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 motherfuckingblonde! 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 picturesheposted: 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 balcony 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,manyflaws. 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.
