The titles roll and the screen pans to Walt and Jessie in the middle of the desert, Walt cussing, of course. “He’s such a dick,” Marisa says, laying her head in my lap. “Like, he makes me angry.”
“Meh, I mean, he’s got a lot of shit going on, you know. Cancer... fucking making meth.” I laugh. “To be honest, I think he knows what he’s doing. Shit, it makes me want to go buy some shittastic travel trailer and start cooking a batch.”
“Really, Justin?” She judgingly glares up at me.
“Babe,” I squeeze her thigh, “millions upon millions of dollars, plus the adrenaline rush of living on the edge.” She rolls her eyes and lifts her phone, tapping over the screen. “How are you not hooked on this show?” I ask, offended that she finds Facebook more interesting than this amazing plot.
“Dunno,” she sighs. “Just not.”
“The plot, Marisa. The fucking plot, think about how hard it must have been to twist that shit together.”
“Oh. My. God.” She sits up, smiling. “Oh my god!”
“What?”
“Chris Talon,” she laughs and her eyes flit with this sadistic edge of excitement. “Oh, the rumor mill. Round and round it goes and where it stops no one knows.” She giggles again before handing her phone to me. “He’s such a fuckface.”
I want to slam her, call her out for sleeping with him, but I don’t, even though I’m still pissed about it. I glance down at the screen and laugh. The post Marisa has pulled up is a picture of Chris, shared over two thousand times. He’s out cold on a signing room floor, his lip split and eye swollen. The caption: This is what happens when you stick your dick in my wife. Original post by Jimmy Fisher, author Jenna Fisher’s husband. I probably shouldn’t laugh, but, you know, what goes around comes around kind of thing and all. Sleeping with a married woman is just asking to be center stage at the shitshow. And I may be a dog, but I have never knowingly slept with a married woman. All I’m going to say is, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Y. I’m just about to hand her phone back to her when a messenger bubble pops up from some guy named Ed.
Damn. You look hot in that picture. We’ll def. have to meet up some time when I’m in the city, you know, grab a coffee, talk art.
Another message blips through. This one is one of those fucking kissy emojis with a heart. Why the fuck is he sending her a kissy emoji with a heart? You send those when you’re trying to—Oh, the hell no! I toss her phone back to her, then stare at the TV.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing.” My pulse throbs in my temples as I wonder what the hell Ed has planned, what lines he’s conjuring up in his feeble little mind. I focus on the screen, on Walt walking alone through the arid New Mexico desert. Abandoned. And that is going to be me. Abandoned by everyone, even Marisa. This is why it’s safest to fuck your way through women like a cheap roll of toilet paper. You mess around and catch feelings, get a little attached, and they will fuck you over for some dipshit named Ed. My pulse clangs in my ears, my skin heats, and I can’t control it any longer. “Who the fuck is Ed?” I ask.
“What?”
Oh, and now she wants to play stupid? “Cut the crap, Marisa. You can’t play a player. Ed, the guy that just sent you a fucking kissy face emoji. Who is he?”
“You know, Ed, that guy that sings the “Lover, Lover” song?” She smiles and I’m not the least bit amused, because not only is it some ginger fuck named Ed that’s after her, but now it’s some semi-famous ginger fuck? Great. And this is why you go for the girl next door as opposed to the bombshell. Fuck my life.
“The Ed,” I stop myself, feigning a laugh just to knock her down a peg, “is sending you kissy emojis, why?”
“He’s a reader?”
“A reader?” Now I am laughing
“Yeah... a reader.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say. I’m sure he read your story and I’m sure he loved it.”
She sits upright so fast all I see is a blur of dark hair and pale skin. “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to talk to my fans?”
“Fans,” I snort. “Babe, that’s a touch degrading to Ed, don’t you think?”
She snarls and glares at me like she’d like to snap my neck. “At least he’s read my book.” Her eyes are blazing now.
“I have—”
“Don’t even, Justin.”
“I—”
“Do I need to mention the nude photos that got posted all over the internet of all those nasty whores you fucked? Half of whom I have to see next weekend? Do not even go there, Justin. That is a fight you will not win; I assure you of that.” Her face is slowly growing red, her nostrils flaring.
“I told you, that was before you.”
“Are you... ” She hops up from the couch, storms straight to the door, and opens it. “I mean, you won’t even commit to me, you know. Go fuck yourself.” And she slams the door so hard the picture beside it rattles. Cobain pops his head up from his bed, glances at the door then at me before settling back down with a huff.
“Girls are a fucking pain in the ass, Cobain. They are.” I grab my beer from the coffee table, tip it up, and sink one hand under the waist of my pants. Fuck Ed. He can kiss my ass.
I let two hours—two more episodes of “Breaking Bad”—slip past before I text her: I’m sorry. I just don’t want to lose my GIRLFRIEND.
Sometimes you have to bite a fucking bullet.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Marisa
“The Way I Do”- Bishop Briggs
I’m Justin Wild’s girlfriend. #Swoon. But even with that, he has yet to change his status on Facebook. I think maybe after this signing he will. I know he will because we’re in Virginia. The state of lovers.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we walked into the ballroom this morning, right past the line of readers waiting to get in. They all smiled at Justin, swoony-eyed as they waved. I mean, I didn’t want his entire career to be ruined, and I most certainly wouldn’t want to be dating the most hated man in the indie author world, now would I? I sit down behind the table and play on my phone while Justin puts up his banner. Part of me debates on sending Chris Talon a thank you note for being such an idiot and fucking around with Jenna Fisher. He should have known better, even I know Jenna can’t keep her mouth shut. He should have known she’d go bragging to her friends about screwing him and his prick-sized-peen and her husband would catch word of it. But really, I am thankful Chris is such an idiot because that little gem of gossip was just what we needed to make Justin’s porn stash and dickish behavior forgotten about.
I finish stacking Justin’s books on the table. Then I stack mine right next to his. Justin Wild. Marisa Dawson. Our names look like they belong together.
The other authors and models are eyeing us, whispering. They see he and I are side by side, sharing a table. They notice us smiling. They must see that we’re in love. Everyone is jealous of the two romance authors who found one another. What better love story is there than this? People who manufacture love in words, what an explosive passion that must be. I glance over at Justin. His fingernail is shoved between two of his teeth, his lip snarled as he digs some leftover sandwich out from between them. He flicks the little brown piece of whatever it is underneath the table, then sniffs his finger. Explosive passion. His hand comes to rest on my knee and he smiles at me. I smile back. And then a giggle floats through the air. A light, girly giggle, and, like a dog-whistle being blown, it catches his attention.
His eyes flit across the room. A slight smirk pulls at his lips, but he quickly wipes it away. I stare across the room at the prissy thing that’s eyeing him. Her black hair looks perfect in its loose curls. Her little blue dress is just so, clinging to her massive, fake chest. And those shit-brown eyes of hers are locked on Justin. Fawning. Dreaming. Lusting... my nostrils flare and I clear my throat just as Justin chuckles. “Ah, you jealous, baby?”
I shudder at that word as I cut my eyes over at him. “Don’t,” I poke his hard chest,
“call me baby.”
He rolls his eyes and grabs his trusted Sharpie from the table, flipping it in the air just like a small child. “Somebody’s jealous,” he sings, grinning.
He wants me to be jealous. He needs me to be jealous. And I am. I am jealous, but this is a Catch-22. I can’t be the jealous girlfriend; it gives him room to blame me for his eventually straying. You where overbearing... And if I don’t act jealous, he’ll think I don’t care. So, I trace my finger over the edge of the white tablecloth and sigh.
The doors open to the signing room and readers pour in, half of them flocking to Justin’s side of the table and lining up. I sit and watch as they fan themselves. I try to stomach the acid eating its way up my throat when they kiss him on the cheek... or cry. Yes, some of them cry. And I get it. I do. The floodgates would open if I met Stephen King, but this is different because this is Justin Wild, not Stephen King. This is my soulmate that these women are doting on. For his words. His looks. It doesn’t matter because I fucking hate sharing him! Oh, sure, I’ll smile. I’ll laugh. I’ll pretend I don’t care when they ignore me. When they walk right past my book, right past me sitting here without even acknowledging my existence. I swallow down that desire I have to yell: Did you enjoy snail-trailing all over my fuck toy? Did you? When I want to ask them if they secretly think about slitting my throat or choking me in the women’s bathroom. I stop myself because I know that’s not nice. And Justin likes nice girls...
Three hours later and he’s out of books. Out of books even though his publisher canned him. Even though there’s that Facebook group filled to the brim with his past whores. All bitching and moaning about how he fucked them and left them. Lied to them. I can’t help but laugh at them, and I can’t really blame Justin for what he did, because they are pathetic. Half of them in love, carting their broken-fucking-hearts in their hands. Suck it up buttercup. You didn’t make the cut. And then there was the blog... but none of it has really tainted him. His untouchable, or so he thinks.
“You want a drink from the bar?” I ask, standing and smoothing out my dress.
“Yeah, sure, baby.”
Fuck my life, Justin. Call me baby one more time and—this is the thing about love: the longer you’re in it, the less perfect even the most perfect of lovers seem. But Justin is perfect, even if he lied about his name and his degree and reading King and Patterson. Even if he calls me baby and has a wandering eye. Because he wrote those fucking books—the books with the horrible ending that we have to fix.
I walk to the bar and order two glasses of merlot and, on my way back, a woman stops me right outside the door. “You’re Justin Wild’s girlfriend, right?”
“Something like that,” I say because we’ve not made it official on Facebook yet, and it has to be announced on social media to be official.
“Lucky girl.” She smiles. “Tell me, what’s he like in bed?”
My cheeks flame and I want to tell her he’s amazing, an animal—but I don’t want her dreaming about him at night. I don’t want her to know the things I know about Justin, like how his face crumples and he has this deep, throaty grunt when he comes, or how he likes it doggy style with my back bowed just so, how every time we fuck the sheets end up ripped off the mattress and I have bruises on my hips from his hands. No. Those are my secrets, so I huff and walk off.
“Hey, Marisa?” Tori calls when I pass by her table. The sound of my name on her lips makes me cringe. I force a smile and turn around with the two wine glasses in hand.
“Yeah?” I groan.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
My heart slams around in my chest like a caged bird as I head toward her table. I should just walk off, but I don’t want her to think she bothers me. She doesn’t. I bother her. I stop at her table and stare her down. “What, Tori?”
She leans across the table, casually pointing her pen in Justin’s direction. “So, the thing is,” she inhales, her eyes fluttering before they lock with mine, “you’re new to this entire industry and all, but Justin... ” she laughs and I want to take her jaw and snap it loose from her face, “he’s not really the way you want to start out. He’s an asshole, if you hadn’t noticed from all those pictures that got blasted on that blog, yours included.” She arches a brow.
God, the crack I bet her jaw would make... “Well, Tori, Justin is really none of your concern.”
“Oh, you’re right. He’s not. I fucking hate him. And while part of me hoped he’d fuck you over just like he did me and,” she shapes her hand like a gun, closing one eye as she pretends to aim at some brunette, “that girl, aaaaaaand that girl, part of me was hoping maybe you’d be the one to let him have it, you know?”
I glare at her.
“Don’t think you’re special, Marisa. He’s a douche. He says what he has to in order to get his dick wet, in order to make you fall for him. And you’ll think you’re different because he will make you feel that way. He did it to me and I knew better. Just like you do. Justin Wild isn’t just any player, he is the ultimate player, because he plays for your heart, not your pussy.”
My pulse clangs in my ears. My nails slice into my palm. I glance around the room. There’s some other dark-headed girl he fucked. And another. There’s a reader standing by his table that’s in his “Justin is a Manwhore” group. I’ve read her butthurt posts about how he fell asleep when he was screwing her. And then, I realize, the way his face crumples when he comes isn’t my secret. It’s ours. These women have seen him naked. They’ve felt him inside of them, on top of them. They’ve had his hot, desperate breaths blowing down their necks. Heard his whispered promise that they were different.
Justin’s talking to a girl, smiling. She’s swaying from side to side. Her cheeks are pink with excitement. He brushes a single finger over her arm and winks. And I realize, that this is the problem. It’s not him. It’s this setting. This setting is all wrong. These girls... Something must change, Justin. We can’t live like this. And now I wish that Jenna Fisher’s affair with Chris Talon had remained a secret. I wish her husband would have just left her instead of beating Chris’ ass, because then we wouldn’t be here. Then people would still hate Justin. They’d still be talking about what a whore and dick and piece of shit he is. I had it all and I just let it slip away, because I like that people want him, but I don’t want them to want him. Shit, you see, that’s part of the book that shouldn’t have been put in. If only I could go back and delete it... He’s making me feel crazy and unstable, unhinged and confused.
Tori’s high-pitched, pig-squeal of a laugh rises above the lull of conversation and I shudder thinking she made a similar sound when she came for Justin. I pass the dark-headed girl, the reader with the pink cheeks, and I take my seat next to Justin, handing him his wine. He’s busy laughing at something the girl standing there with his book just said, and I’m certain she’s thinking about how big his dick is, what it would taste like in her slutty little mouth.
I love him. I do and I know he wants to love me, but he has too many distractions. Too many temptations. There are too many pawns on the board. And they have to be knocked off. One by fucking one. And the king... the king has to be locked away in a tower and kept safe or else the ending of the story will be ruined. And Justin, as an author, you are only allowed to fuck up one ending. One. Not two.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Justin
“Trapqueen”- Collin McLoughlin
My head’s banging with a migraine at the after party, so it only makes sense that I down the shot Jarod just passed me. “Thanks,” I say.
He slaps me on the back. “Don’t mention it, bro. Too bad about Talon, huh?”
“Ah, he was a fuckwad anyway.”
“Shit, Wild, that girl in the blue dress yours?” Jarod points across the room at Marisa whose laughing with a group of readers.
“Yeah.”
“Fucking hot. Jesus.” He chuckles as he flags the bartender down again. “I bet Tori is pissed. You k
now she was in love with your sorry ass.”
I shrug, my gaze locked on Marisa, my mind jumbling with what ifs. “It doesn’t take much to make them fall, you know?”
“Nah, I guess not when you can shoot shit out of your ass that sounds like Shakespeare.” He punches my arm.
I shrug, and I’m still eyeing Marisa from across the room. I like watching her like this, from afar. Pretending she’s something I can’t have. Playing out all the scenarios of how I could get her, chase her, claim her. Fucked up, I know, but, I am a romance author. And when you really think about it, the story is all about the chase. The push and pull, the will they or won’t they. Maybe that’s what’s fucked me up—hell, maybe that’s what’s fucked us all up. The Hemmingways and Brontes... Hollywood, the rouse of the love story. Noble and Just. Instalove that rarely falters and never ages. The plots that end before everything gets utterly tarnished and beyond repair. Humans chase love, which is why my books are devoured like Thanksgiving dinner. It’s the chase, not the actual love that’s addicting. Fuck... I need some more Fireball.
Jarod hands me two more shots. We toast and down them one right after the other. “Alright, man,” he says, pulling his phone in front of his face. “Facebook live time.”
“Ah, come on, dude. I don’t want to... ” But it’s too late. His phone’s already counting down until we’re live. 3.2.1.
“Waz’zup, bitches,” he slurs, holding two of his fingers up and thrusting his tongue through them in the international “eating pussy” symbol. “I’m here with my main man, Justin-fucking-Wild. You ladies know who he is, c’mon, c’mon, you know you do... ” He pauses and I watch the number of viewers ticking up. Twelve. Twenty-six. Fifty-five... “Ah, hey, Patti. Hey Deborah. Misty... ” he points at his screen and laughs at the comment some girl posted volunteering a threesome. “A threesome. I don’t know, Wild,” he says, glancing at me. “Would you be down?”
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