Chapter Twenty-Three
Marisa
“Ugly Boy”- Die Antwoord
“I’m sorry Ms…” the concierge stalls.
Shit, what name did I use this time?“Ms. Vaughn.” I tap my finger over the balcony railing, staring out over the dark beach.
“Yes, Ms. Vaughn, but you are not listed as a contact. I can’t give out his room number to you.”
I sigh. My cheeks flame. “This is ridiculous.”
“I’d be happy to transfer your call to his room.”
“No.” I groan. “Forget it.” And I hang up. I’ve tried saying I was his mother, his publicist, his PA. And still, the hotel refuses to tell me what room he’s in. Sure, I could text him and ask him, but where’s the fun in that? The wind kicks up, swathing me in the sticky south Florida heat. Music floats up from the mixer set up on the pool deck. I’ve watched from this damn balcony for two hours, waiting to see if Justin’s out there. I have no other reason to go down. I only wrote for him! Shaking my head, I turn to walk back into the cool hotel room, when I hear a girl scream. “Justin,” she slurs.
I glance over the railing, and, sure enough, he’s strutting onto the patio. With—my breath seizes in my lungs—her. I grab onto the edge of the railing, my knuckles cracking as I squeeze it. My heart’s a quivering lump in my throat as I watch her blonde hair blow in the breeze. They walk side by side and it makes me feel crazy. Like I want to climb over the ledge of this balcony and hurl myself to that pool deck, my head splitting open and getting blood and brain splatter all over those white shorts she’s wearing. Some girl hops off a barstool and stumbles over to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. Amy stands there. I bet it’s eating her up.Well, get the fuck used to it, #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy.
I can’t take it, so I turn and walk into the room, slamming the glass door closed behind me. I grab the Klonopin out of my carry-on, take two, and swallow them down with a lukewarm glass of chardonnay. It’s the only way I’ll rest. And I can’t have bags below my eyes in the morning. Justin can’t think for one second that I give two shits about him and his precious, little, fucking blonde Amy.
* * *
It’s amazingwhat some medication can do for you. I feel well-rested and refreshed. I sing in the shower, I blow dry my hair, I even dance around the hotel room a little before I put on my tight, white dress. And I take my time making up my face. Eyeliner. Eyeliner. Eyeliner.
I pout as I apply a layer of fire-engine-red lipstick to my lips, making sure to accentuate the deep cupid's bow I've been blessed with. That Amy bitch has ugly, thin lips. And the moment I step back to admire myself, well, I smile. Knowing what tools you have and exactly how to wield them is a must. A must when dealing with an asshole named Justin Wild. "He will be sorry," I whisper to my reflection before I walk out to the elevators.
The doors slide open and the buzz of conversation and giggling fill the elevator. The line for the signing is already flooding down the stairwell and pouring into the lobby. I excuse myself through the crowd of people and head toward the ballroom. The second I see the doors, I find Justin's table at the center of the room—of course. He's sitting at the table while a volunteer sets everything up for him. And there is Amy, right next to him, right where I once sat. She’s all nervous smiles and straight, pageant queen posture. That cotton-candy lipstick looks ridiculous. She smiles at him. He smiles back. She's a pretty girl. But pretty isn't sufficient for that asshole. He needs stunning. He needs someone who causes people to turn their heads. He likes the girls most men can't dream of snagging.And, Justin she’s blonde—and damn it, you don’t like blondes!Amy’s busy tidying his stack of books. And now the assistant is on her knees stacking boxes right beside his lap. I bet she’s pretending she’s on her knees for him. That he’s about to pull his magnificent cock out and plop it in her waiting mouth.
He looks up from the table and his eyes lock on me. He smirks and I look away. My steps are hard and determine, my hips moving in a provocative-you-want-to-fuck-this manner. I have my gaze set straight ahead and I know he notices. Oh, that fucker notices. I bet he's imagining slamming me down, face first on a bed, lifting my hips and yanking my hair as he pounds into me. And he thinks that will happen again. Of course he does... he is that much of a narcissistic bastard.
My boxes have been set in front of my table and I make sure my ass is pointed in his direction when I bend at the waist to dig a stack of paperbacks out. I should be excited to feel the shiny cover of my book in my hand, but I’m not because Amy’s with him instead of me. I throw a stack down on the table, attempting to rein in the white-hot rage pulsing through my veins.I’m not a fucking blonde.And I take a breath because at least there’s that. I cock my hip to the side as I bend over to grab more books, and then I stack those on the table.Bend. Stand. Bend. Stand.When I grab the last book from the bottom of the box I peek over my shoulder. Justin's staring and Amy’s still tidying his books. I flick my hair behind my shoulder and trot around my table to take a seat.Now where is Chris Talon? I ask myself.
I scan the room for JL Brown's table. Across the aisle and two tables to the left, I find the black banner with the pink writing. There, perched on the edge of the table with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, chest on full display is Chris Talon. I watch as Chris talks to another cover model and laughs. And then he notices me. I smile. He smiles. A few minutes later, he’s strutting over to my table all suns out, guns out.
He stops in front of me, bracing both hands on the edge of the table as he blatantly stares at my chest. "Fuck that dress is sexy.”
"Thanks."
He thumbs through one of my books. Picks a page, reads a line, and his jaw drops. "Holy shit!" He glances up at me. "Thisissome sick shit. Blood and fucking.”
My grin deepens. "I told you."
"Holy fuck." He flips the page and continues reading. "You’re sick. I love it.” He tucks the book beneath his arm. "How much."
"Oh,” I wave my hand through the air. “Just take it. It's fine."
Chris bites at his bottom lip, his eyes drifting to my mouth. "Thanks." He reaches out and trails his hand over my cheek. "Pretty woman."
“Chris?” The author he’s with shouts for him. “Another author wants you to sign a book, dear.”
He taps the book over his hand. “I’ll come see you in a bit, Marisa.”
“Sure.”
Smiling, he turns and walks back to his table. I glance at Justin. He's still watching me, but that fucking smirk has faded. He subtly shakes his head before turning to speak to his assistant—his hopeful fuck. I laugh.Fucker.You aren't the only one who knows how to play a game. Oh, no my dear Justin, the games only just begun.
* * *
