Chapter Twenty-One
Marisa
“Tainted Love”- Marilyn Manson
It’s been two days. Two motherfucking days since I’ve talked to Justin.
What the fuck is he doing?I go to his Facebook and check it. The second I scroll down, my heart sinks to my stomach like a heavy stone.
There’s a selfie of him and fucking Amy Smith with the caption:#HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy <3 <3He never posts pictures of him and girls on Facebook. That was a big deal for him to post that picture of us together in that bed, naked, right after he’d been inside me. That was his way of telling all those other girls to back off. It was... I toss my phone down, running my fingers through my hair and tugging. Then I stand and I pace. I pace. I pace, fighting back the tears that want to seep from my eyes. He’s not worth it.But he is.
I lie down, trying to find sleep, but I can’t.How can I? Justin, you’re fucking a blonde woman with loud perfume.And the thing is, I’ve made excuse after excuse for him, but at some point, I have to stop enabling him. I sit up in the bed, sighing as I glance down at my phone.I hate that I must be this person. Really, I do. But the thing is, I love him. And someone should help him grow, mature. Karma is a bitch... Karma says,ha ha ha Justin Wild.
It only takes a second to find a pirating site: www.freethewords.com. And really, it’s all too simple to upload the PDF of his new book. I read the first 10 pages. I couldn’t get past that. It’s shit. It makes me sad to say that, but it is. It’s not even dark... it’s just violent. Stabbing here. Shooting there. And fucking—sex scenes that seem to have been copied and pasted from his first series. Just words. Meaningless words. Sure, uploading this book is breaking the law, and sure, his publisher may sue him for handing out their property without consent, cut off his contract with them, but what’s the worse offense here? Giving his beautiful words to the public for free, or him intentionally breaking my heart?A lesson must be taught, Justin. And you eventually must learn.
I make it all the way until midnight before my obsession gets the better of me and I check his Facebook. He just made a post about some stupid Twenty One Pilots song. And I can’t help but wonder if Amy Smith is asleep in his bed, or if he sent her home after their selfie. Did he wash his sheets after he fucked me, or is he fucking her on top of the stains I left? I hit the like button on that picture—no, I click on the little heart and lovethat picture of him and Plain-Jane Amy Smith. And then I put one of his little fucking jazz hand emojis in the comment along with:Awww.
The Sherwood Forest horn blares:I miss you.As hard as it is, I don’t respond.
Go ahead. Post all the pictures you want of #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy. Enjoy the time you have because when I get done with this, Amy won’t want a thing to do with you, Justin.The downfall of a king takes planning and time; it must be cunning. And it must look like I never evenintended to do it.
* * *
The morning sunpours in through my window. Horns blare outside. A jackhammer pounds against the concrete, and I’m sipping a cup of coffee, uploading my first review to Goodreads.
I click 1-star, smiling around the rim of my warm mug as the steam rises around my face. And I type:I have been a huge fan of Justin’s since his first book, but this was more than a letdown. The vocabulary and sentence structure repetitive and amateur at best. The main character lacked depth and the plot was flat. To be honest, this book is sick and anyone who enjoys it must be sick as well.
I sign into another account.Not only is this author a complete prick in person, he lacks any real talent. 1-star through and through.He’s an asshole and someone should shove a corncob up his rear.I frown when I post that one. I feel bad because he is talented, but, he needs to be knocked of his diamond encrusted pedestal. I’m only helping him. And then, well, I log into Facebook under the name Vigil Ante—a fake account I set up a few days ago when I was afraid it would come to this—and I go to the little group I made, aptly called: Justin Wild is a Dirty Manwhore. So far, it already has 34 members. I’m sure he hasn’t screwedallof them, but I vetted them through and through. Most of them have, at some point, posted something about him being a dick.
I crack my knuckles, take another swig of coffee, and type away:Guess what I found? A copy of Demolished on www.freethebooks.com. And it is shit! I left a review about how bad it was, along with what a dick he is on Goodreads. I suggest you all do the same. God only knows what he’s said about you if you actually let him stick his dick in you. God, I wish I hadn’t.
And then, I log off with a smile.
* * *
I’d arguethat eyeliner and mascara are a girl’s best friend. Eyes are the doorway to the soul and, for the woman who knows how to aptly apply her makeup, they can scream sex. I smudge the black Dior liner below my eyes, toss the pencil down, fluff my hair, and walk out of my apartment in my short black dress, hips swaying in my red heels.
I glance up at the sign: Tiki Tom’s Dance Club. I walk in, a woman on a mission. Thanks to Zuckerfucker and Facebook, I knew exactly where to find Justin’sfavoritemodel, Chris Talon. I shove my way through the crowded room and there his is, leaned against the bar. Drink in hand. Tall. Dark hair and eyes. He’s wearing one of those godawful bro-tanks with a visor that reads: Stunner, kicked to the side. But, still, he’s pretty. And, just as every bad boy should, he has tattoos.Justin, I hate to say it, but his tattoos are better than yours.
I walk straight over to him and tap him on the shoulder. “You’re Chris Talon, right?” I ask.
He grins, his eyes sliding over my legs, my tits. “Yeah... ”
“I saw you at the signing in Connecticut, Authors and Readers Unite.” I smile and coyly twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “I’m an author.”
Chris brushes his hand over his dark hair and smiles at me. “Small world, huh?”
“Yep.” I take a sip, wrapping my freshly glossed lips around the straw as I stare up at him. He grins and shamelessly adjusts himself. “My name’s Marisa,” I say and hold my hand out.
“Chris, but you can call me big daddy.” He laughs, of course he does.
I force a smile. “Alright, you can just call me, Marisa.”
“So what do you write?” he asks.
“Oh, you know, fucked up shit.”
“Fucked up shit?” He cocks a brow and thumbs over the hoop in his bottom lip. “I thought you said you write romance?”
