White Pawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  “I mean…I’m supposed to, but…” Her lips press against my throat and her hand travels down my stomach.

  “Ah, don’t be like that. She’s your friend.” I turn around and kiss her, placing my forehead against hers as I stare into her green eyes. “We already had amazing sex.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me, would you, Justin Wild?”

  “Never. You are divine. Perfect.” I kiss her again. “But don’t be like that to your friends.” I’ve perfected the art of making women believe my best interest lies with them when all I’m trying to do is get them the fuck outta here. Fuckbuddy or not, I can’t have her thinking I’m a complete asshole.

  Groaning, she rolls out of bed, grabs her dress, and slips it over her head. “I’ll tell her you said hey.”

  “Sure thing,” I say without looking up from my phone.

  “You have a signing this weekend, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you need an assistant? I’d love to come. You know, sit there with you, watch all those girls fawn over you.”

  “Nah, babe. I got it covered.”

  She pouts as she grabs her sandals and shoves her feet inside. “I hate you.”

  “Trust me, I hate you, too.” I laugh.

  “Call me later?” she asks as she heads to the door.

  “Of course.”

  As soon as she’s out of the room, I text Marisa back:

  You know you want to go with me.

  Yeah, yeah…

  Marisa’s fucking cute, really, she is, thinking she can pull one over on me.

  Chapter Ten

  Marisa

  “Stand by Me”-Ki Theory

  Keep yourself a constant in their mind. A text here. A call there. A tag on Facebook. I published my book today, but I haven’t even posted about it because I’ve been texting with Justin. Dirty texts. Very dirty, suggestive texts. I am subliminally keeping his thoughts centered on me, and, after a while, he’ll start to believe there is more to it. As long as he is wondering why the hell he can’t get me out of his head, well, I’m winning, he’s the pawn.

  My phone dings.

  I can’t wait until tomorrow to see you. What’s your apartment number?

  311

  I’m coming over.

  I swallow. The pace of my heart steadily quickens as I glance around my apartment. I’m not ready for this yet. I go to text him back, but stop myself. Sometimes unplanned situations such as these are best. It’s unstaged so he’ll never think to question it. How could he? He’ll just think that I love James Patterson and Stephen King as much as he does. He’ll find it endearing that I have the same Ansel Adam framed on my wall, the same towel in my bathroom. Random selfies on Facebook do such a great job of showing you the tiny details of someone’s life. It’s the knowledge of those little details that make it more than easy to make someone believe you are their carbon copy. Same interests and hobbies, same decorating taste, and if you’re lucky, you can even end up with the same toothpaste as them. I tell myself it doesn’t matter if I haven’t had a chance to stop by Macy’s and pick up the same throw he has for my couch.

  I quickly dress myself in an old Nirvana t-shirt, one with that stupid smiley face on it. Justin’s dog is, after all, named in honor of the lead singer. I apply just enough makeup to look like I’m not wearing any. I put Lorde on the stereo and then I sit and wait. Fifteen minutes later, my doorbell rings.

  My excited pulse thrums through my ears with each step I take toward the entrance. The bell rings again and I jump before a soft smile settles on my lips. I unfasten the chain and it falls against the door in slow motion. My hand touches the cool doorknob and I take a moment to calm my rattled nerves. Slowly, I pull open the door. Justin’s leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his head slightly hung. His blue eyes lift, trailing over my body. That look causes an inferno to combust, heat consuming me. With a smirk, he pushes away from the wall and walks past me without a single word, his fingers sweeping over my shoulder. I swallow hard and, before I have a chance to think any of the possibilities through, Justin grabs my shoulders and slams me against the wall, pressing his unforgiving body against mine as he pins my arms above my head.

  “Fuck…” he says on a deep groan and every bit of woman inside of me melts, begging to bend to his whim. His fingers twitch around my wrists as his hips push against mine. “Look what you do to me,” he says, rolling his lip over mine. He’s hard. He’s so hard for me. One of his hands brushes down my arm. The gentle sweeping motion of his fingers sends chill bumps racing across my skin. I close my eyes when his fingers tangle in my hair. I fight a moan when he runs his nose along my throat, his warm lips barely grazing my flesh. Each hot breath that escapes his mouth fans over my skin, creating a blissful heat that eats away at me inch by blessed inch. “I want you,” he says before he kisses my neck. “Let me have you…”

  I swallow. I fidget against the wall—against him. My one free hand trails over the defined muscles of his back and a familiar tug pulls between my legs. I want to give into him…

  His lips travel up my throat, under my chin, and he releases my wrist, dropping his hand to my jaw and gripping it. He forces my face up. His eyes lock on mine before his lips slam over mine, and I grab the back of his head, deepening the kiss.

  Music plays softly in the background. A gentle breeze blows through the apartment. I can’t help but think that this is how it is in the movies. Perfect and beautiful. My fingers slowly work underneath his shirt and I slide my palm across his smooth skin. Between kisses, we make our way to the bedroom, every so often banging into furniture or the walls. By the time we fall onto the bed together, I can feel the electric tension wrapping around us both, binding us and threatening to snuff out the last bit of oxygen in this room. His greedy lips fall to my neck. His hand travels to the waist of my jeans. Like a pro, he unfastens the button and slips his hand inside the material. Justin’s hand creeps underneath the lace of my thong so slowly, I’m certain it’s a form of torture. I toss my head back on the pillow. He nips at my neck, the stubble of his jaw scraping over my delicate skin. His ragged breathing against my throat threatens to drive me over the edge, and then…he touches me with a single fingertip, and just like a little slut, I whimper. I bite down on my lip because, my god, Justin Wild’s fingers are on me. The fingers that typed out all those beautiful words of love and redemption…

  “Jesus Christ, you’re wet,” he groans against my throat and I smile. “Fuck,” he says as he sinks a finger inside of me.

  My muscles tense and tremble. Heat crawls over me. My cheeks burn and this small part of me wants to cry because isn’t this beautiful? Another deep groan rumbles up his throat and I can’t help myself. I slip my hand under the waist of his jeans and grab him, his hot skin is like velvet under my palm. We’re both desperate for each other. Hands and mouths everywhere. He sits up and grabs the waist of my jeans to, no doubt, rip them down my thighs, but I shake my head.

  “I... I don’t want to... ” my words are lost on a deep breath. “I’m not one of those girls... ”

  His eyes narrow on me as his bottom lip rolls underneath his teeth. “It’s fine, babe.” He leans down and kisses me. “It’s fine.” And then he lies down beside me, pulling me onto his hard chest and sweeping his hand through my hair. “I don’t need that from you. All I need is to hold you... ”

  I want to believe him, but I know, right now, he’s placing his pieces on the board and I can’t fall victim to any smokescreen he throws up. His fingers trail over my cheek. “Let me stay the night, I just want to sleep next to you.”

  “Okay,” I say, and then I close my eyes and drift off to sleep listening to the sound of his heart underneath my ear, knowing a guy won’t hold a fuckbuddy the way he’s holding me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Justin

  “idfc” - Blackbear

  “Holy shit!” I stand, staring at her bookshelf. At every copy of James Pa
tterson and Stephen King. “You even have... ” I grab a copy of Thinner by Richard Bachman—not Stephen King writing as John Bachman, no... the first edition copy. I turn toward the kitchen where Marisa’s cooking breakfast. “Are you shitting me?” I run my finger along the spines. “You have every single copy. First Edition?”

  “So it seems.”

  I step into the kitchen. Marisa’s in front of the small stove in that damn Nirvana t-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, her perfect little nipples visible through the thin white material. A small plume of smoke billows from the skillet, the smell of bacon filling the air as the meat sizzles in the grease. “Woman,” I say, walking up behind her and wrapping my arms around her delicate waist. “You impress me more every time I’m around you.” I kiss the crook of her neck. “This could get dangerous, you know?”

  “And why is that?” She breaks away from me, grabs two plates, and fills each with bacon and eggs and toast.

  “You’re gorgeous. You write. You cook. You have first edition copies of Stephen King and James Patterson.”

  “And that’s dangerous why?”

  “Love is a dangerous thing, lady.” Her eyes flicker when I utter that word. “A very dangerous form of insanity, you know? And, I think, if I let myself, I could love you.” I take my plate from the counter, and take a seat at the table. “Two people like us…”

  A smirk plays over her lips as she takes her plate and joins me at the table. “Two people like us what, Justin?”

  I cram a forkful of eggs inside my mouth and chew, swallowing before taking a sip of the coffee she already had waiting on the table. “People like us, you know, can you imagine if we were to get into a relationship?” She raises her coffee mug to her lips, slowly taking a sip as she stares over the rim at me, one eyebrow sharply raised. “Two people obsessed with the idea of love.” I grab her hand, holding it gently. “It’d be like a fucking fire—burning everything in its path.”

  “Oh, would it?”

  “It absolutely would.” I lift her hand and kiss it. “I always did like playing with fire, though.”

  “So, you’re a pyromaniac then?” She smiles.

  “There’s just something about you, Marisa. Something deep and just…” and here I go with the line, “undeniably different.” She stares at me and an unsettling feeling creeps through my stomach.

  “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.” She glances down at her plate, moving her eggs around with her fork.

  “No matter what you’ve heard, I’m not an asshole. I don’t fuck around with people I work with.”

  Oh, you little liar... “Please, just don’t make me hate you,” I say.

  “I’d never want you to hate me.” My phone dings with a text. I miss you, too. I shovel more eggs inside my mouth, staring at the message.

  “You okay, babe?” Marisa asks.

  “Huh,” I glance up from my phone and meet Marisa’s stare. “Oh, uh, yeah. Fine, It’s fine.” I take a sip of coffee.

  “It looks nice out.” She glances across to the window. “Want to go to Central Park and write together?”

  “I don’t know. I think I just need to wind down, you know, maybe just lounge around the house, listen to some music, and write…”

  Her smile fades and she stands up, grabbing both plates from the table and dumping them in the sink with a clatter. I sit and watch her pace back and forth in front of the sink. “Did you see the Ansel Adam in the living room?” she asks.

  Slowly, I glance to the living room, noting the same picture I have hung above my bed. “Yeah, crazy, you know, I have that one over my bed.”

  Her pacing ceases and she smiles. “God, we’re so much alike, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” I drag my hand down my face. “We are.” I walk over to her, grab her hips, and pull her to me. “Pick you up this evening to drive up to Connecticut?” My phone dings again. “I’m gonna go pack.” I step away from her. “Pack something sexy. Boy shorts,” I point at her as I reach for the door, “pack some boy shorts. That shit’s hot.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and pops her hip to the side before I close the door behind me. I drag my hand over the wall as I walk toward the elevator. I’m sure as soon as I end up between her legs, that entire dark and mysterious bullshit that drags me to her will vanish into thin air. Positive.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marisa

  “Young God”- Halsey

  The door slams shut. I count to thirty before I scream and slam my fist against the wall. That text... the way he stared at his phone. I want to know who that text was from. I’m not fucking stupid, Justin. I see right through you. I notice the way those other girls stare at him at signings. I’m aware when they approach him—that look in their eyes like they are remembering what it’s like to have him inside of them. Every single one of them are pathetic.

  I pace across my living room, chewing on my nails. I’m sure Justin’s nice and charming to them. They don’t pay attention the way I do. They haven’t seen all the messages in his phone. At first, I thought, maybe he’s misunderstood, an eccentric author with a few walls up that only need to be torn down. But the thing is. I can’t tear down his walls because the minute he sees me trying to loosen the first brick, he’ll leave. I’m going to have to sneak over those walls and tear him down. That’s the only way you’ll ever learn, Justin. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

  I grab my laptop from the sofa and hurl it across the room. The silver backing cracks and splits. Tiny fragments of it splinter and fly off. I close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths, reminding myself that he held my last night. Recalling that pull that exists between us. I finally open my eyes and walk to my window. I glance down at the street and see him stepping onto the sidewalk. Sighing, I place my palm on the cool glass, watching as he heads toward his apartment, wondering how long it will be before we move in together and whether he has a room for the baby...

  Justin pulls off the interstate, dropping the top to his vintage 1967 Mercedes convertible. The humid summer breeze whips through my hair and I fight to keep it from getting stuck in my lip gloss.

  “We should get you one of those scarfs, you know, like they used in Thelma and Louise?” Justin says, peering over his sunglasses with a laugh.

  “Yeah, it would be fitting for this kind of car.” I glide my hand over the smooth coffee-colored leather interior, admiring the stitching.

  “You’d look hot in that.” He winks at me before sinking his hand between my thighs and squeezing my leg. “Of course, you look hot in anything, babe.” Babe. I’m his babe. “You know,” he says, “we should get you into a signing. How many reviews you got on your book so far?”

  I shrug, holding my hair in a ponytail as I glance over at him. The way the sun bounces off his tan skin…it’s almost like a sunset over a Tahitian island, undeniably exotic and tempting. “I don’t know.”

  “How the hell do you not know? I check that shit every hour on the hour when a new one hits.” He grabs my hand, lacing his fingers between mine. I stare at our hands. Together. And my heart flutters.

  “Maybe like ten.”

  “Ten? Babe, we need to work on that. Tell you what, I’ll ask some of my people to read it, leave you some stellar reviews. And we need to get you into some signings for sure. I’ll let you share my table with me at the next few if you want?”

  “They’ll let you do that?” I ask. My palm’s starting to sweat and I’m worried he’ll notice. “Share tables?”

  He looks over at me and grins. “Babe, I’m Justin-fucking-Wild, they’ll let me do whatever I want.” He floors the accelerator, tires squealing as he whips around an 18-wheeler. I squeal. He laughs and speeds even faster.

  “Justin…” I yank my hand away from his and swat at his massive arm. “Stop it. You’re going to kill us.”

  “What?” His eyes flare with a sick form of entertainment. “You scared?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’m not looking.”

>   “Probably best.”

  The wind rushes through the car. The skirt of my dress ruffles. My stomach turns when he takes a sharp turn and the car fishtails. “Woohoo,” he shouts like an adolescent boy, then the car slows. “Well, we’re here.”

  I open my eyes as we pull into the roundabout in front of the hotel. He hops over the door, tosses the keys to the valet, and grabs both our bags from the back seat before he pushes his shades back in his hair and nods toward the door. “C’mon, babe.”

  A group of women are huddled in a tightknit circle by the entrance, a cloud of smoke hoovering above their heads. Their eyes train on Justin before shifting to me. Their heads move closer together, whispers bouncing around the small group as we pass by. “How much you want to bet they’re arguing over whether we’re fucking?” Justin asks as we step through the glass doors. The smell of lavender and mint fills the air-conditioned atrium.

  I stand back while Justin checks in, watching the people watching him. Some random, young girl comes strutting up, slyly wrapping her arm around his shoulder before she places a kiss to his cheek. He slips out of her hold and throws a nervous smile back at me. “Oh, Jill, this is…” he motions me over, “this is Marisa.”

  She looks at me and forces a smile before she sticks her hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You as well.” I shake her clammy hand, and I squeeze just a little. Just a little...

  “Well,” she slowly backs away from Justin, “I guess I’ll see you guys around.”

  “Sure thing,” he says as he takes the room key from the concierge. And then, he and I head to the elevators. Together. Because we are together. Take note all you bitches... We. Are. Together.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marisa