagging. And, Justin she’s blonde—and damn it, you don’t like blondes! Amy’s busy tidying his stack of books. And now the assistant is on her knees stacking boxes right beside his lap. I bet she’s pretending she’s on her knees for him. That he’s about to pull his magnificent cock out and plop it in her waiting mouth.

  He looks up from the table and his eyes lock on me. He smirks and I look away. My steps are hard and determine, my hips moving in a provocative-you-want-to-fuck-this manner. I have my gaze set straight ahead and I know he notices. Oh, that fucker notices. I bet he's imagining slamming me down, face first on a bed, lifting my hips and yanking my hair as he pounds into me. And he thinks that will happen again. Of course he does... he is that much of a narcissistic bastard.

  My boxes have been set in front of my table and I make sure my ass is pointed in his direction when I bend at the waist to dig a stack of paperbacks out. I should be excited to feel the shiny cover of my book in my hand, but I’m not because Amy’s with him instead of me. I throw a stack down on the table, attempting to rein in the white-hot rage pulsing through my veins. I’m not a fucking blonde. And I take a breath because at least there’s that. I cock my hip to the side as I bend over to grab more books, and then I stack those on the table. Bend. Stand. Bend. Stand. When I grab the last book from the bottom of the box I peek over my shoulder. Justin's staring and Amy’s still tidying his books. I flick my hair behind my shoulder and trot around my table to take a seat. Now where is Chris Talon? I ask myself.

  I scan the room for JL Brown's table. Across the aisle and two tables to the left, I find the black banner with the pink writing. There, perched on the edge of the table with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, chest on full display is Chris Talon. I watch as Chris talks to another cover model and laughs. And then he notices me. I smile. He smiles. A few minutes later, he’s strutting over to my table all suns out, guns out.

  He stops in front of me, bracing both hands on the edge of the table as he blatantly stares at my chest. "Fuck that dress is sexy.”

  "Thanks."

  He thumbs through one of my books. Picks a page, reads a line, and his jaw drops. "Holy shit!" He glances up at me. "This is some sick shit. Blood and fucking.”

  My grin deepens. "I told you."

  "Holy fuck." He flips the page and continues reading. "You’re sick. I love it.” He tucks the book beneath his arm. "How much."

  "Oh,” I wave my hand through the air. “Just take it. It's fine."

  Chris bites at his bottom lip, his eyes drifting to my mouth. "Thanks." He reaches out and trails his hand over my cheek. "Pretty woman."

  “Chris?” The author he’s with shouts for him. “Another author wants you to sign a book, dear.”

  He taps the book over his hand. “I’ll come see you in a bit, Marisa.”

  “Sure.”

  Smiling, he turns and walks back to his table. I glance at Justin. He's still watching me, but that fucking smirk has faded. He subtly shakes his head before turning to speak to his assistant—his hopeful fuck. I laugh. Fucker. You aren't the only one who knows how to play a game. Oh, no my dear Justin, the games only just begun.

  My head hits the hotel room window with a thud. Chris’ hands are working my thongs down my thighs, his bare chest pressed against mine as his teeth sink into my bottom lip.

  “Shit, I’m going to fuck you up,” he says with a growl, and I want to roll my eyes.

  I blindly swat at the door handle, finally brushing my fingers over it. I grab and yank it an inch or so open. The noise of water splashing, of Bob Marley singing, and people laughing creeps in through the crack.

  Chris pulls back for a moment, his hard cock pressing against me as I nod toward the opening. “Fuck me out there,” I whisper.

  “What?” he chuckles. “On the balcony?”

  “Yes, on the fucking balcony,” I say, grabbing his boxers and tearing them down his legs before I fist his cock. “Get a condom.” I force the door the rest of the way open. The wind whips around the corner of the hotel. We’re five floors up, high enough that people can’t really see us, but close enough that they will hear us. Justin’s distinct laugh floats into the air, and that, well, that makes me smile.

  “You’re a little freak, huh?” Chris asks. He steps out onto the balcony, rolling the condom down his shaft.

  “I prefer to be called a dirty little slut.” I smile before I bend over, placing my hands on the back of the wrought iron chair.

  “Jesus Christ. Where have you been all my life, woman?” He grabs my hair and it’s all wrong. He just pulls at it. There’s no passion in the way he’s tugging at it. He rubs his hand over my ass, he smacks it, and then he pushes inside me, his fingers digging into my hips. I don’t like the way his hands feel though. They feel all wrong. Too calloused. Too small. Chris isn’t gripping my hips like he wants to break me. He’s not fucking me near hard enough because he’s not Justin.

  My skin crawls when he groans. Bile rises in my throat and I feel guilty because Justin was the last person that was buried inside me like this, and I never wanted another man to be here. I n
ever wanted to taint what we had, but I remind myself why I’m really doing this. So I moan and I moan and I moan, imagining it’s Justin’s cock thrusting into me right now. And I know he can hear me. I know he will recognize this sound right here: “Fucking shit. Fuck.” My voice echoes off the concrete alcove. “Chris... fuck.” I make it sound like I’m enjoying it even though tears are streaming down my cheeks. I am setting my pieces on the board to checkmate. And I will.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Justin

  “Follow You”- Bring Me The Horizon

  “Fuck. Chris.” A moan echoes off the pool deck. Everyone at the table looks up to the balconies.

  Some girl across from me plasters her hand over her mouth. Another one stares, wide-eyed at the hotel. “Oh, someone’s screwing Chris Talon. Lucky bitch.”

  “Slut... ” another girl slurs before slamming back another shot.

  Another loud moan ping-pongs around the concrete walls. I sink down into the seat because I know that moan. Fucking Marisa. I cast my eyes up toward the balconies, trying to pinpoint which one they’re on.

  “So... ” the drunk girl across from me leans on the glass table, tipping one side of it up. “How long have you two been dating?” She sloppily points between me and Amy.

  I glance at Amy and before I can say a word, she’s smiling. “Oh, about two weeks.” Fuck... All I can do is shrug.

  “Oh, you have no idea how many girl’s hearts you’ve just broken.” Drunky’s eyes bounce between me and Amy, and I wonder if she can see my cheeks turning red in the dark. “So where did you meet?”

  “Well, that’s a cute story. I had been unpacking all day and just, you know, needed a drink to unwind. I couldn’t find a liquor store and ended up going into this bar.”

  I slam my head down on the table because someone put me out of my fucking misery. I feel Amy’s fingers sweep over my back. “Baby, you okay?”