“You think you could get me into that signing in South Beach?” I ask. “I’ve always wanted to go to Florida.”
“Yeah. Sure.” That’s all he says before he goes back to singing that stupid song.
“You think that would be a good first signing?”
“Huh?” He shoots an annoyed glance in my direction and I want to shrink under it. “What?”
“Uh, just, do you think it would be a good first signing?”
“I guess.” He rolls his eyes before looking back at the road.
I want to shout at him. Shake him. Last night he loved me... he did. He looked at me like he wanted to love me. He fucked me like I was everything to him. It was good sex—no, great sex—that I made him wait on. My heart slowly picks up speed until it’s hammering against my ribcage, forcing me to clutch my chest because I’m afraid it’s about to pound out of my body. But Justin doesn’t even look over at me.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t stop watching him. I wanted to memorize the way he breathes when he’s dreaming because I love him... and now he’s acting like I’m a burden on him.
My head spins, angry little voices shouting inside it. He pulls off the interstate, heading down Pearl Street and panic rattles me to my core. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be out of his car. Out of his sight... “Thanks for taking me, babe,” I say.
He looks over and smiles. “Yep. I had a great time.”
And now he’s singing again. The car slows and he pulls over to the curb in front of my apartment building. He’s tapping his fingers over the steering wheel, scrolling through his stupid phone. I want to take that iPhone and chuck it out the window, down a gutter where it will never see the light of day again. He laughs, I assume, at something someone posted, then he looks up at me, leans over, and kisses me. “I’ll see you later.” The trunk pops up.
I nod, push the door open, and climb out, then take my luggage from the trunk and he drives off. My chest heaves, my stomach churns because the image of us on that hotel bed is stuck in my head. I love him. He’s supposed to love me. What the fuck, Justin? No one else is going to be so right for you. I write. I read King and Patterson. I’ve bought fucking Ansel Adam and the same hand towel as you. We have static electricity. We have a connection. I am different. I am FUCKING DIFFERENT!
I walk to the front of my building and key myself in. I don’t bother with the elevator, I just cart my suitcase up the dirty stairwell, tears falling down my cheeks because I don’t want to let him go. I don’t want to have been played. I’m not a pawn. I’m the motherfucking queen, Justin! And the game’s not over until the king is dead.
I stop on the top landing. “I’m not one of those girls,” I say, my voice echoing down the empty stairwell. “I’m not.” Shaking my head, I open the door and walk to my apartment, open the door, and throw my bag down. I hate that I’m going to have to be this way, but, honestly, I don’t know any other way to get through his thick fucking skull. I only want what’s best for us. That’s all. Just what’s best.
Chapter Sixteen
Justin
“Heavy”- Linkin Park
I stare through the window of the coffee shop. Marisa’s at a table, laptop open, coffee beside her. Cobain grumbles and I glance down as he sits on the pavement and scratches behind his ear. “What do we do, fucker, huh?”
He stares at me with drool dripping from his mouth. Shaking my head, I peer back through the glass. She’s glancing around like she’s looking for me. “Well,” I say, readjusting my laptop under my arm before I tug at Cobain’s leash, “come on.”
I walk down the street, my mind jumbling. I know I’m a dick, and it’s not that I exactly want to be... I just don’t know what I want. Love... I want love, who the hell doesn’t? But it’s never right. Someone always ends up being shit on.
I walk a few blocks, letting Cobain stop to piss and sniff some poodle’s ass, and then I stop underneath the tilted iron sign handing over an alleyway. “Moby’s Dick.” I laugh as I walk underneath the weathered sign, down the filthy alley to the concrete stairs that lead to a rusted metal door.
“Don’t take a shit in here like you did last time,” I tell Cobain as I open the door and walk into the dimly lit bar.
It’s empty when I walk inside, which is why I like this shithole. No one’s ever here. The liquor bottles are covered in a layer of dust. I have no idea how the place stays in business. I like to assume it’s just a front for some money laundering scheme. It’s stuffy and reeks of mildew inside. The black walls are scuffed to hell and back and plastered with 70s band posters that have been yellowed with age. There’s a bullet hole in the wall behind the bar and a piece of paper tacked up beside it that reads: Regards of Gotti. That’s where I got the money laundering scheme, that bullet hole.
I drag Cobain towards the mahogany bar, my laptop tucked underneath my arm. Ronald, the cranky old fuck that owns the place, pops up from behind the counter when I drop my computer on the bar top. He swipes a hand over his head, the few straggly pieces of gray hair that have managed to hang in there float in the breeze. “Shit, I thought you’d died.” He smiles revealing his nicotine stained teeth.
“Nah, been writing.”
“Some more sappy shit?”
I sit on the rickety old stool and it wobbles and creaks under my weight. “Something like that.”
“I thought you were gonna write something worth my time of reading?”
I glare at him. “Fuck off,” I laugh.
He grabs the bottle of whisky, pops the spout, and pours a full glass before sliding it in front of me.
“Hell, I tried to read that first piece of shit of yours. How are you going to ruin a perfectly good, violent story with love?” He pretends to gag. “It was an insult to my manhood. Just leave it with the blood and gore next time.”
“Alright, Ron.” I lift the glass to my lips and take a drink before I pop my computer open.
Ronald clears his throat and I glance over the top of my computer. He’s glaring at my laptop with one brow arched. “What the fuck are you doing? This isn’t a coffee shop.”
“Yeah, well…” I think about how I walked off from the coffee shop because Marisa was writing at a table. I raise my glass in a toast. “Hemingway said write drunk, edit sober.”
“Yeah, yeah…” he holds his hand out. “Give me your card and I’ll start your tab.” I dig my wallet from my pocket and hand my card to him. I drop Cobain’s leash to the floor. He circles around a few times before flopping down next to the legs of the stool with a huff and half-ass growl.
Ronald’s swearing at the card reader, tapping angrily over the computer screen when the front door slams open. Cobain lifts his head. Ronald glares over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. “The hell…” he mumbles.
I turn to find a girl dressed in tight black jeans and a red tank approaching the bar. Her blonde hair’s falling out of a messy ponytail. She stops halfway into the room, her gaze drifting from the bar to me and back. She takes a deep breath, walks to the counter, and drags out a stool a few down from mine. “Vodka tonic,” she says.
Ronald eyes me, smirks, then grabs a bottle of Grey Goose and a glass. I lift my whisky to my lips, sipping it as I drink in the pretty blonde now scrolling through her phone. I can’t help but notice how much she favors Meredith. The way her hair hangs, the tight little cinch of her waist, her perfect heart-shaped face and pouty pink lips. It’s not that this girl’s stunning, because she’s not, but she possesses that subtle beauty. That girl-next-door appeal.
Her gaze slowly swings in my direction, and I smirk over the rim of my glass. Her cheeks flush pink. There’s a fine balance of confidence a guy like me needs from a woman. Not too much. Not too little. The plus of the girl-next door, she blends into her surroundings like camouflage, and when a guy like me shows her interest, odds are she’ll treat me like I’m that filthy rich bastard that has a Red Room of Pain.
I tilt my glass up, swallowing back the warm w
hisky. The girl drops her keys. They clatter over the dirty concrete floor and Cobain’s ears shoot up. He jumps to his feet and scampers over to her, nose to the ground.
“Cobain!” I shout and he freezes, tucking his tail. Setting my glass on the bar top, I push to my feet and approach her. “Sorry,” I say as I lean down, grab his leash, and pick up her keys. When I stand, she’s smiling. “Here.” I hand the keys to her.
“He’s cute.”
“Ah, yeah, but he’s an asshole.” I smile. She giggles. “You come in here often?”
“No... I just moved here actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah…” Another nervous smile graces her pink lips. Damn she’s cute. She leans over and pats Cobain on his massive head. He immediately sits, panting happily as he wags his tail. “I’m starting at NYU in the fall.”
“Oh awesome. What are you majoring in?”
“Creative Writing.”
“No shit?” I laugh because this is too fucking good. Too easy. There must be a god after all. She’s glaring at me and I abruptly cut off the laughter. “Sorry,” I say, swiping my hand over my mouth, “it’s just... I write, so just... random, you know?”
“You write, like write books?”
Oh god. One of those girls. “Yeah. Books.”
“That’s so cool.” She smiles.
“Justin,” I hold out my hand. “Justin Wild.”
Her green eyes pop wide, her smile fades just a touch, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. “Wait... wait, that name.” She snaps her fingers as she stares off into the nothing. “You’ve hit New York Times... with um, what was the name of it... ” I grin, my chest swelling with pride. I love shit like this. “Perceptions. Oh my god. You wrote that book, didn’t you?”
Perception is the name of the series, not the book, nonetheless, I pretend to have a smidge of humility and turn my gaze toward the floor as I bashfully shrug “Yeah.”
“Shit. You’re amazing…” and she’s still shaking my hand.
“Thanks…” I narrow my gaze. “What was your name?”
“Oh, Amy. Amy Smith,” she says, dropping her eyes to her hand in mine before nervously snatching it away, her cheeks blushing red from embarrassment.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Amy Smith.” I pull out the bar stool next to her, order another drink, and by the end of the next hour, I’ve got a coffee date with this pretty little girl-next door.
Chapter Seventeen
Marisa
“Weak”- AJR.
Inhaling, I shut the door behind me. I glance around my beautiful apartment and feel so alone. All I can see is the couch Justin sat on. The Ansel Adam picture I bought to show him how much I care, how much alike we are. I walk through to my bedroom, stopping in the doorway and staring at the bed we slept on. Only once, five days ago. When I lay my head on the pillow he used, I can still smell him and I don’t know how I’ll bring myself to ever wash these sheets again. But I will... one day.
I saw Justin standing at the window of the coffee shop with Cobain. He walked off. I wanted to run outside and chase after him, calling him a bastard. An asshole. But I didn’t, because that’s not how we play the game. Is it? That’s what I did with John. I fought. I got angry—and while it’s expected to be angry, you can’t let him see you care. I’m convinced had I pretended like I didn’t care. Had I told John to go ahead and leave... he would have.
I bury my face in the pillow and let my tears soak into the pillowcase. My heart pounds, my chest grows tight, and then anger slowly rises like a tide, inch by inch, until I’m completely submerged beneath it’s warm waves. When love goes wrong, it goes wrong. And there are two reactions a woman can choose to have: let it break her, or get even. A man will never break me again, and the thing is, I’m the queen and he’s the king. He’s taken me off the board, so he thinks the game is over. In his mind, maybe it is, but the thing is, the game only ends when the kind is dead.
I miss him. I roll over and fish my phone from my jean pocket, telling myself not to text him. Instead, I type Justin’s name into Google and within a matter of seconds, thousands of pictures populate on the screen. Professional headshots, Twitter and Instagram posts, and there, in the middle of the screen, is the selfie he took last weekend of me and him on that bed. I stare at it. At the pink flush on my cheeks, my lipstick slightly smudged. My eyes sting with pathetic tears. I want to curse Marilyn Monroe because she said to be with a guy that ruins your lipstick not your mascara, well, what do you do with one who ruins both? Huh? Tell me that fucking Marilyn!
I click on the picture and it opens his Facebook. I read over the post he made just a few minutes after he uploaded that picture of us: Love finds it humble beginnings within the depths of a stranger who will one day be your everything. #AmWriting #WordPorn
He’s fucked up and needs help. I need help for being in love with him because, yes, I am in love with him. This stabbing pain in my chest, the obsessive thoughts... it’s all love.
The heavenly sound of that Sherwood Forest horn plays from my phone and my heart trips over its self.
Justin Wild: Hey gorgeous. I miss you. Let me hold you. 212 Water Street. Apt 3C. Text me when you get here and I’ll buzz you in.
I stare at the message, conflicting emotions churning through my heart and mind.
I’m busy
I respond. I watch the little bubble trail move across the screen, my heart pounding as he types out his response.
Please... I can’t get you out of my head.
And then he sends one of those kissy face emoticons and the little hands praying. My heart softens, it has, after all, only been two days. Just two days of no texting or calling, of avoiding me. He’s busy. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been playing the game too aggressively. How can I expect him to make himself vulnerable to love when I act like I couldn’t care less about him? One more chance, Justin. So, I wipe the tears from below my eyes, retouch my makeup, and I’m out the door. Five minutes later, I’m standing in front of 212 Water Street, my heart in my throat, my nerves on edge. Because even though I’ve slept with Justin, even though I can close my eyes and see what he looks like naked and wet, standing in the shower with a smirk on his face, there are still moments where I realize exactly who he is.
I text him to let him know I’m here and, moments later, he’s coming out of the entrance in a pair of gym shorts and a tight, fitted tee. “There’s my pretty girl,” he says, placing an arm around me and dragging me in for a kiss. I can taste whisky on his lips, an expensive selection thick with the taste of oak. His hands slip to my ass and he grabs both cheeks—hard. “The things I’m gonna do to you.” Another kiss and he’s lacing his fingers with mine, leading me up the concrete steps of 212 Water Street. A girl giggles down the road. And I bet she wishes she was me, but she’s not. She’s not Justin Wild’s girl. I fucking am.
The door swings in to an unimpressive foyer. A pile of moving boxes is sat to the right of the door, a bicycle leaned against the wall beside them. I follow Justin to the elevator, my hand still in his, his thumb rubbing gently over my knuckles. You don’t do things like that with a fuckbuddy. You don’t, but you do invite them over to fuck you.
The elevator takes us to the fifth floor and we exit, going to the last room on the right. He opens the door and Cobain comes scurrying up, barking.
“Oh, come on now, Cobain. She’s our friend.” He pats him on the head and he settles, his tail wagging and knocking against the entranceway wall. “Now. Bed.” Justin points across the room and the dog hurries over, hopping into a gingham bed set by the large floor to ceiling window.
I glance around. Everything is clean. Black and white paintings all over the walls. Red sofa and loveseat with a black and white striped chair in the corner. I follow him into the living room and he motions for me to have a seat. “Would you like some wine?” he asks. I nod as I sit, and he goes to the kitchen. Above the chair, there’s a guitar in a display case. I squint and can barely make out
the signature scrawled over the shiny black paint.
“NIN,” he says, handing me a glass of Chardonnay. “Met them when they played Madison Square.”
“Oh, wow. I love them.” I hate them...
He settles onto the couch next to me with his wine, placing his free hand on my thigh. “Yep, Trent’s a pretty cool guy.” He points behind us and I turn. The wall is covered with drumsticks and guitar picks, playlist and album covers—all signed. “Met a lot of really cool musicians actually. John Mayer’s a dick. The guy from Tool, he’s pretty fucking epic.”
Epic. I shudder at the use of that word. What are we, Justin, twenty? “That’s amazing, how did you—”
“My ex-girlfriend. She did some publicity shit for Sony.” He takes a swig of his wine, and I cringe at the thought of him and her naked together.
“Oh... ” I take a large gulp of wine. “That must have been fun.”
“Yeah, she was a lot of fun.”
I bet she fucking was. I want to ask if she was brunette. If she was dense like cardboard with huge boobs and good in bed, but instead, I smile. He takes my wine glass from my hand and sets it on the coffee table in front of us, “I missed you.” His hand glides up my neck and he cups my jaw, his fingers scratching up into my hair. I bite down on my lip. I don’t want to admit I missed him. “You’ll have to forgive me for being a dick the past few days, I just, this, us... it just scares me. It’s intense and... ” He rolls his lip between his teeth before he kisses me again, this time harder, more claiming. He fists my hair, jerking my head to the side.
White Pawn Page 7
