Justin
“Lullaby”- Frank Carter and The Rattlesnakes
I used to check my sales report religiously. I’d gloat about how much money I was raking in. Every day, I gained new followers, new reviews. I had a publishing deal with one of the Big 10. Organizers begged me to come to signings because just the mention of my name had them selling out of tickets. I was fucking Justin Wild, so I bought this amazing apartment in the expensive part of town. I bought that vintage Mercedes and designer jeans. I had an interior decorator come in and make my apartment look like that of a best-selling author. I went from being that guy who was cheated on time and time again because he was a hopeless romantic, from a nobody, to the guy who had everything. The guy no girl could tie down.
And now... I click on my KDP report and I cringe. My sales have dropped. Drastically. My email has been inundated with requests to not come to signings, offers to refund my deposit because I’ll make the readers “uncomfortable”. Evidently, I’m now a sexual predator. An asshole. A dick. A worthless, talentless piece of shit. It took me two years to write the book that changed my life. Blood and sweat and tears and countless bottles of whisky, and it took someone else a matter of one blog post to rip it all to shreds. Tori texted me yesterday and told me I’d finally played the wrong girl. Bitch.
My new book—the pirated one—just released today, and I’ve only had 325 downloads. Sure, that may sound like a lot, but when you are used to thousands... at this rate, I’ll never hit a list, and if I don’t hit a list that will just prove I’m a failure. That my writing means nothing. That it was more about who I was, the way I looked—that it was about something more than just the words. I may be failing, drowning even, but I refuse to let anyone else see it. This can all be a fucking façade because I won’t give that bitch the satisfaction of thinking she destroyed me. I click on the search engine, type in Amazon and my book title, and then I do what I’ve done for every goddamn release since the Perception series ended: I press “Give as Gift” over and over and over… then I go to iBooks and Smashwords... 1-clicking and filling in emails again and again until my index finger is numb. As for the print copies, I’ll go onto Amazon and order a fuckload and just use them at signings.
“Oh my god,” Marisa groans, “my thumb is going numb.”
I glance up and smile before leaning across the couch to kiss her. Thank fuck, this time, I have someone to help me. “I feel like a piece of shit for doing this... ” I wouldn’t dare tell her this isn’t the first time. “I just, I can’t let that damn blog think they ruined my life, you know?”
“No. I totally get it, babe. It’s fucked up. I mean, what kind of person would do something like that anyway?” She sighs, her fingers frantically typing and clicking. “What do they get from it?”
“Who fucking knows. A sick satisfaction that they ruined someone.”
She shakes her head. “I swear to god, some people should just have a massive stick shoved right up their asshole.”
“I just hate that you got dragged into it.” I look over the top of my computer and she glances up too. “I’m sorry about the pictures. I really am.”
A soft smile shapes her lips and I swear, she looks like a damn angel right now. “It’s fine. I mean, when I was like seventeen I used to say I wanted to pose for Playboy, so you know... kinda like a bucket list item checked, right?”
I pause for a second and snapshot this moment in my mind for safe keeping because this girl truly is unbelievable. “I hate you for making me love you right now,” I say before I kiss her again. My laptop topples from my lap and I lean into her more, my hands grabbing at her tits, but she shoves me away.
“I still have two-hundred books to send out if you want to hit that list.”
Laughing, I settle back in my seat and pick up my laptop. “Okay, okay... but once we get done with this, I’m fucking you up.”
“Promises, promises,” she says.
Smirking, I arch a brow, set my computer to the side and grab hers from her lap.
“Hey!”
I close her Macbook and toss it to the other end of the couch before I dive at her, fisting her hair and jerking her head to the side. “You don’t think I’ll fucking tear your pussy up?” I ask, tracing my tongue over her throat. My cock hardens in my sweats and I grind my hips against hers. She wiggles underneath me, her hands flying to my back, her nails digging into my shoulders. I nip at her neck. “You gonna answer me, huh?”
A soft moan slips through her lips. She tosses her head back, thrusting her hips against me. I tug on her hair again. “I’m going to tear it up,” I say, sitting up and ripping her little short-shorts down her legs and tossing them to the floor. I shove her thighs apart and lean over, slowly circling my tongue over her clit. She bucks. She grabs at my hair. And I lick over her again, my tongue barely touching her.
“Shit,” she groans, and I laugh against her sweet pussy.
“I’ll make you beg for it.” I suck on her clit as I spread her legs farther apart.
“Shit... ” and her next word is lost on a deep gasp because I’ve just shoved my tongue deep inside her, scraping my teeth over her clit. Her fingers tighten in my hair and she’s rolling her hips against my face. The second her breaths grow frantic and her thighs start that slow tremble, I stop, pulling away from her and wiping my face on her thigh.
“Justin,” she pants, eyes still closed, legs wide open.
“How many more books did you say we had to send out?” I adjust my twitching cock in my pants and go to grab my laptop.
“What?” Her eyes pop open.
“How many more books?”
“You can’t just do that?”
“Oh,” I say with a smirk, “but I just did.”
Her eyes flare, a feral fire flickering behind them. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Ah, now that’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” And that desperation in her face—I f love that. And maybe it’s not about the chase, maybe it’s about this right here, being a god of fuck. I push my computer to the side and reach over to her, swiping a single finger over her wet pussy before I pinch her clit. She bucks and grabs my wrists with both hands, yanking me down. I land on top of her, our eyes locked. “Beg me,” I say with a smirk.
“Please, fucking please, fuck me, Justin.”
I tilt my head to the side as I shove my pants down over my hips. “You sure that’s what you want?”
“Fuck me, or I’ll murder you.” Her fingers are digging into my ass cheeks and she’s forcing me against her. The tip of my head touches her and damn, that warmth, that slick feeling causes a tingle to shoot down my spine. I press against her just enough to coax an unhinged moan from her, and there I stop. She’s panting, biting down on her lip, and I think I may just be able to handle this right here. Marisa-fucking-Dawson may be enough to make this vulnerable feeling of love worth it, and so, I slam into her. I bury myself balls deep and fuck her with the kind of passion that’s claiming, yet reverent at the same time. I yank her hair like I want to snap her neck, but I kiss her like I’m in love with her. I fuck her like she’s a cheap whore, but I tell her how beautiful she is, how good she feels. I spank her and disrespect her body while I feed her soul with words and promises, and by the time she’s nothing more than a puddle underneath me, I know she’s been ruined. And if there is one guaranteed way to keep a woman chasing after you regardless of what a dick you may be, regardless of the mistakes you’ll make, it’s by fucking yourself into their damn soul.
Chapter Thirty-One
Marisa
“Peroxide”- Flykiller
The kitchen cabinet creaks when I open it to fish out the bottle of pills from the back. The bottle of Ancho Chile that I dumped my prenatal vitamins into. Who really uses Ancho Chile, anyway? I twist the metal lid, dump the large brown pill into my palm, immediately toss it into my mouth, and take back a mouthful of water. Back the jar goes, to the far end of the shelf. Hidden. Smiling, I glance down at my flat stomac
h, wondering what it will look like with a small baby bump. How cute will Justin think I am? Sure, he doesn’t want a baby right now, but we must follow the plot. All great romances have a surprise pregnancy, Justin. And that’s all I want: the perfect love story, the perfect plot, the most well-rounded crescendo of an ending. After all, he is Justin Wild and no one can pull together the perfect story like he can. Like we can...
I glance over at Justin. He’s snoring on the couch with a sliver of drool oozing down his chin. I invited him over for a nice dinner. Chicken Parmesan and Italian green beans sprinkled with a few sleeping pills. And, he’s out cold.
I wash up the dishes, humming that new Ed song “Lover Boy” under my breath as I dry my hands on the dishtowel. And then, I grab Justin’s phone and plop down next to him on the couch, my hand on his thigh. He says I’m his favorite, his one, but what exactly does that mean? Sure, he’s been kicked out of signings. Sure, plenty of people have unfriended him on Facebook, unfollowed his Instagram. And you should see some of the comments he’s gotten on his posts. The pitchforks are out and sharpened. Torches lit. Mobs formed. To be honest, that little blog did more damage than I could have hoped for—not that I wanted to ruin his career, I didn’t. I just wanted to get some of these girls off his dick. Is that too much to ask?
Seventy-five message notifications. I tap my finger over the app and hold my breath, praying as the screen pops up. First message: Sarah Baucom: I think what your publisher did was terrible. A few of my friends helped me set up a group to support your next books. Hopefully it will help keep you going. I don’t know what I would do without your words or your friendship. Xx. I close my eyes and squeeze his knee. Going back to the messages, I shake my head. All so flirtatious. All so supportive, like he can do no wrong. How can we ever fix this, Justin? How are we going to get you out of this mess?
I read a few more messages, look through a few more pictures of tits and ass that he responds to with the little shocked face emoticon or, depending on how big the tits are, a little prayer hand. So, it seems, not even having him tarred as a filthy whore can shake some of these women humping his leg. Bless him. I brush my hand over his t-shirt. It has a transfer of a rooster and a star. Cockstar. Maybe this is a disease he has. Maybe he’s an attention whore. Needy and desperate for some type of approval he never got as a child or adolescent. And these women, I shouldn’t be mad at them. He’s their idol. A man capable of weaving such lines as: Love is the only cure for a hopeless fool such as I... such as her. And: I love you even while knowing you will be my destruction. Even as I lie dying from the loveless poison you’ve injected into my veins, each hate-filled word eating away at my heart and soul because I’d rather die at your side than without you. They believe that is who he is. That he is Justin Wild, scholar and lover of Stephen King and James Patterson. They believe every swoon worthy post he makes on Facebook. They don’t know he’s Justin Wilder Thompson. They only see him smile and say: “Thank you for your support”. They aren’t privy to the snide comments he makes. They don’t sleep next to him and hear him fart. They don’t see the way he stares at his reflection—his messenger filled with horny comments and slut-filled promises. Justin Wild is their hero in a world of shitty endings. A pretty face. A beautiful mind. That’s not their problem, it’s mine. And I’m theirs.
“Shit,” Justin groans as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the coffee shop table. He rubs his palms over his eyes and yawns. “I don’t know why the hell I’ve been sleeping so much. Sorry I assed out on you last night like that, I just... couldn’t stay awake.”
“Oh, it’s fine babe. You’re under a lot of stress.” I smile as I take my seat and sip my warm coffee because I know how tired those sleeping pills can make you. He’s so innocent. Really, it’s hard to believe he’s the awful slut he is.
“Yeah, I gotta get another book out, or I’m fucked. I just can’t... my mind can’t go to those fucked up places right now. Shit, I’m debating on writing a contemporary.”
I glare at him, my one eye twitching. “Contemporary?” I scoff. “Come now, Justin, let’s not be rash.” I laugh, but really, it’s not funny. He’s a dark author, twisted and depraved. He can’t go soft on me. He can’t sell-out.
“Yeah, fuck. It’s just, you know, trying to get into the mindset of those violent fucks. It’s not easy. It drains the life out of you.”
“Yeah, I know. I write dark too, Justin.” There’s an edge to my voice I can’t quiet manage to control and he glances up at me, one brow lifting curiously.
“Yeah, babe, chill. I know you’re dark.” He laughs before taking a sip of his drink. I want to shake him and tell him I know he doesn’t know because I know he hasn’t read my book. I saw it shoved down there with those other books, the cover torn.
The bell to the shop dings. I glance up to see a mother carting a chubby little toddler with a head full of soft, brown curls on her hip. That little bit of anger and hurt that he hasn’t read my words subsides. I can’t wait until that’s me walking in to pick up mine and Justin’s morning cup with a little person clinging to my hips. Then he’ll really be mine.
My phone beeps with a message. Taking another sip of coffee, I swipe to the message and nearly spit my drink out. Ed, the singer of love songs that would woo the blackest of hearts, just messaged me telling me he’s obsessed with my book. He read my words. A thrill pulses through me followed by a sense of pride and validation because I can write, damn it. And if someone like Ed can see that... I stare at the message, reading it over and over. I look at my profile picture and immediately notice I need to look sultrier, more sensual, more... “You okay?” Justin says, staring at me over his steaming cup of coffee.
“Huh, yeah, oh, yeah. I just got a message from someone saying my book was great.”
Justin smiles knowingly. “Feels good, huh? Validating.” His grin deepens. “And you are a badass writer.” My eyes narrow, my heart clenching at how easily he lied, but, he is a storyteller, isn’t he? A liar with both his fingers and his tongue. He lies any way he can form words. “Watch out, babe,” he says. “Stuff’s addictive. Like heroin-laced crack.”
I laugh and a slow, nervous sweat breaks from each of my pores as I search through my photos for the one that will be perfect. I pick one where my resting bitch face game is strong. Guys find that look undeniable because a bitch is usually a challenge. I upload it as my new profile picture, imagining that Ed will respond with some comment about me being a pretty, pretty flower. And then, I answer his message, thanking him for the compliment and telling him what a huge fan of his I am.
When I set my phone down, Justin’s smiling and making faces, waving at someone across the café. I turn in my seat to see that chubby little toddler giggling and waving back. I place my hand over my stomach and grin before I glance back at him. “Oh, now, that’s cute,” I say.
“She’s a cute little girl.” He shrugs before covering his eyes with his hand only to yank his hands away and reveal an “Oh my goodness, look I’m still here” expression. The little girl squeals and Justin laughs before he picks up his coffee. “Our kids would be cuter, though.”
And everything inside of me turns to mush. My cheeks warm, my heart flutters, and I know he doesn’t want to be a player. He doesn’t. He wants the romance. The love story. The happily ever after with babies. “You with kids,” I laugh. “That would be something.”
“What?”
“You just don’t strike me as the kind of guy that would want kids.”
“Well, maybe I just want them with you, pretty lady.” He winks before reaching across the table and brushing his finger over my cheek. And although I want to jump up and shout: Yes, let’s make a baby, right here, right now. I keep my ass firmly planted in the seat, twisting my coffee cup in my hand as I cock a brow at him.
“You and your ridiculous lines... ” I say with a grin because as long as he doesn’t think I’m falling for those lines, he’ll keep chasing. And that’s all I need, is for him
to still be in this game because we’re nearly there. We are. The climax is coming, I can feel it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Justin
“The Big Bad Wolf”- The Heavy
It’s been nearly three weeks since that damn blog sucked the living shit out of my career, leaving me with a colostomy. Thankfully, I have my devoted supporters, loyal bloggers, and I haven’t been kicked out of every signing—yet, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about the one next weekend. The messages I’ve gotten, the comments on my post about what a piece of shit I am make me wary. Hell, I had one woman threaten to bring a gun to the signing and blow my brains out all over my banner, and while my death would most definitely up my sales—I’m just not ready to go there yet.
I tried to do damage control by posting that I was hacked. That my sexual exploits shouldn’t be public knowledge. And then, after the umpteenth message I received claiming I was an “unattractive prick with no real talent”, my anger got the best of me and I told all those fuckers who wanted to come after me to choke on my nutsack. That... well, that didn’t help matters. I said I didn’t care if my career tanked, if people hated me, but the truth is, I do care. Who wouldn’t? This industry made me who I am after all, and as big of as dick as I can be, I haven’t forgotten that, even if I act like I have. Artists are truly at the mercy of the public. And right now, I feel royally fucked.
I stare at the Word document. At the shitty plot I’ve typed out: Murderous criminal meets innocent girl (blonde) and kidnaps her. He locks her in a cellar and tries to make her love him. She ends up crazy. They end up crazy together. Fuck this shit. WRITE SOMETHING FUCKING JUSTIN. For the past week, that’s all I’ve done, stared at that amateur, unoriginal plot. Every single word I’ve jabbed out is utter shit. Steaming, fly-swarming shit, so I decide the best thing to do is watch marathon sessions of “Breaking Bad” with my girl.
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