Chapter Thirty-One
Marisa
“Peroxide”- Flykiller
The kitchen cabinetcreaks when I open it to fish out the bottle of pills from the back. The bottle of Ancho Chile that I dumped my prenatal vitamins into. Who really uses Ancho Chile, anyway? I twist the metal lid, dump the large brown pill into my palm, immediately toss it into my mouth, and take back a mouthful of water. Back the jar goes, to the far end of the shelf. Hidden. Smiling, I glance down at my flat stomach, wondering what it will look like with a small baby bump. How cute will Justin think I am? Sure, he doesn’t want a baby right now, but we must follow the plot.All great romances have a surprise pregnancy, Justin. And that’s all I want: the perfect love story, the perfect plot, the most well-rounded crescendo of an ending. After all, he is Justin Wild and no one can pull together the perfect story like he can. Like we can...
I glance over at Justin. He’s snoring on the couch with a sliver of drool oozing down his chin. I invited him over for a nice dinner. Chicken Parmesan and Italian green beans sprinkled with a few sleeping pills. And, he’s out cold.
I wash up the dishes, humming that new Ed song “Lover Boy” under my breath as I dry my hands on the dishtowel. And then, I grab Justin’s phone and plop down next to him on the couch, my hand on his thigh. He says I’m his favorite, hisone,but what exactly does that mean? Sure, he’s been kicked out of signings. Sure, plenty of people have unfriended him on Facebook, unfollowed his Instagram. And you should see some of the comments he’s gotten on his posts. The pitchforks are out and sharpened. Torches lit. Mobs formed. To be honest, that little blog did more damage than I could have hoped for—not that I wanted toruinhis career, I didn’t. I just wanted to get some of these girls off his dick. Is that too much to ask?
Seventy-five message notifications. I tap my finger over the app and hold my breath, praying as the screen pops up. First message: Sarah Baucom:I think what your publisher did was terrible. A few of my friends helped me set up a group to support your next books. Hopefully it will help keep you going. I don’t know what I would do without your words or your friendship. Xx.I close my eyes and squeeze his knee. Going back to the messages, I shake my head. All so flirtatious. All so supportive, like he can do no wrong.How can we ever fix this, Justin? How are we going to get you out of this mess?
I read a few more messages, look through a few more pictures of tits and ass that he responds to with the little shocked face emoticon or, depending on how big the tits are, a little prayer hand. So, it seems, not even having him tarred as a filthy whore can shake some of these women humping his leg.Bless him.I brush my hand over his t-shirt. It has a transfer of a rooster and a star.Cockstar.Maybe this is a disease he has. Maybe he’s an attention whore. Needy and desperate for some type of approval he never got as a child or adolescent. And these women, I shouldn’t be mad at them. He’s their idol. A man capable of weaving such lines as:Love is the only cure for a hopeless fool such as I... such as her.And:I love you even while knowing you will be my destruction. Even as I lie dying from the loveless poison you’ve injected into my veins, each hate-filled word eating away at my heart and soul because I’d rather die at your side than without you.They believe that is who he is. That he is Justin Wild, scholar and lover of Stephen King and James Patterson. They believe every swoon worthy post he makes on Facebook. They don’t know he’s Justin Wilder Thompson. They only see him smile and say: “Thank you for your support”. They aren’t privy to the snide comments he makes. They don’t sleep next to him and hear him fart. They don’t see the way he stares at his reflection—his messenger filled with horny comments and slut-filled promises. Justin Wild is their hero in a world of shitty endings. A pretty face. A beautiful mind. That’s not their problem, it’s mine. And I’m theirs.
* * *
“Shit,” Justin groans as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the coffee shop table. He rubs his palms over his eyes and yawns. “I don’t know why the hell I’ve been sleeping so much. Sorry I assed out on you last night like that, I just... couldn’t stay awake.”
“Oh, it’s fine babe. You’re under a lot of stress.” I smile as I take my seat and sip my warm coffee because I know how tired those sleeping pills can make you. He’s so innocent. Really, it’s hard to believe he’s the awful slut he is.
“Yeah, I gotta get another book out, or I’m fucked. I just can’t... my mind can’t go to those fucked up places right now. Shit, I’m debating on writing a contemporary.”
I glare at him, my one eye twitching. “Contemporary?” I scoff. “Come now, Justin, let’s not be rash.” I laugh, but really, it’s not funny. He’s a dark author, twisted and depraved. He can’t go soft on me. He can’t sell-out.
“Yeah, fuck. It’s just, you know, trying to get into the mindset of those violent fucks. It’s not easy. It drains the life out of you.”
“Yeah, I know. I write darktoo, Justin.” There’s an edge to my voice I can’t quiet manage to control and he glances up at me, one brow lifting curiously.
“Yeah, babe, chill. I know you’re dark.” He laughs before taking a sip of his drink. I want to shake him and tell him I know he doesn’t know because I know he hasn’t read my book. I saw it shoved down there with those other books, the cover torn.
The bell to the shop dings. I glance up to see a mother carting a chubby little toddler with a head full of soft, brown curls on her hip. That little bit of anger and hurt that he hasn’t read my words subsides. I can’t wait until that’s me walking in to pick up mine and Justin’s morning cup with a little person clinging to my hips. Then he’ll really be mine.
My phone beeps with a message. Taking another sip of coffee, I swipe to the message and nearly spit my drink out. Ed, the singer of love songs that would woo the blackest of hearts, just messaged me telling me he’sobsessedwithmybook. He read my words. A thrill pulses through me followed by a sense of pride and validation because I can write, damn it. And if someone like Ed can see that... I stare at the message, reading it over and over. I look at my profile picture and immediately notice I need to look sultrier, more sensual, more... “You okay?” Justin says, staring at me over his steaming cup of coffee.
“Huh, yeah, oh, yeah. I just got a message from someone saying my book was great.”
Justin smiles knowingly. “Feels good, huh? Validating.” His grin deepens. “And you are a badass writer.” My eyes narrow, my heart clenching at how easily he lied, but, he is a storyteller, isn’t he? A liar with both his fingers and his tongue. He lies any way he can form words. “Watch out, babe,” he says. “Stuff’s addictive. Like heroin-laced crack.”
I laugh and a slow, nervous sweat breaks from each of my pores as I search through my photos for the one that will be perfect. I pick one where my resting bitch face game is strong. Guys find that look undeniable because a bitch is usually a challenge. I upload it as my new profile picture, imagining that Ed will respond with some comment about me being a pretty, pretty flower. And then, I answer his message, thanking him for the compliment and telling him what a huge fan of his I am.
When I set my phone down, Justin’s smiling and making faces, waving at someone across the café. I turn in my seat to see that chubby little toddler giggling and waving back. I place my hand over my stomach and grin before I glance back at him. “Oh, now, that’s cute,” I say.
“She’s a cute little girl.” He shrugs before covering his eyes with his hand only to yank his hands away and reveal an “Oh my goodness, look I’m still here” expression. The little girl squeals and Justin laughs before he picks up his coffee. “Our kids would be cuter, though.”
And everything inside of me turns to mush. My cheeks warm, my heart flutters, and I know he doesn’t want to be a player. He doesn’t. He wants the romance. The love story. The happily ever after with babies. “You with kids,” I laugh. “That would be something.”
“What?”
“You just don’t strike me as the kind of guy that would want kids.”
“Well, maybe I just want them with you, pretty lady.” He winks before reaching across the table and brushing his finger over my cheek. And although I want to jump up and shout: Yes, let’s make a baby, right here, right now. I keep my ass firmly planted in the seat, twisting my coffee cup in my hand as I cock a brow at him.
“You and your ridiculous lines... ” I say with a grin because as long as he doesn’t think I’m falling for those lines, he’ll keep chasing. And that’s all I need, is for him to still be in this game because we’re nearly there. We are. The climax is coming, I can feel it.
