Chapter Seven
Justin
“Arsonist’s Lullabye”- Hozier
IwatchMarisa walk down the dimly lit sidewalk, her dark hair and hips swishing from side to side with each sexy step. Damn, that woman is unbelievable. She is the perfect bit of arm candy. All I have to do is win her over, and how hard can that be? I do, after all write romance. I know how to play women like a motherfucking fiddle. Drop a line here, a compliment there, throw in a touch of affection. Cuddles, tender kisses. I’m pretty sure by the end of the week I could have Marisa naked with those killer thighs of hers spread. It’s basic really. Look any woman dead in the eyes like they are the very air you are breathing, then exhale like you’re hesitating, like you’re holding out, uncertain. Make yourself seem vulnerable. Then say: “There’s somethingdifferentabout you. I just have this...deepconnection with you like your... I don’t know, like I’ve known you forever.” I’m not sure if all the women I’ve spilled those lines to believe me, or if it provides just enough justification for them take their clothes off. Regardless, they love that shit.
Cobain’s waiting at the door for me when I walk inside my apartment. I pat him on the head, then grab a bottle of whisky from the kitchen counter, stripping down to my boxers on my way to the bedroom. The liquor inside the bottle sloshes against the side when I fall onto my bed still thinking about Marisa. The cap cracks when I twist it open and I toss it to the floor. Cobain comes running across the room, chasing the plastic lid as it rolls over the floor. “Drop it,” I say, snapping my fingers. He looks up at me, huffs, then drops the slobber-covered top to the floor. He trots over to the side of my bed and rest his massive horse-head on the edge. I scrub over the top of his head as I open my messenger.
“Fuck’s sake, Cobain,” I say, rolling my eyes at the countless messages from god knows how many women. “Can’t a guy catch a break?” Cobain drops his ass to the floor, his tail wagging over the hardwoods. “You can’t even flirt with a woman these days without her thinking you want to marry her ass. What ever happened to a good fuck and go?” I shake my head as I flip through the messages. I answer a few of them. Depending on who the sender is I throw in some winky emojis, a few “I miss you, too” comments. I roll my eyes again when I see Tori’s message:
I can’t believe you, you lying sack of shit. You told me I was different. That I wasn’t one of those girls. You’re an asshole.
“Like this one,” I say, turning my phone around to show Cobain—like he cares. “Tori, she’s what we call cockstruck.” I lift my eyebrows and a low grumble slips from his jowls before his ears perk up. He glances into the hallway, halfway growls halfway barks and then trots off, leaving me to my phone.
Babe, I type,you are different. You’re not one ofthosegirls, but Iama single guy, and not once did I commit to you.
Oh, really? Justin, you told me you loved me.
No, I told you I would love you if I could. There’s a difference.
And then…block, because the last thing I need is another cock-hungry bitch riding my ass. I grab the bottle of whisky and take a heavy swig before I grab the remote. I surf the channels. There’s not shit worth watching, so I check my phone again, answering a few more messages. One girl who evidently sucked me off after a signing last month has sent me a nice little nude shot, her pink hair in pigtails. It’s cliché, but hot nonetheless, so I save that one for later. Somehow the time escapes me and I’m halfway through the bottle of whisky, my vision blurring and forcing me to close one eye to see the words on my screen. The dark of the night starts to close in on me, the blue haze from the TV…and it’s moments like this: when I’m alone in my bed with a half drank bottle of liquor that I feel vulnerable, that this helpless feeling gets so strong I can’t swallow it down. I take another heavy swig, letting the hot liquid burn its way down my throat. It hits my stomach with a wicked heat, and then I start texting:I miss you. To Shanna, to Samantha, to Marisa…I just go down my list and text it, because it’s not a lie. I miss fucking people.
And then Samantha texts me back. I miss you, too!
I just want to cuddle.
Awww…want me to come over?
Of course.
I polish off the bottle and manage to get out of bed, only stumbling a few times on my way to the bathroom. There’s a knock on the door and Cobain goes nuts, barking and scratching at the door. I piss and splash water over my face. “You’re a fucking dick,” I say to my reflection. It’s true. At least I’m aware of it.
