White Pawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  Chapter Three

  Justin

  “Headband”- BoB, 2 Chain

  Thud. “I hate you, you dick,” Shanna growls through the mail slot. She keeps pounding her fists over my apartment door. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  For the record, I blame my ex, Meredith, for turning me into a dick. I gave that girl the fucking world, and she took a big old, steaming dump right on my chest. Running off with my best friend, Manwhore Matthew, who she said was “a better man” than me. After that, I vowed to just be a prick. Prick’s don’t get their feelings hurt. Pussies do.

  “Open the door you ass!” Bam. “I hate your guts.” Bam.

  She’s been out there for fifteen minutes, yelling. The thing is, I may have dicked her over, but yet, she’s holding on to hope because I’m the best fuck she’ll ever have. I know it. She knows it. I’ve fucked my way through a lot of women, paying attention to the way their toes curl, to the things I do that make them hold their breath in anticipation. My goal with every girl I get in bed is the same: leave them a puddle of blubbering bliss on the mattress. Fucking is like a fine art, and it’s a shame more men don’t treat it as such. It’s a skill that should be honed and crafted, because when you can make a woman feel like she was made for you, like every breath you draw is for her with nothing more than the stroke of your cock, you’ve nailed it, and you’ll leave droves of women cockstruck in your wake. Wham. Wham. Wham. “Justin,” she whines.

  Sighing, I grab a beer from my fridge and walk to the mudroom by the entrance. Cobain trots after me, his short gray fur bristling as he barks at the door. He turns his huge head toward me when she pounds the door again, and he tucks his tail on a low growl.

  “She’s fucking crazy,” I say, patting his head. He barks again like he’s agreeing with me. Even the damn dog knows this bitch is insane. “Shanna,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re so mad.”

  “Are you kidding me? You…you lied to me. You were cheating on me, you—”

  “No. I was never with you.”

  “Oh, you asshole.”

  “Shanna, tell me when I ever told you we were exclusive?”

  “You are a shithead. You could have broken it off with me instead of just posting that picture of you and that girl.”

  I groan. “Shanna, if you don’t leave, I’ll just call the cops. Jesus, the neighbors are going to think you’re a raging psycho.”

  “Fuck you.”

  And then…silence. Beautiful silence. I hear the elevator doors ding open, then close. I take another sip of my beer and drag my free hand down my face. This is the problem with being a god of fuck and a public figure, you’re never safe. I can’t causally date the first woman without her trying to make it serious, without her reading too much into what I say. It gets old. It’s not like I asked for this shit. I write. I’m a recluse, an introvert. Who the fuck knew that writing a few books about my ex would turn into what it did—a six figure publishing contract and #1 New York Times Bestsellers? And who knew a title like that could pull the ass it does? So here I sit, the fucking Mick Jagger of the literary world. King Prick and writer of words.

  I go to tip my beer up and Cobain jumps up on me, paws on my chest, knocking me off balance. The beer sloshes out of the neck and onto my shirt. “Shit.” I huff, shoving Cobain down. I set the foaming bottle on the kitchen counter and head to my bedroom to change because I have to write today. I have to. I’ve had the most annoying writer’s block to ever exist. I’ve tried meditation. I’ve tried a high protein diet. Low protein diet. Hell, I’ve even tried binge watching Pornhub. Nothing helps except going to the coffee shop at the end of my street. Cliché, I know. I think it’s the people watching. The quirky customers. The mother of five. The business man on the verge of a coronary every day. The emo kid that never orders a coffee, but sits alone at one of the tables most likely planning some horrendous crime. That coffee shop is my only fix for writers block, and as much as I don’t want to go outside of my apartment right now because I’m afraid Shanna is going to be standing outside keying my vintage Mercedes, I’m 25,000 words behind on my deadline, and these publishers are riding my ass like the last horseman of the apocalypse.

  I grab a t-shirt from the clean pile on my floor and pull my beer soaked shirt over my head. Cobain slinks around the corner of the bed, head hung as his big blue eyes lift to me. “You should be ashamed of yourself. That was my favorite writing shirt. Gremlins are fucking epic, Cobain.” Groaning, I shake my head and slip the clean shirt over my head. I grab my phone, snap a selfie, and do a few quick edits to make sure I’ll make my followers gush their panties before I post it to Facebook with the update: Need some writing fuel. #Coffee #AmWriting #AllTheFuckingWords

  I grab my Macbook and put Cobain on his leash before heading out. We step onto the elevator and he sits, staring up at me, his tail barely wagging. “I gotta start doing background checks on these girls, huh?”

  And he just sits there. Fucking lucky ass dog.

  Chapter Four

  Marisa

  “#1 Crush”- Garbage

  My Facebook dings with a notification. Need some writing fuel. #Coffee #AmWriting #AllTheFuckingWords.

  I quickly slip on my Chuck Taylors, grab my laptop, my purse, and run to the door. I hurry down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. The coffee shop is half a block down, right on the corner of my street—of mine and Justin’s street. By the time I stop at the crosswalk, my shirt is sticking to my back. The heat radiates up from the asphalt in squiggly waves and I curse it. The crosswalk light changes and I rush across the street, slamming the entire weight of my body against the door. The bell tinkers when I walk in and I breathe a sigh of relief as the cool air wraps around me. I put my computer on a table right by the register, then I order a Vanilla Latte and go back to my seat, open Word, and attempt to write because today is the day. Justin Wild is going to be here any minute, and I want him to see me writing. A year ago an interview in Cosmopolitan said Justin’s dream girl would have a knack for writing and so, here I am—writing. Writing stories with seamless endings...

  My heart’s flittering nervously in my chest because I’ve bypassed 13 coffee shop visits over the past three weeks. Twenty-one days have come and gone, 504 hours we could have spent together wasted, but everything must be picture-perfect. To make this entire author bullshit believable, I needed to show him I’ve been working on my book for a while. I needed enough words to make this believable. 60,000. I told myself 60,000. I glance down at the word count in the left-hand side of my window. 61,234. I’ll give Justin credit; this entire writing process is much harder than I thought. Not that I thought it would necessarily be easy, but good God, talk about time consuming.

  I take a sip of my Vanilla Latte and the bell on the door dings and…there he is. My pulse skips. I hold my breath for a fleeting moment. Taller, Justin’s so much taller than I thought. Cut jawline, defined nose, full lips. A perfectly manicured five o'clock shadow. My eyes drift over his body. Jesus Christ. His massive chest is straining against that black t-shirt. The sleeves squeeze his defined biceps—his very defined biceps covered in a hodgepodge of tattoos. Two complete sleeves of ink, my literary genius has that bad boy edge that drive most women crazy. God, I’m a lucky woman, Justin. I’m so lucky. His Great Dane, Cobain, trots in behind him, his gray coat gleaming underneath the lights.

  “Hey Justin. Hey Cobain,” the barista calls out. My gaze darts over to the counter and I glare at her and her plain face and her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. One of the customers stops and pets Cobain on the head before heading out.

  “You know you are the only person we’ll let in here with a dog…” blondie says, grinning.

  “We appreciate that, don’t we Cobain?” Justin smiles at the barista.

  I keep typing then glancing up, watching him fiddle with his phone, watching Cobain scratch. Type. Look up. Type. Type. Look up. When he hands his card to the girl her hand brushes his and she, of course, blushes. He doesn�
��t pay her any attention, just steps to the side—to the side right next to my table—while he waits for his coffee. He’s so close, I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. I bite down on my lip, rehearsing what I’ll say to him, and then, he glances at me. His eyes are so blue and deep and perfect. Those eyes are the window to the soul who gave me my favorite book. They are the eyes of a literary genius. Of my soulmate…

  Justin smiles before taking a quick peek to the low cut Escape the Fate t-shirt that’s clinging to my perky tits…that’s right, Justin, I’m into the same edgy, non-mainstream bands you are into…then that smile deepens. "Yeah, ready," he says.

  Even though my nerves are bubbling in my gut, I manage to maintain eye contact with him while I take another sip of my drink. It’s barely a quarter of the way empty, but I need to walk past him, so I stand. I put a little sway in my hips as I head to the overflowing trash bin and toss the cardboard cup away. I smile, bite down on my lip, and lift my eyes to his before walking back to my table, sitting, and going right back to my document, typing away like he doesn’t even exist. Because I know him. I know him, and to him, this is a game, and I swear to God, I’ll make him want to play.

  “Justin,” the barista calls out.

  Seconds pass before I peek over the top of my computer. He’s making his way to my table, coffee in hand, Cobain in tow. My heart hammers in my chest. That tell-tell heat creeps over my cheeks when he pulls out the chair across from me. “Mind if I sit down?” he asks, although he’s already sinking onto the metal chair. The dog plops down beside the table, resting his head in Justin’s lap. And then, Justin grins and that grin in and of itself is enough to make any woman bend to his every whim. I shrug, and he laughs.

  “I’m Justin.” He holds out his hand and my eyes drop to his open palm. I want to touch him, to see how soft his skin is beneath mine, but I keep my fingers hoovering over my keyboard.

  “Marisa.” I say dryly.

  He takes a sip of his coffee—Caramel Macchiato, if I had to guess, he loves those—and his eyes narrow on me, swirling with curiosity. The air between us thickens. There is a fog of electricity swirling between us, charged in a way comparable only to the thick electric static that hangs heavy in the air before a summer storm, and people like that—people like us—we aren't just thrown together haphazardly. “You live on Water Street, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Yep. Just moved in a week or so ago.”

  “I thought you looked familiar. I think I saw you a few days back when I was out walking Cobain here.” He pats the dog on the head.

  “Maybe I just have a familiar face.” I type a few words…then look back up.

  “No, you don’t.” Laughing, Justin places both elbows on the table, crossing his arms as he leans toward me, smirking. "You're very stunning, Marisa.”

  My pulse goes into overdrive and I fight the heat threatening to consume my entire face and sell me out. I laugh and lock eyes with him. "Thanks.”

  “What’s that?” he asks, pointing at my laptop.

  “Well, they call it a computer.”

  “Oh, and a smartass, too, huh?”

  “I write, well,” I laugh, “I’m attempting to write.”

  “No shit.” His face lights up. Oh, Justin, look how perfect I am for you already. “Me too,” he says. “How much until your finished?”

  “Oh, just finishing up edits.”

  “Can I read it?” He reaches for my laptop and I pull it away from him, lifting a brow. He throws his hands up. “Sorry. I just get excited when I meet other authors.” Justin leans back in his seat, cupping his coffee with both hands, waiting on me to pry, but I won’t. I just glance back down to my keyboard and type. He clears his throat. “Justin Wild, ever read him?” I glance up. “That’s me,” he says.

  I wait. I tap my fingers over the table. I keep my expression as affective as I possibly can. “Oh, okay.”

  He takes another sip of his coffee. That sexy smirk of his deepens and I'll be damned if he doesn't look like a lion waiting in the African bush to pounce on unsuspecting prey. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks.

  “I’ve got plans,” I lie.

  “What about Saturday?”

  Sighing, I shove my laptop back in its case, and as hard as it is for me to stand from the table and pretend I’m not interested in him, I know I must. “Depends…”

  He pushes his chair back, yanks on Cobain’s leash, and follows me to the exit. “I’ll take you out for drinks. There’s this really chill bar—the Lazy Iguana.”

  I want to roll my eyes. That sounds like such a little douche bar, one pricks would go to, but I smile because I want him to like me. “Sure,” I say as I push the door open.

  “Sure?” he laughs, rubbing his hand over the back of his head, making a mess of his thick brown hair.

  “Yep. Sure.” We walk for a moment in silence. My heart hums in my chest and my lips keep trying to pull into a smile, but I won’t let them.

  “I like your accent. Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Tennessee.”

  “Cool.”

  God, he’s so amateur to be such a ladies man. I stop in front of 2140 Water Street. “So,” I say, “I guess Facebook me for detail about our drinks. Marisa Dawson, one ‘s’.” I spin around, swishing my hips as I walk along the sidewalk to the entrance of the building.

  I glance through the glass doors and he’s still on the sidewalk, staring at his phone. A pleased smile settles across my lips although my insides are buzzing with a type of euphoria I haven’t felt in years. Shortly after I get inside my apartment, my phone dings with a notification: Author Justin Wild has sent you a friend request. As hard as it is, I wait a good three hours before I accept his friend request. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year watching his Tweets, his public Facebook status updates, the comments…Justin Wild is a player through and through, a womanizer. And although I know this game is risky, today proved what I figured it would…that we belong together.

  Love, like any game of strategy requires patience and a certain skill level. You rush a move and you fuck up. And I can’t fuck up.

  Chapter Five

  Justin

  “Gucci Coochie”- Die Antwoord

  Cobain trots over to his bed and flops down, huffing through his jowls. I toss my computer onto the couch, Word still up and glaring at me. So much for getting work done. Fuck my life. I fall face-first onto the couch and groan. When I look up Cobain’s standing beside the couch, tail wagging, his head cocked to the side. Exhaling, I sit up, grab my phone and click on the Facebook app. First, I go delete some random girl from my Facebook friends and look up the brunette fuck-doll I met at the coffee shop. Marissa Brown, Marissa Deacon…Marisa Dawson, there she is. I send her a friend request, offering her the coveted spot of my 5,000th friend even though I just met her. Sure, it makes me seem desperate, but you see, women like her—sexy bombshells reminiscent of a 1940s-pinup girl—that’s what they want. Beautiful women are used to men falling all over them, but I’ll only fall just enough.

  I flip through channels on the TV. I drink a beer and check to see if she’s accepted my request. Nope. Laughing, I toss the phone down. So, this is how we play this, huh? The problem is, you can’t play a player, sweetheart.

  A text from my publicists pops up on my phone:

  Sales on the new book suck. Where are you at on the deadline. Don’t tell me close. I want exact word count.

  I toss my head back against the cushion before I type out: 60,123.5

  I glance up at the computer. At the word count: 50,012. I’m annoyed, so I shove the computer to the side and grab another beer, popping the top and letting it fall to the floor. Kobain crawls out of his bed, walks over to the top and sniffs it before turning back around and lying on the floor. This release has fucking tanked. My last release was abysmal and I have a feeling this one will be too. I glance around my 2500 square foot Manhattan apartment; I look at all the expensive shit I bou
ght when I was raking in money…and my stomach knots. My self-esteem plummets.

  And I pick up my phone, pick a random chick, and send a quick text:

  I miss you.

  The dance music thumps through my chest when I step inside the Lazy Iguana. People are leaned against the redbrick interior of the entrance. Girls give me passing glances and smiles as I walk by. Guys size me up as competition. I place my hand on the waist of a pretty brunette as I slink past her in the crowded room. The second I step into the main lounge, I spot Marisa leaned against the bar. Arms crossed, hip cocked to the side. The tight red dress clings to her curves in a way that’s begging for me to fuck her. Her long brown hair hangs over one shoulder. Fuck, that girl is gorgeous. She glances toward the door and her eyes land on me. I straighten the collar of my shirt as I approach, smiling when I stop beside her. “Shit, you look amazing,” I say.

  “Thanks.” She doesn’t smile. She looks completely uninterested and bored. What the fuck is her deal?

  “You ever been here before?” I ask, unable to keep my eyes from dropping to her supple chest spilling out of the low-cut dress.

  “No.” She tips her drink back, her red lipstick staining the rim. And then, silence. She pulls her phone from her purse and stares down at the screen.

  Clearing my throat, I lean across the bar and snap my fingers. The prissy redhead behind the counter looks up with a smile, her eyes trailing down to my chest. I flex my muscles under the tight shirt and her grin deepens. See. Works here? What’s Marisa’s deal? “What can I get you, hottie?” she asks.

  “How about a whisky sour.”

  “Sure think.” She flips her ponytail to the side and grabs a glass to fill with ice. I turn around and lean against the counter beside Marisa who is still on her phone. This is ridiculous. A few second later, the bartender slides my glass in front of me. I hand her my card and step to the side, snaking my arm around Marisa’s tight little waist and pinching her side.