Chapter Thirty-Seven
Justin
“Self Esteem”- Offspring
Exhaust hangs heavy in the air. The rumble of motors and the blare of horns, driver’s shouting at pedestrians. “Smile,” Marisa sings, pressing her cheek against mine as she lifts her phone in front of our faces. She takes several selfies, touches them up like I taught her, and then posts them. “What hashtag do you think?” she asks as we walk into the lobby of the hotel.
“Uh,” I readjust the heavy boxes I’m carting, “hashtag the signing... ”
She nods and taps over her screen, not paying a bit of attention to where she’s going. We follow the signs leading us to the signing room. Some redheaded woman smiles as she holds open the door to the ballroom. “Oh,” she says when Marisa waltzes past her, “you’re Marisa Dawson, right?” Marisa stops and smiles, shaking the woman’s hand.
“Yes, and you’re Amanda, right?”
“Yes, that’s me.” The woman grins from ear to ear and I’m just standing here with five fucking boxes of books in my arms.
“Thank you so much for the invite, I was more than thrilled to receive it.”
“Oh, we’re just glad you could make it last minute. I loved Friction. It’s my top read of the year.”
“Aw, thank you so much.” Marisa beams as she glances back at me... still holding her books. “Oh, Amanda, you know Justin, my boyfriend.” Amanda turns to face me, her smile slightly fading. “Justin Wild,” Marisa continues.
“Oh... yes.” Her lip snarls before she turns to look back at Marisa. “Anything you need, you just let me or one of the volunteers know, and thank you again for coming.” She walks off and Marisa shrugs before heading into the room.
There are only about thirty authors at this signing. New York, New York: Authors of the Big Apple. This signing is huge. I mean, shit, EL James is at the damn thing. This is a signing most romance authors are chomping at the bits to get into, and Marisa just waltzes up in here like she owns the motherfucker, with me as her assistant. I follow her to the table at the back of the room. There’s a tiny folded sign set in the middle with her name on it. She trails her fingers over the black tablecloth, smiling at me. “I’m so excited they invited me.”
I grin at her as I set the boxes beside her table. “I’m proud of you, babe.” I pull my keys from my pocket and jab one along the seam of the box, opening it.
Less than an hour later and there’s a line for her. I smile, I tap the Sharpie over the table. Women look at me. They grin, some of them blush, but their focus is on Marisa and her book and how awesome it is. It is awesome, but... And then I think, shit, what if I’m done for? I had my ten minutes of fame and now I’m old news, washed up. I mean, how long could I have possibly hoped to keep that career alive? Aren’t most authors a one-hit-wonder, one-series success? Shit! I’m not a fucking King or Patterson. I’m fucking toast is what I am.
Panic chokes me. My pulse clangs around in my chest like a lose canon, and I get this sick sinking feeling in my gut. My days of glory and adoration have come to an abrupt end. I managed to make it through my lost publishing deal and having my slut-ridden ways exposed. Hell, I survived being a straight-up dickhead. So, what has happened? I tap the pen over the table, deep in thought. And then I hear it: “You guys are so cute. I just love seeing all your selfies with Justin. I was a huge fan of his.”
Stop. Back up... was a huge fan. I glance at Marisa and she’s all smiles, signing her book and talking to this girl. I stare over the line, and that’s it. I’m off the market. It’s obvious. I changed my fucking Facebook status from “Single” to “In a Relationship with Marisa Dawson”, and that was like closing up shop. Fuck my life.
I sink down in the seat, grabbing my phone and scrolling Facebook. I can only imagine what the hell is going to happen when she announces that I knocked her up. I may as well just give up on the gym and go ahead and let my killer abs melt away into Dadbod. The girl who was my fan steps in front of me, handing me a bookmark to sign. I scribble my signature over it and hand it back.
“Don’t you get scared sleeping next to her?” she asks with a grin.
“Her?” I thumb toward Marisa. I laugh. “Please, she may write some fucked up shit, but I can assure you, that girl does not scare me. She’s harmless. I mean, look at how innocent she looks.”
Marisa glances over and smiles, her perfect red lips pulling up into a pretty, little smile. “The deadliest of things are usually the most enticing.”
“Hey, you wanna slit my throat in your sleep.” I shrug. “Have at it, might turn me on.”
The lady sighs, clutching her hand to her chest. “You guys are too cute.” And then she walks off, leafing through Marisa’s book.
“Hey, babe,” Marisa says, handing her phone to me. “Can you handle the card payments?”
“Sure.”
And so, here I sit, swiping cards and handing her books to sign. Washed up. Forgotten about. Just a pretty face in the crowd. I’m finishing up a card transaction when a Facebook message pops on her screen.
Ed: LOL. That’s true. God, I’d love to be in your head for a minute. I mean it, we’re meeting up when I’m in NYC, you.
You? Oh Ed, trying to be flirtatious you little shit? I take a quick glance at Marisa. She’s busy talking, signing things, laughing. A tiny part of me feels guilty for what I’m about to do, but I’ve been fucked over before, and I’m not getting fucked over again. Besides, she’s pregnant with my kid. Doesn’t that give me some kind of leeway here? I click on the messenger app and go straight to Ed’s message. I scroll back. Jesus, he’s all over her. Telling her she’s beautiful... she mentions me and he says, “Well, I hope he treats you like the little dark queen that you are.” The fuck? Are you kidding me right now? Little dark queen. I roll my eyes. Message after message of him praising her. Asking her to meet up with him. Jesus, it’s like all he does all day is follow her posts and comment on every single one. Come on, Ed. Don’t you have better shit to do like write pussy-ass songs about love and break-ups? Anger slowly builds inside my chest like the pressure crackling along a fault line. Winding up and popping, threatening to explode at any moment. I’m tempted to send him a message and tell him I’ll beat his ass if he likes when he shows up in NYC, compliments of my little dark queen, but I don’t. Instead, I just drop the phone to the table and silently brood in my chair, watching everyone gloat over Marisa. Listening to everyone tell her how she deserves to hit a list, yadda-fucking-yadda. And then, because god evidently has a sense of humor, Ed’s newest song, “Gonna Get Your Girl”, comes blaring over the sound system.
“I’m going to take a piss,” I say, scooting my chair back and dropping her phone to the table with the message from fucking Ed still pulled up.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Marisa
“Glory and Gore”- Lorde
Justin’s face is red, his jaw ticking as he stares at the ceiling. Groaning, I toss the sheets off me and climb out of bed, nearly tripping over Cobain on my way to the bathroom. “Justin, I’m telling you, there’s nothing going on.” I flush the toilet and wash my hands before going back to the room and crawling in the bed. I scoot across the mattress and go to lay my head on his chest, but he rolls over with a huff.
“You’re acting like a kid.”
He sits up in the bed and glares at me. “I’m sorry, Marisa. I’m sorry if it bothers me that my girlfriend, oh wait, my pregnant girlfriend is flirting with a fucking celebrity.”
“Oh my... ” Shaking my head, I sigh. I pretend it upsets me, but it really doesn’t. I like him jealous. I like him all angry and caveman. “He is just a fan.”
“Yeah, and you know what, Marisa,” he narrows those steel blue eyes of his, “I know all about people who are just fans. So, don’t feed me that bullshit.”
I fight the smile that wants to break out over my face. “I mean, what do you want me to do?”
“Stop feeding into it. Tell him you’re not meeting him when
he comes into New York, or better yet,” he points to my stomach, “tell him your pregnant. See how big of a fan he is then.”
“You are something.” You are something, Justin. But we both know that.
He flings himself back on the bed with a huff and drags his hands over his face. “I mean, some guys are into fucking pregnant women, there’s porn sites for that shit. Milking. Hell, those milking books sell for a reason. Guys are sick.”
“You would know.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, you want me to block him?” I shrug.
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, you know, you really are insecure.”
“Oh fuck you.”
“Fuck you!”
“I’m going to fucking sleep.” And he rolls back over. I want to shake him, yell at him. Remind him of how many times I put up with him screwing around, but I know he’ll only say he was single then. It doesn’t count. He’s on edge, bless him. I know everything that’s happened recently is taking its toll on him, and I saw the bitterness slowly leaking from him like a damaged nuclear reactor this afternoon. His limelight has been stolen and he’s a sad little panda. I’ll let him have his little hissy fit. Besides, it’s cute that he’s worried about Ed. He’s worried about Ed... my mind starts to wander down that twisted and thorny path. Why is he so suspicious? I mean, sure, there are messages, but nothing racy. No fucking jazz hand emojis. My heart pumps violently because they always say the accuser is usually the guilty one. What if Justin’s suspicious because he’s still being dirty whore Justin instead of sweet, swoony boyfriend Justin? I haven’t checked his phone in days, not since I told him we are expecting. I place my hand over my stomach and worry mounts in my chest. I can’t have this entire thing ruined because I’ve become lax and stupid. No one likes the story where the woman ends up alone, raising a bastard baby. They want the wedding, the radical change. The bad boy gone soft. I glance at Justin and he’s already snoring. His phone is on the nightstand by his side of the bed. I get up and tiptoe around the footboard and pick up his phone, but it’s dead. Of course it’s dead.
Cobain hops onto the bed, his heavy weight causing the entire mattress to bounce. Justin shifts, mumbling in his sleep as he stretches his arm out. I watch as he feels around. He lifts his head and looks at the empty bed, then around the room, his gaze freezing on me now standing at the foot of the bed.
“Shit,” he says. “What are you doing?”
“I had to pee.”
He glances at the clock. “Again?”
“I’m pregnant. Hormones make you pee.”
He lies back with a groan and pats the bed. “Come back.”
Rolling me eyes, I walk to my side of the bed, climb in, and snuggle up next to him. He wraps his arm around me and tugs me against his warm body. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair.
“It’s okay.”
And it is okay, but I still have to make sure he’s behaving. I just don’t trust that he’s not going to mess up this ending.
He’s had his damn phone on him all day, which makes me even more certain he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He took it into the bathroom to play his Spotify playlist while he showered. He took it to the gym. Left it in his pocket at the coffee house, and it’s still in there, taunting me with its rectangular outline.
“Smells good, babe,” he says, kissing me on the cheek on his way to the fridge. I hear the clatter of beer bottles, the pop of a top. “Ah, what is that?”
“Italian zucchini. The lasagna’s in the oven.”
“You’re gonna make me fat.” He gives me another kiss, this one cold and wet from his beer, and then he walks out to the living room and falls back on the couch. I peer around the corner, watching as he pulls his phone from his pocket. He reads over something, rubs his hand across the top of his head, and smiles before typing something out. Who are you talking to, Justin? And this is why I have to get that phone. Not because I’m crazy or obsessive, no, because I’m smart, and I must fix this before he fucks it all up. This has to be a love story, not a tragedy.
I check to make sure his attention is still glued to that phone before I grab my purse from the end of the kitchen counter. “So, I was thinking,” I say as I rummage around for one of my pill bottles, “we should write a book together.”
“Huh?”
I find the bottle of sleeping pills and unscrew the cap, dumping about four into my palm. “We should write a book together.” I pop my head around the doorframe and smile at him. “You know everyone would buy it wondering if the sex in it is real or not.”
He laughs. And I place the pills on the cutting board, using a serving spoon to crush them into a fine powder. “They would, you know they would.”
“Yeah, well, why stop with a book? We could just Facebook live it, you know?”
“God, you are such a boy.” I sigh as I dust the zucchini with the magic powder that will send him into La La Land while I see what naughty things he’s been up to.
“I’d be down to write one with you, for sure. It’d be mental.”
Mental. I roll my eyes. To write so well, his vocabulary sure is crap.
I finish up dinner and dish up the plates, smiling like fucking Joan Cleaver when I set the table. Justin takes a seat, scooting his chair up to the table as he eyes the Italian feast spread out before him. “Shit, you are perfect, you know it.” He digs into the lasagna and lifts a steaming forkful to his mouth. “You sure you don’t want to stay over again tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah, I need to do some laundry and write.”
Nodding, he stabs a piece of zucchini and crams it in his mouth. His eyes widen and, for a moment, I fear I used too many pills or didn’t add enough oregano to cover the bitter taste up. “Shit, this is good.”
Relief washes over me. “Thanks,” I smile as I take a bite of lasagna.
He eats his zucchini and mine—pregnancy came in handy as to why I didn’t want that little side dish tonight. We’ve just finished cleaning up the kitchen when he yawns, then yawns again. “Too many carbs,” he mumbles as he shuffles toward the couch.
I dry my hands on the dishtowel, watching as he pulls his phone from his pocket and lays it on the coffee table. “Well,” I say, walking over to the couch and leaning down to give him a kiss, “I’m going to go do some laundry, try to write. See you tomorrow?”
His eyes are already lulling shut, but he manages a nod. “Alright, baby.” Ugh. Enough with the baby. “I’ll miss you.” Before I’m halfway across the living room, he’s snoring. I eye him for a minute or two, making sure he’s sound asleep before I walk to the coffee table and snag his phone.
I glance at him as I click on his messenger app. He looks so peaceful, so perfect. He looks lovely, like the perfect book boyfriend. Dark hair tousled, his defined biceps littered with tattoos, all the way down to his faithful dog asleep at his side. I scroll through the messages and my heart smiles, my stomach flutters—our baby must know—not one nasty message. Not one single jazz hand or kissy face. I look back up at him and I want to kiss him. Tell him I love him. I want to go block Ed right now... and then, just to be safe, I check his texts. There’s only two. Mine and... I click on the one without a name and my heart stills, the swirling fog of bliss I’d so serenely been floating through morphs into an angry storm cloud filled with lightening and hail.
I miss you, too. My hand shakes. And what am I supposed to do with this, Justin?
She texted she wants to see you. You texted maybe sometime soon? My heart flops like a dead fish on a sunbaked dock. I breath in and out, trying to reason, trying to make up an excuse. I have to get to the bottom of this, and the only way to do that is: Come over. Now. 212 Water Street. Can’t wait to see you, baby. Jazz hand emoticon.
She says: On my way.
And I pace. I pace and pace and pace wondering who she is. I swear to god, Justin, if she’s blonde... There’s a knock on the door and you don’t budge. I stare at that
door. Tap. Tap. What am I supposed to do? Tell her to come in? I can’t do that. I didn’t think this through. It’s messy and unplanned—it doesn’t fit into the story. None of it does. It should be me and him and our baby, not me standing here while his whore is on the other side of the door. “Justin, baby?” she says.
Ugh. That word! I massage my temples, trying to think of what King or Patterson would do, how could they use this fuck up for an epic twist, a heightened climax, a what-the-fuck-moment. With each step toward the entrance I take, my pulse clangs in my ears, my muscles grow tense. “Justin?” she sings through the wooden door. I grab his MacBook on the way to the entrance, clutching it to my chest. I flip the lock, twist the knob, and the door slowly swings open with an eerie creak. Her shadow falls across the floor.
“Uh... ” I see her shadow hesitate. “Justin?” And then she steps in. All I see is blonde hair. Blonde hair. Blonde hair. It’s Amy, Justin. It’s fucking #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy, and then...
Pow. Whack. Bam.
It’s lights out. #NightNightAmyNightNight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Marisa
“Blah Blah Blah”- Yo Gotti
This really has gotten ridiculously out of hand. And all because Justin doesn’t know when to call a checkmate. Such a shame. Poor Amy—I sigh as I glance at her and her blonde hair tinged with blood. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what the hell to do about this little conundrum. I mean, it is quiet the mess I’ve gotten myself into. It all just happened so fast. I’m not even sure why I whacked her with his MacBook, it was just her and that damn blonde hair. I’ve been pacing for a good five minutes, waiting on her to come to. Maybe I can just let her go when she wakes up, but she’d go run and tattletale to the police, and I can’t let her do that. And even if she doesn’t go to the cops, there’s the issue of the blood and nasty blonde bits of hair on Justin’s MacBook. How am I going to explain to Justin that I was snooping through his iPhone? Sorry, babe. I thought you were a whore so I texted your plaything to come over. That makes me sound insane. And I’m not. I’m just in love with him. But I’m a firm believer in fate, and Amy, well, she’s what Stephen King would refer to as my fifth business. She’s the game changer here. The way I make sure that Justin and I get that happily ever after. She is how I make sure he never leaves me, and I never leave him. This is how we become Bonnie and Clyde: ride ‘till we die.
White Pawn Page 16
