“What’s up, mopey?” I laugh.
“I’m sorry?”
“You look fucking pissed. I mean,” I take a sip of the stout drink and shrug, “by all means, don’t feel like you have to be here.”
Her eyes narrow and the smallest sexy smirk inches across those amazing lips of hers. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Oh, just hard to impress?”
“Something like that.” Her grin deepens as she steps away from my hold. “Being a New York Times Bestseller’s not exactly enough to make me go all swoony.”
“So, you do know who I am?”
“Of course I do.”
God, she is such a little shit, and as I watch the neon green and yellow club lights bounce off her fair skin, I think, I may have just met a challenge unlike any I’ve seen. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to work for attention. That shit’s thrown at me like cheap confetti. I’m successful. Rich. I’m better looking than half of those fuckfaces that don the covers of Romance books, and I’ve learned that combination means I can basically be a fucking dick and still pull girls most men can only dream of.
And then there’s this chick.
Some upbeat song pumps through the speakers and I grab her hand, leading her to the dance floor. She resists for all of five seconds before she gives in to me. I turn around and grab her hips, moving them in beat with the music as my fingers slip over the sleek material of her dress. My eyes lock with hers, every so often drifting down to her lips. Her red lipstick perfectly outlines their graceful curves. My hands glide to the small of her back and her fingers squeeze my biceps. Her chest rises in a deep swell. Her body language—the way she’s pressing against me, the way her fingers so subtly trail over my muscles—it says she wants me, but her face, well, that’s a different story. Her expression is unreadable, stone-cold indifference. I sweep her dark hair from her shoulder and lean down. “You are incredibly beautiful,” I whisper, lingering by her ear.
She moves away, her steel blue eyes moving to my lips on a smirk. “I’m not fucking you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You’re right.” And then she turns around, swaying her body in rhythm to the music. She gathers her hair in her hands as she lifts her arms above her head, turning her head to the side as she lets her hair go. It cascades down her back like she’s filming a shampoo commercial. Her hips swish from side to side and I watch her ass, my dick swelling at the thought of what it would look like out of that tight little dress. The song ends and she walks back to the bar, taking a seat on the one empty stool. This girl is something else. I cross the dance floor, wedging myself between her and the little hipster fuck sitting on the stool next to her.
“So, what are you writing?” she asks. “Another book in the Perception series?”
“Nah, something new.” I motion the bartender over and order two more drinks.
“You trying to get me drunk?” she asks.
“Not at all. Just trying to be a gentleman.”
She tosses her head back and laughs.
“What?”
“Look, I know guys like you.”
“I’m sorry…” The bartender hands me two whisky sours. I take both, handing one to her before I take a stout sip from my own.
“You know,” she shrugs, “assholes. Players.”
“Oh, that’s fucking low.”
“Is it?” she takes a slow sip and places the glass on the counter, trailing a single fingertip around the rim. “So, I’ve got you all wrong then, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmm.” She lifts the glass back to her mouth, smiling around the edge as she takes another drink. “You sure look the part. Pretty playboy face, tight shirts that show off your muscles and tats. And you have this swagger that I’ve only seen true players pull off.” She giggles. “And, I bet, if I were actually interested in you, you wouldn’t have paid half the attention to me in that coffee shop that you did.”
“Actually interested?” I scoff, and she lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. Psychoanalyze me all you want, dear, but don’t get all butthurt when I do the same thing to you.”
Her eyes flare. “Oh, and what conclusion have you come to about me?”
I drag my eyes over her, attempting to come up with some good shit, I mean, hell I am a writer, but all I can think about is how badly I want to fuck her. How badly I want to have her begging me to be inside her. Sex is all that’s on my mind…
“Exactly,” she says. “I’m just an innocent woman.”
Taking a swift swig of whisky, I chuckle into the glass. “Innocent my ass. That resting bitch face you’ve got going is a tell-tell sign that you’re from some ritzy background. Fucking snob…” She glares at me. “You’re from money, aren’t you?”
“Congratulations. Was it the resting bitch face or the Lou Vuitton that tipped you off.”
“Both.”
And a smile cracks on her face. Marisa reaches over, grabbing my shirt and tugging me toward her. “So a player and a snob. Total mismatch.”
“Oh, please.”
She pushes to her feet, her fingertips trailing up my shirt, my neck. She grips my jaw in her hand as she inches toward my face, our eyes locked. “Something about you... ” she whispers. Her warm breath washes over my lips and I can almost taste her. Her fingernails rake over my forearm as she takes a step back, giving me a good once over. “Shame I don’t fuck around with players.” Then, she turns and walks off, her hips swaying with each heavy step.
I can’t help but laugh to myself as I watch her weave through the crowded bar toward the door. It’s been a while since I’ve had to chase a girl, and that one right there—Marisa Dawson—she’s definitely going to be a problem.
Chapter Six
Marisa
“One Way or Another”- Until the Ribbon Breaks
There are too many people at this crosswalk. Their warm, sweaty bodies are only inches from mine. I close my eyes and pretend like they’re not here. I feel the crowd shift and open my eyes and walk. Justin wanted to pick me up from my apartment, but I’m not ready for that, and…I’m not an idiot. If he even sets foot within fifteen feet of my apartment building, he’ll think he’s going to take me up and screw my brains out. And it’s not time for that yet.
My feet are aching and I’m cursing myself for wearing these high heels by the time I reach the red awning of Victor’s. I take a second to smooth my hair out and touch up my lipstick before I walk inside the crowded entrance where men in suits and women in Sunday dresses are waiting. I go straight past the hostess stand and into the brightly lit dining area. The room is bustling with waiters carrying trays, people laughing, and there, among the white table cloths and hanging glass fixtures, right underneath the massive fake palm tree, I find Justin sitting at a table, scrolling his phone. I take a deep breath and calm my flittering heart as I approach him.
He glances up, standing to pull my chair out when I stop at the table. His eyes skate over my body and I smile as I sit. “You look beautiful,” he says, pushing my chair up to the table.
“Thanks.” I pick the menu up and read over the items—all in Spanish. “Have you eaten here before?”
“All the time. This is my favorite restaurant in Manhattan.” He takes the top of my menu between his fingers and pulls it down. “The uh…” he points to an item, “Vaca Frita Al Mojo Agrios is the best.”
I lift my brows. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“You like meat? Like brisket?”
“Yeah…”
“Get that, trust me. It’s fucking amazing.”
A few minutes later and our order is placed: two Vaca Frita Al Mojos and two glasses of merlot. Justin excuses himself, leaving his phone right on the edge of the table. I watch as he weaves his way through the tables and chairs and out into the atrium of the restaurant, then I grab his phone. I can’t help myself, I just…need to know what I’m dealing with here. I quickly tap on the messenger icon, my stomach growin
g queasy as I scroll. Message after message from women. Some are innocent: I loved your book, while others are dirty messages. Others are risqué pictures. The message at the top—last responded to right before I walked into the restaurant—is to some bitch named Tori Davis. She evidently misses him and went on and on about how she can’t wait to see him again in two weeks at some book signing. His response: a smiley face with happy, jazz hands.
Well, we’ll just see about that, won’t we Tori-fucking-Davis? I close out of the app and place the phone back, facedown on the table at a 45-degree angle, the top right corner on top of his napkin, just like he left it, then I take a sip of wine and wait for him to come back. The waiter stops by the table to refill our wine. I scroll on my phone, trolling Justin’s page. The post he made about going to dinner with a “lovely lady” has over two thousand like and hundreds of comments: Lucky girl. Oh, no please don’t tell me you’re taken. Sad panda here… I roll my eyes and close out of the app just as Justin steps back to the table and takes a seat. His light blue shirt fits him just right and it’s thin enough I can make out the tattoos on his chest. He is so perfect…well, to look at. He’s like an oleander flower: beautiful and deceiving because he’s absolutely toxic. He is heartbreak in physical form, unless you’re immune, that is. And I have spent my time building up a resistance to the kind of charms he exudes. And I will tear him down.
“They brought us more wine,” I say, pointing at the glasses.
“Cool.”
I want to roll my eyes. Justin, you are a distinguished author. Surely you can do better than “cool”. I take a sip of wine, then clear my throat. “You know, I hope you don’t mind, but can I pick your brain for a second, you know, about writing and all that stuff?”
“Of course, lady.” He smiles and I want to melt, but I don’t. I tell my stupid heart to calm down.
“Well, I know, you are traditionally published but—”
He holds up a finger. “Hybrid. I still do some indie stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, okay, well, with the…indie stuff, I mean how do you market it?”
“That’s the fucking million-dollar question. It’s all a fluke if you ask me. But, the best advice I can give you, do as many book signings as you can.”
“What?” I feign naivety.
“Book signings. Oh my god,” he says, leaning over the table, a huge grin spreading across his mouth, “you sheltered little thing. Have you not been to a signing?”
“No…”
“Shit, the indie ones…amazing. I love them. You get to meet readers and party.”
“Maybe I can go to one with you.” Because Tori-fucking-Davis isn’t going to get you again...
“I don’t know.” A smirk settles over his face as he lifts his wine to his lips. “Mismatch and all.”
I roll my eyes. “Not as a date, you asshole. Just as a friend.”
“Yeah, yeah. You do realize I’m not going to just be friends with a girl like you, right?” His white teeth sink into his plump bottom lip. “I’m attracted to you, and the first time you let your guard down…” he lifts a brow and winks at me.
“Whatever you need to think to stroke your ego.”
“There’s a signing at the Hilton over in the city this weekend.” He shrugs before polishing off his wine. “You want to go to that one? I’ll show you the ropes, introduce you to some people.”
“Sure.”
He narrows his gaze on me. “I mean, don’t get excited or anything.” I glare at him over the rim of my wine glass as I tip it back. “You may quiet possibly be the first woman that has thrown me for a loop,” he says.
“Well, I’m not a normal girl.”
“No, Marisa, you absolutely are not.”
I hold my head high as we walk through the signing hotel lobby, certain I’ll be the envy of every woman here because Justin looks so perfect in his crisp white shirt, tattered jeans, and Chuck Taylors. “Holy shit,” I say when Justin and I step into the ballroom. The entire room is flooded with tables and banners and people. Women shouting, laughing. A piece of candy lands by my feet and I bend over to grab it from the floor, cocking my brow as I hold the penis shaped lollipop up. “Well…”
Justin snags it, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm. Always figured cock tasted like watermelon,” he says, his eyes rolling back in his head.
I swat at him. “You are such a boy,” I say and he smiles. “How many authors are here?”
“I don’t know, eighty or something like that.”
“Dear God…” I follow Justin through the crowded room as he snakes his way between people and carts and mounds of books. Every woman stares at him. Every single person waves or says hi, and then their eyes dart over to me. They wish they were me.
“Why aren’t you carting any books?” I ask.
“My PA dropped them off.” We stop in front of a table stacked with books and bookmarks and shirts. He pats the table. “See. All done.” Behind his table stands a large banner: Justin Wild #1 New York Times Bestselling Author.
He pulls out a chair for me, then plops down in the other seat and leans back, running his fingers through his brown hair. I sit and watch the other authors scrounging around, fighting with banners, stacking and restacking books, covering their table with candy and pens.
“You gonna help me out today?” he asks with a smile.
“Help you do what?”
“Just, you know,” he grabs one of his books and flips through the pages. “Hand me books and stuff.”
I glare at him, drumming my nails over the table. “Like your assistant?”
“Yeah, sure, something like that.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you invited me here to show me the indie side of the publishing world, not be your assistant.”
“Call it what you want.” Shrugging, he grabs a Sharpie and taps it over the edge of the table before using it to point at a brunette girl across the room…one I recognize from my little perusal of his phone the other night. “I can get her to do it if you don’t want to,” he says.
“It’s fine.” I say without a smile. I can’t help but notice his gaze is still locked on that fucking girl, his eyes tracing over her ass.
Justin is so full of himself. So certain. And it’s when someone’s at their most confident, that they are at their weakest. He glances back at me, grins, then grabs a book and flips through it. I stare at him, study him. I’m one-hundred percent certain he’s a better fuck than most men could ever hope to be…and he thinks he’s going to play his little game of cat and mouse with me, but that’s not how this game is going to go. No, Justin. It is not. You will try to seize me and I’ll escape. Instead of chasing you, I will run. And in the end, you will love me because I think you should.
He smiles. “God, you are beautiful.”
And you are perfect, Justin. You really, really are. “Thanks.”
“And so damn weird.” He laughs.
“Fuck you.”
“God, you keep getting better and better. I love a girl with a filthy mouth.”
The brunette he pointed at a few minutes ago sashays her way over to his table, tits out and all smiles. “Hey, Justin,” she coos—literally coos at him as she places her palms flat on the table and leans over, her cleavage on full display. “Who’s your…” she cuts her eyes in my direction, “friend.”
“Marisa.” He looks at me and nods towards the bimbo. “Marisa, this is Tori.”
Oh, I know it’s “can’t wait to see you again” Tori-fucking-Davis. She turns, looks at me, and holds her hand out like she wants to shake mine. “Nice to meet you,” she says. But she doesn’t smile, she doesn’t blink. She cocks her hip to the side, sizing me up as we shake. “Justin’s a great guy.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say, so subtly lifting a single brow as I think about how easily I could take this little runt into the bathroom and drown her in the fucking toilet.
“Are you going to be going to anymore of his signings with him?” Her eye
twitches. Her nostrils flare.
“I don’t know…” I smile so sweetly, batting my lashes like an innocent little thing.
“Hey, hey,” Justin snaps his fingers and she turns to face him. “Is uh, is that blogger, what’s her fucking name, Samantha—Samantha’s Book Obsession or some shit like that, is she here?”
“Somewhere.”
Justin grabs a pen and book, opens to the first page and scribbles something over it before he hands it to Tori. “Give this to her for me, would you?”
“Kay.” She taps her fingers over the shiny cover. “I’ll see you at the party then. You staying at the hotel?”
“Nah, my place is too close for all that bullshit. I’ll just stumble on the subway drunk…with her.” He swats at my hair and laughs. Tori pouts, and I want to slam her face into the stack of books over and over until her fucking skull splits, but instead, I smile.
“Well, you better set aside some time specifically for me at the after party.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure thing.” He flips the Sharpie in the air and catches it.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, of course, I don’t mean it. And, of course, she wants to kill me, but really, how pathetic can you be? He just said he was going home with me and this girl is pouting. It’s disgusting really. She doesn’t respond to me. I don’t expect her to. She flips her hair over her should, turns, and walks off, attempting to put a sexy sway in her lack of hips. Doesn’t she know you need curves, hips to land a guy like Justin? “Wow,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yeah, Tori’s a bitch. Don’t mind her.”
“A bitch? And you are nice to bitches because…”
Justin shrugs, flashing a smile at me. “Gotta be in this business, babe. Gotta be.”
Babe. Already, Justin? Already…
I watch Tori take a seat at a table, and then a guy in muscle shirt struts buy. “Oh god,” Justin groans. “I can’t fucking stand him.”
White Pawn Page 3
