I stare at the screen. The comments are pouring in so fast, I can’t even read them now. “I mean... I think they’re overrated,” I say, my gaze flicking over to Marisa.
“Justin,” Tori’s voice echoes through the bar. “Oh, lover boy... ”
Jarod snickers and I spin around. “Oh shit.” Jarod laughs and aims his camera at the winding stairwell that leads to the VIP area. Tori’s perched at the top of the silver banister, straddling it with her dress hiked up around her tan thighs. She waves and blows a kiss in my direction. The entire bar is buzzing with whispers and giggles.
“What the hell is she doing?” Jarod mumbles.
“I don’t fucking know... ” Cockstruck...
“I just want everyone here to know,” Tori slurs, raising a glass of wine in the air. Some of the golden liquid sloshes over the rim of her glass. “I fucked Justin Wild, and... ” she hiccups, “his dick isn’t even that impressive.”
Giggles flit around the room. And my face heats. Before I know it, I feel a warm hand wrap around my arm. I glance to the side and find Marisa standing next to me, face red, nostrils flaring. “What the hell?” she asks.
All I can do is shrug and turn back to watch whatever clusterfuck is about to unfold.
“He’s a lying slut, and so, to all the bitches who got fucked over by the waste of space—” She dumps her wine out on the carpet.
Jarod nudges me, “She’s pouring one out for her ‘whore’mies.” He snickers and I groan.
“Fuck you, Justin Wild, and fuck Marisa, too.” And then Tori slides down the banister, skin screeching against the metal. When she reaches the bottom, she topples off with a thud onto the marble floor. Her friends clamor to help her to her feet and escort her out into the lobby.
“Jesus, Justin. You seriously stuck your dick in that?” Marisa groans, taking the shot Jarod is shoving in her face.
I shrug. “I was... drunk?”
Marisa rolls her eyes. Jarod laughs, clapping his hand on my shoulder as he hands me another, much needed Fireball.
“And there you have it people of the page, Justin Wild is a motherfucker player.” He glances at Marisa and you can practically see the steam swirling from the top of her head. “I mean, sorry, was a motherfucking player.” He taps over the screen before shoving the phone inside his pocket and holding out his hand to Marisa. “I’m Jarod, heard a lot about you from Wild here.”
Fuck. At least he tries, but Marisa, well, she’s not amused. She downs her shot and inhales. “I’m gonna,” she shakes her head. “I’m gonna go take a walk. Try and burn off some of the embarrassment.” She starts toward the exit and I hop up to go after her, but she turns around, shaking a finger. “Don’t... just leave me alone for a minute.”
“Come on, babe,” I say, and people are staring. “You can’t get pissed at me for that.”
“I’m not pissed at you, Justin. I just... need a second, okay?” And she walks off, those fuckable hips of hers swaying as she goes.
“Damn,” Jarod says. “That girl,” he pulls his fist to his mouth and sinks his teeth in his knuckles. “That’s a fucking woman.”
My toes curl, sweat drips down my back. Marisa’s nails are dug deep into my shoulders and she’s panting Fuck over and over.
Bam. The picture above the hotel bed shakes. A loud, shrill scream comes through the wall followed by the door to the hotel room next door opening and slamming shut. Another scream. “Help! Someone help!”
Marisa’s grip on me tightens and I keep going at her, but the girl shouts again and now other hotel doors are opening and closing. Despite the loud wailing in the hallway, I still get her off because I am the god of fuck. Her heels dig into my hips, her nails embed in my flesh, and she moans. Fuck she moans, and then I’m right there with her, my muscles tensing as that sweet heat spreads from my dick all the way to my fingertips. The commotion in the hallway grows louder and impossible to ignore. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I roll off Marisa and grab my sweats from the floor, pulling them on and cinching the tie.
“Where are you going?” Marisa props up on her elbows in the bed and brushes the hair from her face.
Another loud cry echoes down the hall. “Oh my god, she’s dead. She’s dead.”
My heart skips. Marisa’s brow scrunches in confusion, her gaze veering to the door. “What the... ” she asks, leaning over the edge of the bed as she quickly grabs a shirt. She pulls on some clothes and we both step to the door and open it just an inch, peeking through the crack. People flood the halls, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. Marisa grabs the edge of the door, pushes it open, and steps into the hall. She touches the woman by our door on the shoulder. “What happened?”
“Tori’s roommate came back from the bar and found Tori in the tub. Dead.” The entire hall erupts in a gasp and Marisa grabs onto my hand, threading her fingers through mine.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. I wrap my arm around Marisa’s waist, staring at the closed door. Marla, Tori’s PA, is huddled with a group of women, her face white, tears pouring down her cheeks.
Within minutes, the police arrive and they ask us all to go to our rooms, and we do. We silently file back into our rooms, the sound of the doors closing an eerie reminder of what has just happened.
Marisa paces in front of the window, biting her nails. “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay.”
Her eyes shoot up to mine and they look panicked. “It’s just... I mean... what do you think happened?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe she got drunk and passed out in the tub.”
She nods. “Yeah... ”
I sit on the bed and lean against the headboard, patting my chest. “Come here.” Marisa crawls onto the bed and lays her head on me, and I stroke through her long, dark hair, my mind cycling through what an asshole I’d been to Tori. Guilt’s a motherfucker, and, at my age, you don’t really consider the thought that someone you’re a dick to may die. I wish I’d apologized at least... The silence in the room is broken by the sound of Tori’s hotel door opening and closing. And I think, maybe I should just stop being a dick.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Marisa
“Kill For You”- Skylar Grey, Eminem
I slept most of the drive home. I guess killing someone takes more out of you than you’d think. Justin dropped me off a little over an hour ago, and I went straight to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. The lady behind the register smiled and told me “Good luck”. I thought that was cute. And here I sit, pissing on a stick, my heart all a flutter in my chest. I lay the test on the counter, pull my pants up, and flush the toilet, and I wait. I sit on the edge of my tub and think about the reaction Justin will have when I tell him. I think about how I should tell him. I should be emotional, upset, concerned because I don’t want him to think I did this on purpose, just like I didn’t dare want him to know I climbed out of our hotel window and through Tori-fucking-Davis’ window. I was only going to talk to her. To tell her that what Justin and I have is special. It wasn’t my fault she was in the bathtub. It wasn’t my fault she started screaming and wouldn’t stop. I was afraid that someone would come in and see me, then what would Justin think? I had to make her stop. I had to hold her under the water until she stopped thrashing, because I wouldn’t want Justin to think I am crazy. He wouldn’t understand that I did it for him. For... I glance at the test: two purple lines... for us. I did it for us.
I can’t help but smile when I toss the test into the trashcan. I leave the bathroom, floating on air as I pass by the one bedroom in my upscale apartment. One bedroom. Well, we’ll just have to move, although I do hate to think about selling this apartment, but really, me and Justin should go ahead and move in together. It’s the perfect progression anyway. We can buy a house on the Upper East Side with three bedrooms, because, after all, we’ll have at least two children. I walk into the living room, telling myself it only makes sense as I grab my computer, open the browser, and type in the real estate website. $650,00 – $
1,000,000. That seems reasonable, I mean, after all, Justin is a #1 New York Times Bestseller and I do still have over a million dollars in my bank account.
Hundreds of listings populate, and I click on the three-bedroom apartment with the spectacular view of the Manhattan Bridge. We can’t raise this precious little bundle in a shack. And besides, we must have a beautiful backdrop for all our selfies and Family Fun Night pictures we’ll be uploading to social media. #AuthorsOfInstagram #PerfectLittleFamily #PicturePerfect #RealLifeLoveStoryWithSurprisePregancy.
I’ve just clicked on the picture of the updated kitchen with the shiny granite countertops when my messenger dings.
Ed: I’ll be in NYC in three weeks. We should meet up for coffee.
I smile. I say sure. And I keep browsing apartments. Giddy. I’m giddy in love, with Justin Wild’s tiny little baby growing inside of me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Justin
“Sail LED Remix”- AWOLNATION
I sneak into the shed, undetected as always. The metal closes with a definitive bang and the helpless victim strapped to my table shrieks. “I’m not going to hurt you, my little butterfly. No,” I say, gently stroking her soft, warm cheek. “I want to keep you, always. Love you like the rare little creature you are.” The cursor flashes at the end of the word and I drag my hands down my face. Two-hundred words. That’s it. A half-assed prologue. Leaning back in my chair, I almost hate myself for the lack of appreciation I had for King before I started writing. And I wonder, as much as I slave over these words, as much as I agonize about whether a sentence should be this way or that... do my readers even notice? I didn’t. I never reveled in the beauty of King’s unfaltering sentence structure until I started writing. Until I understood how the simple task of completing one fucking sentence could make you want to throw things. Break things. Until I spent hours on end pacing, trying to find the perfect word.
“Shit,” I mumble, glancing down at Cobain. “Sometimes I worry I’m going to lose my mind with these books.” And that’s the truth. Sometimes, it’s hard to separate the truth from fiction... didn’t King say something to that effect... I close my laptop and glance at my watch. 6:35. Marisa should be here soon.
Marisa... I finished her book last night, and I’m kicking myself for waiting this long to read it. Her words, fuck her words are beautiful and poetic, laced with a darkness very few can do justice. But she does. Something about reading someone’s words when you know them—it’s like jumping into their head. That is, after all, the magic of reading: it plucks you from your reality and places you slap dab in the middle of another person’s conscious thoughts. Every word I type, I must think, and as a person reads it, well, they’re in my mind. Her mind is so much like mine; I could finish her sentences. And I think, had I read her words before I met her, I may would have hunted her down. I think I fucking love her.
I click on Facebook and scroll through her newsfeed. I look at her pictures and make sure Falon hasn’t been liking them, and then I go to the kitchen and put the few dishes scattered about on the counter into the sink. I brush my teeth, and my phone dings with a text from Amy. I don’t even read it. I delete it followed by her number, because I love Marisa. I delete Samantha’s number from my phone, and all those other girls. I’m done with that game. Marisa, she helped me cheat the system and get to number 140 on USA Today, not that that’s what I’m used to, but still, she helped me. She stood by me when everyone hated me, when they were saying terrible (mostly true) things about me. She is gorgeous and smart and gives an incredible blowjob. I can do this. I can...
I answer all the flirtatious messages as professionally as I can. I would do anything to fuck you. Delete that one. You are super hot. Thanks. Insert jazz hand emoji. I appreciate the support.
See, I can do this.
My doorbell rings and Cobain goes nuts, barking and jumping around, his tail wagging. “It’s unlocked,” I call, continuing to delete message after message and block the few girls I need nothing to do with because I fucking love Marisa!
The hinges to the door creak and Cobain takes off in a sprint, his nails clicking over the hardwoods. “Hey buddy,” Marisa says. I hear the door close and, the next thing I know, she’s leaning over and planting a kiss on me. She smells so clean, like vanilla and lime.
“Hey gorgeous,” I say, smiling up at her.
“Did you get a lot of words in today?”
“Nah, not really. Only about three thousand.”
“Ah, that’s not bad.” She gives me a quick kiss. “Oh, hey, that Bookbub thing you told me to do really worked. I’m sitting pretty at number 60 in the Kindle store as we speak.”
“Awesome.” I give her a quick kiss. “That book is badass too. I bet it keeps dropping once people realize how amazing it is.”
“You really think it’s good?”
“Woman, that shit is epic.” Grinning, she sits down next to me, and I notice she has a tiny blue bag in her hand. “What’s that?” I ask, setting my phone on the coffee table.
“Oh, uh, well. It’s a surprise.” She awkwardly shoves the bag into my hands then chews on her lip.
I pull the white tissue paper to the side to reveal the pages of a book. “Ah, babe,” I say bringing out the book, “you shouldn’t... ” and my chest seizes, squeezing every drop of blood from my heart until my vision swims. As soon as I draw in a breath, my heart’s pounding so hard it washes a dizzy heat all over me. I glance back at the title: What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
“They, uh, they say it’s good for the man to read, too,” she whispers. “Surprise... ”
They say before you die you see your entire life flash before your eyes, well, I think I just had that moment. I see my freedom, my lazy Saturdays, my days of wanderlust, all swirling down a shit-stained toilet. I stare at Marisa, and a sinking feeling overtakes me. “I uh... wow, I uh... ” Jesus Christ, did I finally knock somebody up? Motherfuck. “I mean,” I swallow as a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, “I mean, I guess you wanna... ” I shake my head. I love her. I just told myself that. This is fine... I swallow again and clear my ever-tightening throat. “You wanna keep it, huh?”
And with that comment, her face crumples and tears fill her eyes just before she hangs her chin to her chest. Shit. I’m a dick. “Hey, hey,” I reach out and grab her, pulling her in against my chest. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting this, you know, I uh... it’s gonna be fine, babe.” I brush my hand through her hair and kiss her neck, holding her tight even though I want to jump up and run through the fucking door, flailing and screaming.
“You’re not mad, are you?” she asks, burying her face on my shoulder. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I can’t be mad.” I sigh. “I mean, shit, I’m the one who knocked you up.”
She sniffs a few times before pulling away and glancing down at her lap. Shit just got real. I drag my hand down my face, unable to keep my eyes away from her stomach. Sex makes babies, that for damn sure. I mean, it could be worse. It could be herpes or HIV or something like that. A baby’s just a little human being that poops and eats and requires your undivided attention, and all your money.
“It’ll be fine,” I say again. “And one hell of a kickass author, right?” I laugh. Relief washes over her face and then comes the weird, awkward silence. The moment we stare at each other wondering what the fuck is going on in the other person’s mind.
She looks like a nervous wreck; she keeps fidgeting with her hands and glancing at the floor. And me, well, part of my brain is yelling at me: You should have worn a condom or at least pulled out, you dumbfuck. And then the other part of my brain, that romantic side of it is whispering: it’s fate, and there’s nothing you can do to stop fate.
I trail my hand along her arm, threading my fingers through hers. “Come on, babe,” I say. “Let’s go grab dinner, huh?” I pick the book up and set it on the coffee table. Cobain trots over and sniffs it. And I walk out of my apartment wondering how
much a two bedroom costs in DUMBO.
For the past three nights, all I’ve done is toss and turn. Any sleep I’ve mange to find is plagued by nightmares of massive babies chasing after me, calling me “DaDa”, or dreams that every girl I’ve slept with over the past two years has gotten pregnant and now they’re all lining up for their checks. Some of them holding three screaming babies out to me. I wake up in a cold sweat, panting and struggling to catch a breath.
It’s not the end of the world. It’s one baby. That’s all. One baby. One woman... I sit up in bed dragging my hands through my hair and sighing before I restlessly flop back down. Marisa’s going to want to move in together. Get married. Have more fucking babies. Funny, the one girl I wasn’t worried about trying to tie me down, and somehow I ended up hogtied, ass in the air. I toss and turn, and turn and toss. I get up and pace. I drink a beer and then another. I flip through my phone, scrolling my newsfeed on Facebook for hours. And then, I get a text from a number without a name: I can’t stop thinking about you. I miss you.
I chew on my bottom lip, my nerves on edge. I should just set the phone down. Delete the message. Say fuck it. I’m a dead man walking here, but still... Swallowing, I find that old habits die hard. Maybe it’s the stress or the fear of having a kid and being tied down, but for whatever reason I text that number back: I miss you, too. And damn if it doesn’t feel like a rush of endorphins just flooded my system. And I don’t even know who the hell that was.
I lay back and stare at the ceiling. I could most likely be happy with Marisa, but that vulnerability, the possibility and what ifs, the thought of having my heart broken in two again—I don’t like it. Nice guys finish last, isn’t that a saying? And throughout my life, it’s proven to be true. It wasn’t until I became the bad guy that I found success, and how messed up is that?
White Pawn Page 15
