White Pawn Page 4

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “Chris Talon. He’s a dick. Arrogant and annoying. Total bro guy.”

  I cock a brow at Justin. “So, like looking in a mirror, is it?”

  He glares at me. “Too low, Marisa. Too low.”

  And so, the day goes on. Justin sells out of over two hundred books in the first two hours. And yet, even after every book is gone from his table, he still keeps a line.

  “I just loved your story.”

  “You are a genius.”

  “I love you.”

  Over and over, that’s what I’m forced to listen to. To all these women groveling at his feet. Every one of them wishes they could have a crack at him. They all want to see him naked…feel his warm cock slip between their lips. And, not to discredit his talent as an author. He is gifted, but I bet you Stephen King doesn’t have women fawning over him like this. No, people grovel over the King solely because of his words. Justin, you could have that, but your curse is that you are pretty, and pretty things are never taken as seriously as they should be. By the time all the other authors are packing their things up, all that’s left at his table are me and him and his Sharpie. He reaches underneath the table, placing his warm hand on my thigh and squeezing. “Ready to party?”

  “If it’s as enthralling as this part of it all has been,” I say, “I can’t wait.”

  It’s an hour into the after party and I'm leaned against the wall, staring down into my drink and watching the hoard of women gathered around Justin. After the first fifteen minutes of them squabbling over him, I had to excuse myself. The attention almost seems to energize him, although, it's obvious to anyone who understands a man to some degree that he is uninterested in any of those women. They're all touching him. Smiling. Gushing. And here I stand, drinking my wine and scoffing. He shifts right two steps. They shift right three steps. A wry smile crosses my lips as I imagine what it would be like to choke every single one of them.

  Dance music pipes through the sound system. I down the rest of my cheap wine, push off from the wall, and set my empty glass on a table. The dance floor is completely abandoned and that's a shame. Dancing is how you have a good time—unless Justin Wild is present, then a good time consists of selfies and giggles I suppose. I move my hips in rhythm with the music, holding my arms up. Justin looks at me over the heads of his harem. He smiles. I look away. I ignore him because that is most certainly how you catch a predator—act like you are unsuspecting prey.

  Two drunk women stumble onto the dance floor and begin dancing. I turn my back to him and, like magic, before I know it, I feel an arm—a very large, muscular arm—wrap around me. I stop dancing when I feel the heat of his breath wash over my neck. "I don’t like that you left me like that?" he whispers against my ear.

  “Aww,” I turn and glare at him with a sarcastic smile. "Hurt your feelings?"

  He leans in close to me, the clean scent of his cologne wafting up to my nose. I inhale that smell deep into my lungs. I want to commit it to memory. I want to commit this night, this very moment to memory because this is the story I will tell our children and grandchildren of how we fell in love. Justin’s hand slides down to my waist and he possessively tugs me against him. "Such a tease," he says, his warm breath fanning over my neck. The hard bulge of his cock settles between my ass cheeks, pressing into it as his hands travel down to my hips. "Such a tease," he repeats, his hands now moving up my back.

  "Just not a fangirl. That's all."

  Laughing a deep, throaty laugh, the bastard grabs a handful of my hair, jerking my head back. “I bet by the end of the night, I change your mind about that.”

  “Thing is,” I yank my hair from his grasp, spinning around and pointing to the large group of women shooting daggers in my direction. "I’m not one of them. I’m not someone dying to fuck you, Justin Wild.” His eyes widen for a moment. They flicker before a deep smile spreads across his face,

  "I like a challenge."

  “I bet you do.”

  His eyes fall to my lips. "Perception, much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder... " he breathes as he moves closer, now only inches from my face. "But above all else it is only my perception that matters." He quotes a line from Delusion and my heart nearly explodes

  "That's my favorite line,” I whisper.

  "I figured." He places one arm on the wall beside me, caging me in. His eyes drop to my mouth again and he growls under his breath. “Let’s get outta here, babe.” He doesn’t wait for a response, he simply grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine as he leads me out of the room and to the front of the hotel where an Uber is waiting. Oh, you sly devil, you…

  We climb into the back and, the very moment the door closes behind us, Justin grabs my face, slamming his lips over mine. Justin Wild’s full, soft lips are on mine, his perfect tongue wrapping around mine. It’s just me and him. Him and me and this heavy fog of lust and want and absolute need. I melt into the kiss. This is fate and fate feels like bliss. Justin’s hands claw and grab desperately at my breasts, my hips, my thighs. I’ve never felt as wanted as I do in this moment, but isn’t that how a player plays the game? He makes you feel wanted, needed, beautiful, and different. But, oh, Justin, this is different. We are different and special and perfect… I moan into his mouth. I can’t help it. His teeth sink into my bottom lip, dragging painfully over my skin as he groans.

  By the time the Uber driver pulls over at the curb, Justin has every piece of me wound so tightly I feel like the slightest movement may send me over the edge. And I can’t go there. I can’t. Strategy is key, I am the queen and he is my pawn and I will win this game. No matter how much I may want to fuck him right now, I won’t. He quickly throws a tip at the driver, opens the door, and helps me out. He still has my hand clutched in his when he starts up the sidewalk leading to his apartment. I pull away from him, my heart close to exploding out of my chest. Stopping midstride, he turns to look at me. “What are you—”

  “Thanks for taking me tonight.” I smile even though I want to cry, because I don’t want to leave him. I don’t. “I had a great time.”

  “Are you…” he throws his head back on a laugh, “you’re kidding me, right?”

  “Call me tomorrow?” I say as I turn and walk away, my pulse unsteady. I feel much like Cinderella trying to escape before the clock strikes midnight, before the mystery disappears. For it's when you leave a man swirling in a mystery that he is at his weakest... that you become an obsession. And I want to be his obsession, and I want him to be my possession.

  Chapter Seven

  Justin

  “Arsonist’s Lullabye”- Hozier

  I watch Marisa walk down the dimly lit sidewalk, her dark hair and hips swishing from side to side with each sexy step. Damn, that woman is unbelievable. She is the perfect bit of arm candy. All I have to do is win her over, and how hard can that be? I do, after all write romance. I know how to play women like a motherfucking fiddle. Drop a line here, a compliment there, throw in a touch of affection. Cuddles, tender kisses. I’m pretty sure by the end of the week I could have Marisa naked with those killer thighs of hers spread. It’s basic really. Look any woman dead in the eyes like they are the very air you are breathing, then exhale like you’re hesitating, like you’re holding out, uncertain. Make yourself seem vulnerable. Then say: “There’s something different about you. I just have this... deep connection with you like your... I don’t know, like I’ve known you forever.” I’m not sure if all the women I’ve spilled those lines to believe me, or if it provides just enough justification for them take their clothes off. Regardless, they love that shit.

  Cobain’s waiting at the door for me when I walk inside my apartment. I pat him on the head, then grab a bottle of whisky from the kitchen counter, stripping down to my boxers on my way to the bedroom. The liquor inside the bottle sloshes against the side when I fall onto my bed still thinking about Marisa. The cap cracks when I twist it open and I toss it to the floor. Cobain comes running
across the room, chasing the plastic lid as it rolls over the floor. “Drop it,” I say, snapping my fingers. He looks up at me, huffs, then drops the slobber-covered top to the floor. He trots over to the side of my bed and rest his massive horse-head on the edge. I scrub over the top of his head as I open my messenger.

  “Fuck’s sake, Cobain,” I say, rolling my eyes at the countless messages from god knows how many women. “Can’t a guy catch a break?” Cobain drops his ass to the floor, his tail wagging over the hardwoods. “You can’t even flirt with a woman these days without her thinking you want to marry her ass. What ever happened to a good fuck and go?” I shake my head as I flip through the messages. I answer a few of them. Depending on who the sender is I throw in some winky emojis, a few “I miss you, too” comments. I roll my eyes again when I see Tori’s message:

  I can’t believe you, you lying sack of shit. You told me I was different. That I wasn’t one of those girls. You’re an asshole.

  “Like this one,” I say, turning my phone around to show Cobain—like he cares. “Tori, she’s what we call cockstruck.” I lift my eyebrows and a low grumble slips from his jowls before his ears perk up. He glances into the hallway, halfway growls halfway barks and then trots off, leaving me to my phone.

  Babe, I type, you are different. You’re not one of those girls, but I am a single guy, and not once did I commit to you.

  Oh, really? Justin, you told me you loved me.

  No, I told you I would love you if I could. There’s a difference.

  And then…block, because the last thing I need is another cock-hungry bitch riding my ass. I grab the bottle of whisky and take a heavy swig before I grab the remote. I surf the channels. There’s not shit worth watching, so I check my phone again, answering a few more messages. One girl who evidently sucked me off after a signing last month has sent me a nice little nude shot, her pink hair in pigtails. It’s cliché, but hot nonetheless, so I save that one for later. Somehow the time escapes me and I’m halfway through the bottle of whisky, my vision blurring and forcing me to close one eye to see the words on my screen. The dark of the night starts to close in on me, the blue haze from the TV…and it’s moments like this: when I’m alone in my bed with a half drank bottle of liquor that I feel vulnerable, that this helpless feeling gets so strong I can’t swallow it down. I take another heavy swig, letting the hot liquid burn its way down my throat. It hits my stomach with a wicked heat, and then I start texting: I miss you. To Shanna, to Samantha, to Marisa…I just go down my list and text it, because it’s not a lie. I miss fucking people.

  And then Samantha texts me back. I miss you, too!

  I just want to cuddle.

  Awww…want me to come over?

  Of course.

  I polish off the bottle and manage to get out of bed, only stumbling a few times on my way to the bathroom. There’s a knock on the door and Cobain goes nuts, barking and scratching at the door. I piss and splash water over my face. “You’re a fucking dick,” I say to my reflection. It’s true. At least I’m aware of it.

  Chapter Eight

  Marisa

  “Dangerous Woman”- Macy Kate

  I’m sitting in Starbucks, staring at the text Justin sent me at 1AM. I miss you. Not I want to fuck you…no, he misses me because he’s falling. I didn’t respond though, because I need to keep him on his toes. I’ve been sitting at this table for three hours. Waiting. I’ve had four coffees. I’ve watched people come and go, and I’m about to give up that Justin will show up today. I’m just about to close down my computer when he strolls in without Cobain, his laptop tucked neatly under his arm. He smiles when he sees me and makes his way right over to my table. He sets his computer down and opens it. “Imagine seeing you here.” He laughs.

  “Well, isn’t this the most cliché place an aspiring author can write? I mean, after all, Harry Potter was written in a coffee shop.” I smile.

  His brows scrunch. “Was it?”

  My jaw ticks and I fight a twitch in my left eye. How can he possibly be serious about writing and not know that? I laugh it off. “So,” I drum my fingers over the table, “when does your next book release?”

  “September.” He types something over his keyboard, then leans back in his chair. “Want to be the first to read it?”

  I swallow. Of course I want to read it. Of course I want to be the first. I stare at my computer screen as I sip my coffee. “Sure.”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “Man, you are the most unenthusiastic person I have ever met.” He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers over my cheek, and this volatile heat sears through me. Fighting to not lean in to his touch, I close my eyes and I imagine him fucking me right here on this table, people watching from the window, that damn blonde barista bawling because she can’t have him. “Damn I want you,” he says with such conviction it tugs at my heart. “I want to finish what we started the other night.”

  Dear god, I want to know what it feels like to have him inside of me. Deep inside of me, burying himself hard and fast, his fingers digging into my hips. “We’re just friends, Justin,” I manage through my tightening throat. I’m lying. We are so much more than that. So, so much more than Meredith and Lucas were.

  “Oh, I beg to differ.” He leans out of his seat, wraps his hand around the back of my neck, and drags me across the table to him. His soulful eyes search mine as he holds my face inches from his own. “Tell me you don’t feel that?”

  “What?” I swallow. “You’re hand on the back of my neck.”

  He rolls his eyes. “That connection. That... ” Closing his eyes, he barely brushes his lips over mine and my traitorous body flushes with heat. “That tension that’s like static electricity buzzing in the air between us. This,” he breathes against my mouth, “tell me you don’t feel this.” He releases his hold on me and I fall back in my chair, breathless and drunk on his words. “But, if you want to play cat and mouse,” he tosses his hands in the air and smirks, “fine by me.”

  “So sure of yourself.”

  “Not with you, Marisa. I have no idea what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

  “Hmm. Shame... ”

  His phone dings and he glances down at it, groaning as he types out a response to whoever it is. “Fuck... ” he throws his head back and drags his hands down his face. “I’ve got to go, I forgot about a meeting.” He slams his laptop close and grabs it as he stands. Heat creeps over my neck. “I’ll call you later,” he calls as he walks away. The bell jingles when the door to the coffee shop opens and he slips out. I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles wash white. I stare at the empty seat—the seat he neglected to push back under the table. That chair is a glowing beacon that I was just abandoned. My gaze darts over to the barista. She’s not looking at me, but I know she saw him leave. I bet she’s laughing to herself, calling me a stupid whore. Well, I’m not!

  I take a sip of my coffee. I pretend that it doesn’t bother me one bit that he left like that. It shouldn’t bother me because we have that connection, that pull, that magnetic draw that few people ever experience. I can feel it. He can feel it. We’re static electricity… My heart is pounding, rage attempting to bubble to the surface, but I can’t let it, so I keep writing: Anger beats away at me, like a rogue wave against a battered pier. Over and over again, the relentless surf pounds until the wood splinters and everything crumbles to bits. Sometimes the only atonement comes through bloodshed… My fingers pause over the keyboard. I pull up one of the many pictures of Justin I’ve saved to my hard drive over the past year and I stare at it. I tell myself it doesn’t matter who he went to meet. That it doesn’t matter if he went to meet Tori or some other dumb girl because soon enough, it will only be me.

  Chapter Nine

  Justin

  “Live For”- The Weeknd, Drake

  I hiss, my fingers flinching into Samantha’s hips. Her dark hair cascades around my face like a waterfall of vanilla and amber scented shampoo, and I watch
her face scrunch up, her eyes roll back in her head. “God, I love having sex with you,” she says before crawling off me and flopping down on the bed. She leans over and grabs the little blue glass pipe from my nightstand, then the lighter. The flint of the lighter clicks and cracks and the orange flame licks the surface of the green buds. She drags in a lungful of smoke before passing the pipe to me. I take a quick hit and pass it back. A thick cloud of pungent smoke creeps from between her lips when she laughs and pushes up from the bed, stumbling to the bathroom door.

  I pull the condom off and toss it to the floor. My eyes fall on the smoldering pipe. The embers fade, turning to gray ash. Samantha’s a pretty girl—the true definition of a fuckbuddy and I can appreciate that more so than the next guy, I guarantee you that. The thing is, there’s not much fun outside of fucking a girl like her…I grab my phone from the nightstand and send Marisa a quick text.

  I want to see you.

  Do you…

  Smiling, I prop up in the bed. Can I come see you?

  I’m busy.

  Yeah, right… what about Friday? Go to Connecticut with me for a signing?

  Samantha comes out of the bathroom, naked, her cheeks still flushed. My phone buzzes and I glance down at the text from Marisa: I’ll think about it.

  You know you’re going to. Stop playing.

  “What are you smirking about?” Samantha asks as she slides into the bed behind me. I open the Facebook app on my phone.

  “Oh, some post on Facebook.” She kisses me and trails her fingernails over my back. “Don’t you have to go met Louisa?” I ask, directing my attention back to my phone and scrolling. I want her to leave. I don’t want her trying to stay here.