White Pawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Lines. Just feed them lines. Make them feel special, you know.”

  “You dog.”

  I shrug and take a sip of my drink. “Nah, what’s it hurting? They feel good about themselves, we have a good time. It’s not like I promise them anything, well, not really.” Except Marisa.

  “Play on playa.” Jarod sticks two fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistles at a girl. “You only live once, you know?”

  “Yep.”

  Two loungers down from me, a babe is rubbing herself down with tanning oil. Her toned muscles glisten under the sun. She throws a glance in my direction, smirking as she rolls over onto her stomach. “Aw, shit. That one looks cock hungry,” Jarod says, rubbing over his junk.

  I bite down on my lip. The sheen on her ass beckons me, and my blood flow instinctively shifts to my cock. I take another sip of my cool drink, but instead of getting up and walking over to her, I toss my head back and close my eyes. I can do this.

  Jarod gets up and dives into the pool before swimming up to some blonde chick. I close my eyes and almost doze off until a shadow falls over me, blocking the heat of the sun. I open my eyes, drag my shades down the bridge of my nose, and stare at the pretty brunette in a tiny bikini standing in front of me. She has two shot glasses in her hand. “I just,” she shifts on her bare feet, her perfect tits bouncing ever so slightly. “You’re my favorite author. The reason I started writing.” She smiles. I smile.

  “Really?” I say, dragging my eyes over her body. “Well, that’s a compliment I’ll take.”

  “I’m Bella.” She sits on the end of my lounger and hands me one of the shot glasses. “Fireball,” she says. I tip the cup back, letting that rancid taste burn its way down my throat.

  “Shit,” I hiss and she hands me the next one. I eye it before lifting my gaze to meet hers. “And you are trying to get me drunk, huh?”

  “Maybe... ” she shrugs. I have to slam the shot back, it would be rude not to, now, the other four she gives me... Before long, I’m stumbling into the hotel with her arm looped through mine and we’re in her room. I’m undressing her, she’s undressing me. Her tits in my hand my mouth. She falls back onto the bed, pulling me down with her and my gut knots. Her hair doesn’t smell like Marisa’s. This—this doesn’t feel right so I slink out from under her, grab my pants, and pull them on.

  Her face scrunches. “What are you doing?” Her hand slowly snakes down her stomach and between her thighs.

  “I, uh... ” I sweep my fingers through my hair, unable to look at her. My heart pounds. My mind is quickly becoming clogged with thoughts of Marisa. And what the hell is this? “I just, uh... ” I lift my eyes, and although Bella looks like a spread to a playboy all sprawled out on those rumpled sheets, I can’t even enjoy it because I feel guilty. “I just, uh... yeah.” I nod, grab my shirt, and walk out of her hotel room, the door banging shut behind me.

  She’s not Marisa.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Marisa

  “My Body Is A Cage”- Arcade Fire

  Ten percent battery. That’s enough to make me take off in a slow jog toward my apartment. Through the doors, up the stale and humid stairwell, into my living room, and straight to the charger. I fall back onto the couch and sigh as I continue scrolling. Facebook and Instagram are loaded with pictures from the signing. The signing I didn’t go to. The signing he already had an assistant for. An assistant named Terri Wethers. I looked at her profile. She’s married with children. Like that matters. And although she doesn’t look like a threat—as plain-fucking-Jane as you can get—I’ve realized with him, it doesn’t matter. I thought Justin wanted the hot girl. The one with the slut-red-lipstick-smile and perfectly fake tits, but, over the course of the past month, I’ve found out that’s simply not true. Let’s not forget #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy. Plain and ditzy and a motherfucking blonde! Just the thought of her makes my vision go red and my blood pressure shoot dangerously high. So, Justin, maybe all it takes is a vagina who thinks you’re a god. Maybe that’s the only prerequisite there is to get a crack at you? Shaking my head, I stare down at my phone as I type in #SantaMonicaAuthorExpo.

  Picture after picture pops up. Readers with authors. Authors with books. The after party... and Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. What are you doing? There’s all these pictures from a photo booth they have set up at the after-fucking-party. And why is he in so many with his arm draped around girls? Why is he letting them kiss his cheek and feel his muscles? I grip the phone so hard my hand trembles. I go to Instagram, not because I’m obsessive, no, but because I’m not stupid. He won’t pull the wool over my eyes.

  There, at the very tiptop of my feed, is his post—filtered—of course. It’s a picture of him and a new author, Bella Beast... I roll my eyes at that ridiculous penname. His caption: Glad to have meet this great lady. She writes some fucked up books. #authorsofinstagram #fuckedupshit #allthedarkwords. I click on her name, seething with a quite rage when I see the picture she posted: a selfie of her and Justin, all fucking smiles and dimples. #dreamywriter #hessopretty #canikeephim #authorsoffuckedupshit.

  She thinks she writes fucked up shit? Oh, I guess Justin thinks she’s dark and twisted and fucking mental just like him? I click on one of her Amazon links, read the shit-laced blurb, and sigh. It’s laughable, really. I download it and give her my measly $2.99. I skim through the pages: The red blood dripped down the walls, but it didn’t bother me. In this world, it’s kill or be killed. Hunt or be hunted. I skim a few more pages. He saved me. Swooped in and carried me out, turning on his own gang—and there I stop because this story sounds all too familiar. Not the writing mind you; her lack of imagination insults me. And it should insult you too, Justin. I skim more and more of the book and, by the time I get to the end, I’m staring at my computer screen and livid because this is Justin’s story, but she changed the ending. She changed the fucking ending!

  I can’t believe he would endorse someone whose work he hasn’t even read, someone who blatantly took his idea and shit all over it with poor grammar and too many adverbs. But again: having a vagina and believing he is a god is all it takes to get in his good graces. I can’t help it; I chuck the phone across the room and it leaves a gash in my wall. Shaking my head, I grab my laptop and go straight to Amazon to leave a 1-star review: Amateur writing. Stolen plot. Justin Wild should sue her. Short and sweet. Then, I go to Tix Website, pay for a domain name (www.terriblehorribleverybadauthors.com), and spend the next two hours pulling together a blog, because I don’t need one more fucking distraction. I don’t need Bella Beast to be at anymore signings. I can’t have other people thinking they can get away with such a disgraceful, distasteful act. Besides, people love scandals. They love rumors and drama... and I love Justin, so I smile deep down inside when I type out the truthful accusation: Bella Beast plagiarized Justin Wild’s story. Don’t support this gonorrhea infested thief... I stare at the flashing cursor before I go back and delete “gonorrhea infested”. I have to make this sound professional. Not angry. So I type out examples of her awful writing. I take screenshots of her paragraphs and post them next to screenshots of the very similar story in Justin’s well-written novel. But how on earth will I ever get this little gem of a blog out to the masses without blowing my rouse? And then, I smile. I laugh a little and that bitter bitch inside of me manically rubs her palms together as I make a new text box with the headline: Marisa Dawson is a whore.

  Now, why would I do this to myself? Three reasons. One—It makes me look like an innocent victim of a brutal bashing. Two—it will drum up controversy, which will up my sales, and then, most importantly, it will bring an upsetting revelation to all those women who may not be aware that Justin’s ramming his glorious cock inside of me on a regular basis. I slam myself, talking about how I shack up with him at signings, how I’m “all over his dick”. I accuse myself of only fucking him to get ahead in the author world, to gain readers and notoriety. I write about how slutty it was of me to fuck Chris Talon on a ba
lcony and cause a seen with Justin by the pool—and see, now he’ll think it’s Tori that’s behind this—God, I’m a genius.

  And then, I hate to do it, but I must, I type: Justin Wild: Manwhore of the Year. Tori would pull him in on it, and if I am going to make this believable, it must be done. My eyes well with tears as I type out the awful things about my soulmate: Misogynistic, narcissistic, player... he uses women to make up for his own personal insecurities. He’s immature and fake. A liar and a drunk. And then, just to make sure everything hits home. Just to make sure I pull everyone down with me in a flaming pile of dog shit, I make another page: Mugshots of Justin’s Harem. And I upload, one by one, those pictures I saved all those weeks ago from his computer. He’ll think someone hacked his iCloud... fucking Apple. There’s a picture of Samantha and Tracey and Amanda and Lauren. A racy little spread of Barbara and Jen (every man is entitled to a threesome, after all). Sarah and Cal and Jennifer and Leigh. Autumn and Jodie and Roxie and Kerry and Leah... and lastly, one I let him take of me, legs spread and tits out. We’re all ruined. Every last one of us. Thanks Justin. Thanks Tori. And thank you fucking Bella Beast.

  Like a master chess player, I weigh my options. My every move. And I decide I will give it one day before I share the link to this blog. Then everything will come spiraling down. The new girl is tainted. All his little whores will hate him, and most of his faithful followers will see him for what he is. And I will be the lone wolf who sticks by his side, who loves him regardless of his many, many flaws. I will be the girl who finally won over his playing little ass, and then, I’ll have my perfect love story. I’ll be the heroine who won over the tragic bad boy.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Justin

  “Lapdance”- N.E.R.D.

  Cobain sniffs my luggage and eyes me with suspicion.

  “There’s nothing in there for you,” I say, popping the top from my beer before I sit down on the bed. Signings wear my ass out. All the travel, the shuffling from here to there. The drinking... I take a sip from the bottle and lean back against the headboard. I grab my phone from my pocket to pull up Facebook and count how many pictures I’ve been tagged in. To read the comments about how everyone wants to fuck me—and the thing is, as arrogant as that makes me sound, it is the truth. I don’t ask for it, but that shit would stroke anyone’s ego.

  My screen’s black. I press the power button and the little empty battery pops up. Fuck. I dig around in my bedside table for a charger and plug it in. The second it boots up, the damn phone goes off the rails. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding... on and fucking on. Cobain sneaks around the corner of the bed, his ears perked up as he stares at the table the phone’s resting on.

  Samantha: You’re a fucking dick.

  Jen: I hope someone cuts your limp dick clean off.

  Leah: Fuck you! Fuck you! FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCK YOU!

  Bubble after bubble of texts pops up and I swipe them away. Over seventy texts. My Facebook notifications are going berserk. And then, my phone rings. Marisa.

  “Hey babe,” I answer, trying to sound calm although my nerves are rattled and sweats dripping down the center of my back. “I missed you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “What? What’s—”

  “You’re a complete piece of shit. How many girls, Justin? How many? I mean my god, and then... then how could you let someone get a hold of those pictures. All those pictures.” She falls silent for a second. I hear her sniff. “Do you have any idea,” she takes a breath and oh shit, she’s crying, “any idea what this makes me look like?”

  I’m at a loss. “Baby, slow down—”

  “Don’t fucking call me that.”

  “Fine.” I groan. “Marisa, what the hell is going on?”

  “Why don’t you check your beloved fucking Facebook, Justin?”

  “I’m not playing games. Just spit it out.”

  “Well, someone started a blog and whoever did it, hates you. They bashed you and me and posted naked pictures of girls.” She starts crying. Shit.

  “Naked pictures, what are you—”

  “And the last one is a picture of me. You took. In your apartment.”

  “What!” My pulse is racing, my mind jumbling up in one helluva massive gridlock, because how the hell could anyone have gotten those pictures? Fucking apple and its iCloud... I swear to god.

  “I just... I can’t with you anymore. I can’t.” And she hangs up.

  The fuck? I stare at my phone. Notification after notification flashes over the screen. Swallowing, I open my Facebook and look at a few of the tags. There’s a link to a website called: Terrible Horrible Very Bad Authors, Jesus Christ, they’ve nearly stolen a title from Judith Viorst. I follow it and my face immediately feels like it’s going to combust. My heart pounds, my fists clench. This blog is slamming me and Marisa and... Bella Beast? I don’t even bother to read over the article about Bella. I could give two shits about that one. I click on the tab so sweetly titled Justin’s Harem and there are the pictures from my iPhone. Naked pictures of all the girls I’ve fucked in this industry. All those girls I spent time and effort denying or downplaying a relationship with to save face have just been outed. With the jab of a few keys, my lies of: I’ve never hooked up with someone in the industry before, come tumbling down like the Berlin wall. Everything has crumbled into a steaming pile of utter fuck.

  I bury my face in my hands and groan. At first, I think maybe I can deny it. Say the pictures came from somewhere else. Blame that fuckface Chris Talon, everyone knows he’s a slut. But nope. Half of them where taken on my bed, that goddamn Ansel Adam picture of the Tetons and Snake River glaring like a motherfucking beacon of whoredom in the background.

  Author Justin Wild is a ripe cunt. Why would anyone want to read the words, no matter how poetic, of a raging dickhead? That was posted by Emaline Day, one of the biggest names in the industry. “Shit!” I shout and hurl my phone across the room, right at the mirror over my dresser. It hits it with a crack. Cobain tucks his tail and dashes underneath the bed. This is a nightmare. First, my publishing deal goes straight down the shitter and now, now my somewhat unblemished reputation has just caught a case of Ebola. And, I think what may be worse is that I just brought Marisa into quarantine with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Marisa

  “Hello”- Leo, Pete Cottrel

  Justin’s called. Texted. I won’t answer or respond. I want to, of course I do, but this is part of the game. What girl in their right mind would just get over this?

  I open the fridge and look for something to eat. Leftover Chinese. Chicken and rice. Just when I am reaching for a Tupperware container, there’s a knock at my door. “Marisa... ” Justin’s deep, sexy voice comes sifting through the door before he knocks again. “Please let me talk to you.”

  I close my eyes and shut the fridge. “Just a minute,” I try my best to sound worn out and tired, like I’ve been sobbing all day. But my eyes... I glance around the kitchen, grab an onion that’s seen better days and a knife. I quickly cut into it, rub my finger over the sticky inside, then dab it right in both my eyes. It burns and I reach for the faucet, bend over the sink, and splash water on my face. The burning lets up just enough that I can now keep my eyes open. I blot my face off and head to the door, knowing my eyes must look like I’ve been crying for hours on end. Hours on end, Justin. You heartless bastard. When I pull the door open, I have to wipe away the tears pouring from my eyes. I glance at the floor, looking at Justin’s black Chuck Taylors as I hold onto the edge of the door. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  I glance up at him, the tears still coming. “I just don’t... ”

  “Please let me come in.”

  I step to the side and he walks in, grabbing my hand and leading me into the living room where he takes me by the waist, lifts my chin with one hand, and wipes away the tears with his thumb. Just like in a book. See how well I can write our story, Justin? “I... ” he swallows, and I’m certain he’s
unable to find the words. “I just, I never meant to hurt you.”

  I exhale. “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. I may be a dick, but everything I said to you, I meant.” He shakes his head, rolling his bottom lip underneath his perfect white teeth. “I like you, Marisa. I just, I just suck at shit like this.”

  “All those girls, I mean, I feel sick.”

  “Babe, they were before you.”

  Where they really, Justin? Where they really? I stare at him, my eyes still swelling with fake tears. “I just—” He grabs me and slams his full lips over mine and I go weak, limp. I turn to a ball of putty in his arms. He pulls away just an inch, just enough that I can see his blue, blue eyes. “You were always my favorite,” he says, and that unsettled anger slowly rips at my chest, pulling meat and flesh from my bones. Just when I thought he’d learned—he’s like a dog that keeps shitting in his food bowl.

  I pull away from him, but he grabs my face again, holding my jaw so tight I’m afraid he’ll leave a bruise. “Wait,” he says. “You were always my favorite, Marisa. Always will be, which is why you should be my one.”

  I drag in a breath. I fight the real tears now, choking and sputtering over what I should say. “Please,” I whisper, “please don’t make me hate you.”

  “I won’t let you hate me.”

  But oh, Justin, what a thin line that is. The line between love and hate, hate and love. It’s a thin, fragile little line that you keep toeing. Toeing. Toeing. Toeing, and one more fumble, one more slip up and that line will turn into a tripwire that’s going to explode into a massive ball of fire.

  Chapter Thirty