Chapter Nineteen
Marisa
“Lydia”- Highly Suspect
That perfume. It assaulted me when she walked up. It’s the same perfume he reeked of the other day. I had to count to 100 before I could look at her without wanting to take the butter knife and cut her prissy little head off. The audacity to come right up to our table and talk to him. And then Justin—adear fucking friend?Really? Is that all I am to you?
You saw the damn hand towel, the Ansel Adams, all those books. I write for fuck’s sake.Dear friend my ass.
Justin’s busy texting on the walk home, which is a slap in the face, so I turn and head to the entrance of my apartment without a word. And he follows me. Stopping at the steps, I turn around. “What are you doing?”
“Coming up,” he says like it should be a given.
“No,” I smile and place my palm flat on his hard chest, “you’re not.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I’ve got to write, and anyway, we’re justdear friends.”
“Ah, come on now, Marisa, what else am I supposed to call you, there is no word for the in-between.”
I laugh, but God, I want to slap the shit out of him. “The in-between what, Justin?”
“Lovers and friends.” He smiles. He thinks he’s so witty and cute. But, tonight I play the angry bitch card. I throw that motherfucker on the table, and I’ll make his damn head spin.
“Actually,” I press the code to the building and the lock pops, “that’s called a fuckbuddy. Start introducing me as that, why don’t you?” And I open the door, slamming it shut behind me. I barely glance over my shoulder when I reach the elevator. He’s still standing on the doorstep with a look of utter shock on his perfect little face. I can pretend to be disinterested, I can say I’m not jealous, but there are lines. It’s knowing how and when to put someone like Justin Wild in their place that will win over his heart. He’ll go home and think about what he said, and then, he’ll send me a text and apologize. I’ll forgive him and we’ll have great makeup sex, I think as I step onto the elevator, because that girl is blonde and he couldn’t possibly love her when I’m his soulmate. He’s mine. Not hers.
As soon as I get inside, I put “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga on repeat, and I wait for that text or call and I scroll Facebook. Before I know it, two hours have gone by and he hasn’t texted. He hasn’t Facebook messaged me…He's been online. He's posted. He's liked Angela's comment about how hot his profile picture is. He's posted a smiley face emoticon on Andrea's new profile picture—one with the little blushing cheeks—but he hasn’t had time to apologize for being a condescending dick? He should be sulking, not posting fucking winky face emojis all over social media. A notification pops up. It’s a picture of his dog with a beer in front of his bed.#Cobain #PetsOfInstagram
Groaning, I chuck the phone across the room then bury my head in my hands. I feel like an idiot. Justin knew what he was doing. I swear he did. He saw me. He wanted me. Oh, sure, I fucked him. I sucked his dick and moaned for him like a pathetic little slut, but I never let on that I actually wantedhim.I gave just enough—just enough to keep him on his toes. Now, if I go after him, I’ll just look like another of those pathetic sluts fawning all over him. I can’t help but wonder how many of those girls following him around like a sick little puppy thought he’d love them? Probably every last one of them.Well, guess what Justin Wild? Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!He thinks he’s won. I’m certain he thinks that. He believes I’ll cave, texting and calling... begging. Oh, but did he pick the wrong one to try and play mind games with this time. He thinks he's the king and, albeit that the king is essential, well, the queen is more powerful. He thinks this little move of his—calling me a friend and then ignoring me—he thinks that’s going to swipe me off the board. Amy. Amy. Amy. She is the problem. She is the stupid white pawn. And pawns are disposable. I get up. Grab my phone from the floor, cursing at the now cracked screen, and I do the only thing I can due to the situation Justin has put me in: I find her.
It’s not that hard. Click on Justin’s profile. Go to his “Friends” section, and type in the name “Amy” in the search bar. About 30 pop up and I just scroll along until I find the average blonde one. Amy Smith.Her name is even girl next door.I click on her profile, and, much to my excitement, it’s open to the public. Dumb move on her part, I think to myself and roll my eyes. I read all about her. Where she went to high school and college, I see who her family members are, her friends, her hobbies and interests. I shake my head in disgust. She likes glitter and smiling and giving to the poor and theReal Housewives of the OC.Of course she does.No books mentioned.CluelessandLegally Blondelisted as her favorite movies.She seems to have the depth a puddle of dog piss has, but I bet she has a tight little pussy that he’s sinking his dick into.Doesn’t she, Justin. DOESN’T SHE?!And there it is, a post from three days ago. The day he ignored me at the coffee shop. A picture of the two of them, smiling at a bar.#HavingAGreatTimeWithJustinWild #RomanceAuthor #Hottie.
You little fucking cunt.
