White Pawn Page 9

  Marisa

  “Lydia”- Highly Suspect

  That perfume. It assaulted me when she walked up. It’s the same perfume he reeked of the other day. I had to count to 100 before I could look at her without wanting to take the butter knife and cut her prissy little head off. The audacity to come right up to our table and talk to him. And then Justin—a dear fucking friend? Really? Is that all I am to you?

  You saw the damn hand towel, the Ansel Adams, all those books. I write for fuck’s sake. Dear friend my ass.

  Justin’s busy texting on the walk home, which is a slap in the face, so I turn and head to the entrance of my apartment without a word. And he follows me. Stopping at the steps, I turn around. “What are you doing?”

  “Coming up,” he says like it should be a given.

  “No,” I smile and place my palm flat on his hard chest, “you’re not.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got to write, and anyway, we’re just dear friends.”

  “Ah, come on now, Marisa, what else am I supposed to call you, there is no word for the in-between.”

  I laugh, but God, I want to slap the shit out of him. “The in-between what, Justin?”

  “Lovers and friends.” He smiles. He thinks he’s so witty and cute. But, tonight I play the angry bitch card. I throw that motherfucker on the table, and I’ll make his damn head spin.

  “Actually,” I press the code to the building and the lock pops, “that’s called a fuckbuddy. Start introducing me as that, why don’t you?” And I open the door, slamming it shut behind me. I barely glance over my shoulder when I reach the elevator. He’s still standing on the doorstep with a look of utter shock on his perfect little face. I can pretend to be disinterested, I can say I’m not jealous, but there are lines. It’s knowing how and when to put someone like Justin Wild in their place that will win over his heart. He’ll go home and think about what he said, and then, he’ll send me a text and apologize. I’ll forgive him and we’ll have great makeup sex, I think as I step onto the elevator, because that girl is blonde and he couldn’t possibly love her when I’m his soulmate. He’s mine. Not hers.

  As soon as I get inside, I put “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga on repeat, and I wait for that text or call and I scroll Facebook. Before I know it, two hours have gone by and he hasn’t texted. He hasn’t Facebook messaged me…He's been online. He's posted. He's liked Angela's comment about how hot his profile picture is. He's posted a smiley face emoticon on Andrea's new profile picture—one with the little blushing cheeks—but he hasn’t had time to apologize for being a condescending dick? He should be sulking, not posting fucking winky face emojis all over social media. A notification pops up. It’s a picture of his dog with a beer in front of his bed. #Cobain #PetsOfInstagram

  Groaning, I chuck the phone across the room then bury my head in my hands. I feel like an idiot. Justin knew what he was doing. I swear he did. He saw me. He wanted me. Oh, sure, I fucked him. I sucked his dick and moaned for him like a pathetic little slut, but I never let on that I actually wanted him. I gave just enough—just enough to keep him on his toes. Now, if I go after him, I’ll just look like another of those pathetic sluts fawning all over him. I can’t help but wonder how many of those girls following him around like a sick little puppy thought he’d love them? Probably every last one of them. Well, guess what Justin Wild? Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! He thinks he’s won. I’m certain he thinks that. He believes I’ll cave, texting and calling... begging. Oh, but did he pick the wrong one to try and play mind games with this time. He thinks he's the king and, albeit that the king is essential, well, the queen is more powerful. He thinks this little move of his—calling me a friend and then ignoring me—he thinks that’s going to swipe me off the board. Amy. Amy. Amy. She is the problem. She is the stupid white pawn. And pawns are disposable. I get up. Grab my phone from the floor, cursing at the now cracked screen, and I do the only thing I can due to the situation Justin has put me in: I find her.

  It’s not that hard. Click on Justin’s profile. Go to his “Friends” section, and type in the name “Amy” in the search bar. About 30 pop up and I just scroll along until I find the average blonde one. Amy Smith. Her name is even girl next door. I click on her profile, and, much to my excitement, it’s open to the public. Dumb move on her part, I think to myself and roll my eyes. I read all about her. Where she went to high school and college, I see who her family members are, her friends, her hobbies and interests. I shake my head in disgust. She likes glitter and smiling and giving to the poor and the Real Housewives of the OC. Of course she does. No books mentioned. Clueless and Legally Blonde listed as her favorite movies. She seems to have the depth a puddle of dog piss has, but I bet she has a tight little pussy that he’s sinking his dick into. Doesn’t she, Justin. DOESN’T SHE?! And there it is, a post from three days ago. The day he ignored me at the coffee shop. A picture of the two of them, smiling at a bar. #HavingAGreatTimeWithJustinWild #RomanceAuthor #Hottie.

  You little fucking cunt.

  Chapter Twenty

  Justin

  “Wrong”- Max

  Central Park. Sunshine and the outdoors. Pigeon shit and crowds. This really is a pain in the ass, but, you do what you must to get laid. I smile as I lean in close to Amy. I tap my phone, the picture snapping. I do a quick edit and she leans over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Making the picture look better.”

  She giggles. “You’re a guy, you actually Photoshop your pictures?”

  “First of all, it’s not Photoshop.” I close out of the app. “And second, I’m a public figure. I have to look good, you know. My face is kinda like my brand.”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  I pull up Facebook, hesitating before I post it. I rarely post pictures of me with girls, so when I do, people lose their shit. Marisa hasn’t texted me. She hasn’t called me, so maybe this will send a bolt of jealousy rippling through her. I type out a quick tagline and hit post.

  “Oh my gosh, look how cute that baby is.” Amy points across the lawn at some woman carting a fat toddler around. “Awww. I want to hold it.” I throw my head back and groan. This is fucking torture. This girl is a complete... girl. I pick at a blade of grass and glance at my watch. “Thanks so much for bringing me here,” she says. “Central Park is gorgeous.”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe tomorrow we can go to the Natural Museum, or oh, oh... ” she grabs my arm and snuggles up to me on the little blanket she brought for our picnic. Fucking picnic in the park. “Maybe a musical.”

  “No fucking way.” I scoot away from her. “I am not going to a musical. Forget that shit.”

  “Aw, come on, baby. Please... ”

  Jesus Christ, baby after three dates. We haven’t even fucked. I roll my eyes. “No way. I’ve gotta write anyway.”

  “How’s your friend?” Amy asks, resting her head on my shoulder. Fuck my life this girl is needy with the attention. She’s acting like I’m her boyfriend or some shit. How dense can she possibly be?

  “What?”

  “Your friend. That pretty girl you were with the other day at Elmo’s.”

  “Oh,” I wipe my hand over my face, aggravated that the image of Marisa’s fucking face is now in my head. Her eyes and lips and that attitude... “she’s uh, fine.”

  “How long have you two been friends?”

  Jesus, what is this, the fifth-fucking-degree. I glare at Amy. “I don’t fucking know. What does that matter?” That gets her head off my shoulder.

  “Sorry... ”

  I push to my feet, dusting the grass clippings off my ass. “I’ve got to go write before my agent has my ass.” She looks up at me with sad puppy dog eyes. “I’ll text you or something later,” I say, already walking away from her and her damn picnic blanket.

  I pump another handful of lotion into my palm, focusing on the money shot on the TV. Up and down, faster and faster and—nothing. This entire jerking off crap is
bullshit. I flop back on the bed, sweat beading on my forehead, lotion coating my hands, and my dick still hard as concrete. I could have sucked it up and brought Amy back here, but I just couldn’t go there. She is already a Stage-5 Clinger and god only knows how bad it would get if I fucked her.

  I wipe my hand over the bedsheet and grab my phone, texting Marisa: Miss you.

  And that’s not a lie. I do miss her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Marisa

  “Tainted Love”- Marilyn Manson

  It’s been two days. Two motherfucking days since I’ve talked to Justin.

  What the fuck is he doing? I go to his Facebook and check it. The second I scroll down, my heart sinks to my stomach like a heavy stone.

  There’s a selfie of him and fucking Amy Smith with the caption: #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy <3 <3 He never posts pictures of him and girls on Facebook. That was a big deal for him to post that picture of us together in that bed, naked, right after he’d been inside me. That was his way of telling all those other girls to back off. It was... I toss my phone down, running my fingers through my hair and tugging. Then I stand and I pace. I pace. I pace, fighting back the tears that want to seep from my eyes. He’s not worth it. But he is.

  I lie down, trying to find sleep, but I can’t. How can I? Justin, you’re fucking a blonde woman with loud perfume. And the thing is, I’ve made excuse after excuse for him, but at some point, I have to stop enabling him. I sit up in the bed, sighing as I glance down at my phone. I hate that I must be this person. Really, I do. But the thing is, I love him. And someone should help him grow, mature. Karma is a bitch... Karma says, ha ha ha Justin Wild.

  It only takes a second to find a pirating site: www.freethewords.com. And really, it’s all too simple to upload the PDF of his new book. I read the first 10 pages. I couldn’t get past that. It’s shit. It makes me sad to say that, but it is. It’s not even dark... it’s just violent. Stabbing here. Shooting there. And fucking—sex scenes that seem to have been copied and pasted from his first series. Just words. Meaningless words. Sure, uploading this book is breaking the law, and sure, his publisher may sue him for handing out their property without consent, cut off his contract with them, but what’s the worse offense here? Giving his beautiful words to the public for free, or him intentionally breaking my heart? A lesson must be taught, Justin. And you eventually must learn.

  I make it all the way until midnight before my obsession gets the better of me and I check his Facebook. He just made a post about some stupid Twenty One Pilots song. And I can’t help but wonder if Amy Smith is asleep in his bed, or if he sent her home after their selfie. Did he wash his sheets after he fucked me, or is he fucking her on top of the stains I left? I hit the like button on that picture—no, I click on the little heart and love that picture of him and Plain-Jane Amy Smith. And then I put one of his little fucking jazz hand emojis in the comment along with: Awww.

  The Sherwood Forest horn blares: I miss you. As hard as it is, I don’t respond.

  Go ahead. Post all the pictures you want of #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy. Enjoy the time you have because when I get done with this, Amy won’t want a thing to do with you, Justin. The downfall of a king takes planning and time; it must be cunning. And it must look like I never even intended to do it.

  The morning sun pours in through my window. Horns blare outside. A jackhammer pounds against the concrete, and I’m sipping a cup of coffee, uploading my first review to Goodreads.

  I click 1-star, smiling around the rim of my warm mug as the steam rises around my face. And I type: I have been a huge fan of Justin’s since his first book, but this was more than a letdown. The vocabulary and sentence structure repetitive and amateur at best. The main character lacked depth and the plot was flat. To be honest, this book is sick and anyone who enjoys it must be sick as well.

  I sign into another account. Not only is this author a complete prick in person, he lacks any real talent. 1-star through and through. He’s an asshole and someone should shove a corncob up his rear. I frown when I post that one. I feel bad because he is talented, but, he needs to be knocked of his diamond encrusted pedestal. I’m only helping him. And then, well, I log into Facebook under the name Vigil Ante—a fake account I set up a few days ago when I was afraid it would come to this—and I go to the little group I made, aptly called: Justin Wild is a Dirty Manwhore. So far, it already has 34 members. I’m sure he hasn’t screwed all of them, but I vetted them through and through. Most of them have, at some point, posted something about him being a dick.

  I crack my knuckles, take another swig of coffee, and type away: Guess what I found? A copy of Demolished on www.freethebooks.com. And it is shit! I left a review about how bad it was, along with what a dick he is on Goodreads. I suggest you all do the same. God only knows what he’s said about you if you actually let him stick his dick in you. God, I wish I hadn’t.

  And then, I log off with a smile.

  I’d argue that eyeliner and mascara are a girl’s best friend. Eyes are the doorway to the soul and, for the woman who knows how to aptly apply her makeup, they can scream sex. I smudge the black Dior liner below my eyes, toss the pencil down, fluff my hair, and walk out of my apartment in my short black dress, hips swaying in my red heels.

  I glance up at the sign: Tiki Tom’s Dance Club. I walk in, a woman on a mission. Thanks to Zuckerfucker and Facebook, I knew exactly where to find Justin’s favorite model, Chris Talon. I shove my way through the crowded room and there his is, leaned against the bar. Drink in hand. Tall. Dark hair and eyes. He’s wearing one of those godawful bro-tanks with a visor that reads: Stunner, kicked to the side. But, still, he’s pretty. And, just as every bad boy should, he has tattoos. Justin, I hate to say it, but his tattoos are better than yours.

  I walk straight over to him and tap him on the shoulder. “You’re Chris Talon, right?” I ask.

  He grins, his eyes sliding over my legs, my tits. “Yeah... ”

  “I saw you at the signing in Connecticut, Authors and Readers Unite.” I smile and coyly twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “I’m an author.”

  Chris brushes his hand over his dark hair and smiles at me. “Small world, huh?”

  “Yep.” I take a sip, wrapping my freshly glossed lips around the straw as I stare up at him. He grins and shamelessly adjusts himself. “My name’s Marisa,” I say and hold my hand out.

  “Chris, but you can call me big daddy.” He laughs, of course he does.

  I force a smile. “Alright, you can just call me, Marisa.”

  “So what do you write?” he asks.

  “Oh, you know, fucked up shit.”

  “Fucked up shit?” He cocks a brow and thumbs over the hoop in his bottom lip. “I thought you said you write romance?”

  “Oh, I do. But you see,” I take a step toward him, close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin lick mine, “I don’t believe in fairytales. I like my love stories to be bloody and violent.”

  “Shit.” He laughs. “I want to be on the cover of your books then.”

  “I’d put you on one, but only because you’re pretty.” I trail a fingertip up the deep indention of his chest, up his neck, over his lip. “You’ll be at the signing in South Beach next weekend, right?”

  “Yep. You?” He tips his beer back, his eyes dancing dangerously with dirty promises.

  “Um-hmm.” I bite at my bottom lip. “You staying alone?” Planning, Justin. I’m always planning...

  Chris leans down, sweeping my hair to the side as his lips brush my ear. “Depends on if you end up in my bed.”

  I shove him away. “You’re dirty, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “Mmmm.” I allow my eyes to drag over his body like he’s something cheap I want to buy. And this is the art of playing someone, knowing what makes them tick. Justin—it’s disinterest, denial. Chris, well, all it takes is a whore. “Take a picture with me,” I say.

  He reaches for the stool beh
ind him and takes a seat, patting his thick thigh. I giggle and sit gently on his knee. He wraps his arm around me, takes my phone from my hand, and holds it out. Click. Click. Click. The last picture, he’s kissing my cheek. And it’s perfect.

  “Want to get out of here?” he asks, his lips pressing against my neck, and I cringe.

  I stand and turn around. “I’ll see you next weekend.” I wink as I back away from him, smiling. I’m barely out of the bar before I’ve got that picture uploading to Facebook. #ChrisTalon #SwoonWorthy #AuthorsAndModels

  The queen has moved. All the pawns are on the bored. Justin, you will either love me, or I will ruin you.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Justin

  “HeavyDirtySoul”- Twenty One Pilots

  The cursor flashes on the screen. Over and over.

  And it felt like a storm, like the tides being sucked out and washing back—DELETE. I haven’t written shit over the past week. I am literally at a word count of 235. I was supposed to be at 15,000 by now. Shit like this makes me want to throw this hybrid author deal to the wind, but I have three more damn books in this contract. My last release sucked, it barely hit USA Today—at 110. Panic crackles through my chest as I stare at that word count, willing it to move, but all that’s in my mind is a pile of shit buzzing with flies.

  My phone vibrates on the table and I sigh when I see my agent’s name pop up on the screen. “Jesus fucking... ” I mumble as I lift the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “What the hell, Justin?” Denise shouts into the phone. I yank the phone away and Cobain’s head pops up, his ears perked. “Justin?”

  Slowly, I pull it back to my ear. “Stop yelling. What the fuck’s going on?”