Chapter Thirty-Two
Justin
“The Big Bad Wolf”- The Heavy
It’s been nearlythree weeks since that damn blog sucked the living shit out of my career, leaving me with a colostomy. Thankfully, I have my devoted supporters, loyal bloggers, and I haven’t been kicked out ofeverysigning—yet, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about the one next weekend. The messages I’ve gotten, the comments on my post about what a piece of shit I am make me wary. Hell, I had one woman threaten to bring a gun to the signing and blow my brains out all over my banner, and while my death would most definitely up my sales—I’m just not ready to go there yet.
I tried to do damage control by posting that I was hacked. That my sexual exploits shouldn’t be public knowledge. And then, after the umpteenth message I received claiming I was an “unattractive prick with no real talent”, my anger got the best of me and I told all those fuckers who wanted to come after me to choke on my nutsack. That... well, that didn’t help matters. I said I didn’t care if my career tanked, if people hated me, but the truth is, I do care. Who wouldn’t? This industry made me who I am after all, and as big of as dick as I can be, I haven’t forgotten that, even if I act like I have. Artists are truly at the mercy of the public. And right now, I feel royally fucked.
I stare at the Word document. At the shitty plot I’ve typed out:Murderous criminal meets innocent girl (blonde) and kidnaps her. He locks her in a cellar and tries to make her love him. She ends up crazy. They end up crazy together. Fuck this shit. WRITE SOMETHING FUCKING JUSTIN.For the past week, that’s all I’ve done, stared at that amateur, unoriginal plot. Every single word I’ve jabbed out is utter shit. Steaming, fly-swarming shit, so I decide the best thing to do is watch marathon sessions of “Breaking Bad” with my girl.
The titles roll and the screen pans to Walt and Jessie in the middle of the desert, Walt cussing, of course. “He’s such a dick,” Marisa says, laying her head in my lap. “Like, he makes me angry.”
“Meh, I mean, he’s got a lot of shit going on, you know. Cancer... fucking making meth.” I laugh. “To be honest, I think he knows what he’s doing. Shit, it makes me want to go buy some shittastic travel trailer and start cooking a batch.”
“Really, Justin?” She judgingly glares up at me.
“Babe,” I squeeze her thigh, “millions upon millions of dollars, plus the adrenaline rush of living on the edge.” She rolls her eyes and lifts her phone, tapping over the screen. “How are you not hooked on this show?” I ask, offended that she finds Facebook more interesting than this amazing plot.
“Dunno,” she sighs. “Just not.”
“The plot, Marisa. The fucking plot, think about how hard it must have been to twist that shit together.”
“Oh. My. God.” She sits up, smiling. “Oh my god!”
“What?”
“Chris Talon,” she laughs and her eyes flit with this sadistic edge of excitement. “Oh, the rumor mill. Round and round it goes and where it stops no one knows.” She giggles again before handing her phone to me. “He’s such a fuckface.”
I want to slam her, call her out for sleeping with him, but I don’t, even though I’m still pissed about it. I glance down at the screen and laugh. The post Marisa has pulled up is a picture of Chris, shared over two thousand times. He’s out cold on a signing room floor, his lip split and eye swollen. The caption:This is what happens when you stick your dick in my wife. Original post by Jimmy Fisher, author Jenna Fisher’s husband. I probably shouldn’t laugh, but, you know, what goes around comes around kind of thing and all. Sleeping with a married woman is just asking to be center stage at the shitshow. And I may be a dog, but I have neverknowinglyslept with a married woman. All I’m going to say is, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Y. I’m just about to hand her phone back to her when a messenger bubble pops up from some guy named Ed.
Damn. You look hot in that picture. We’ll def. have to meet up some time when I’m in the city, you know, grab a coffee, talk art.
Another message blips through. This one is one of those fucking kissy emojis with a heart. Why the fuck is he sending her a kissy emoji with a heart? You send those when you’re trying to—Oh, the hell no!I toss her phone back to her, then stare at the TV.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing.” My pulse throbs in my temples as I wonder what the hell Ed has planned, what lines he’s conjuring up in his feeble little mind. I focus on the screen, on Walt walking alone through the arid New Mexico desert. Abandoned. And that is going to be me. Abandoned by everyone, even Marisa. This is why it’s safest to fuck your way through women like a cheap roll of toilet paper. You mess around and catch feelings, get a little attached, and they will fuck you over for some dipshit named Ed. My pulse clangs in my ears, my skin heats, and I can’t control it any longer. “Who the fuck is Ed?” I ask.
“What?”
Oh, and now she wants to play stupid? “Cut the crap, Marisa. You can’t play a player. Ed, the guy that just sent you a fucking kissy face emoji. Who is he?”
“You know, Ed, that guy that sings the “Lover, Lover” song?” She smiles and I’m not the least bit amused, because not only is it some ginger fuck named Ed that’s after her, but now it’s some semi-famous ginger fuck?Great. And this is why you go for the girl next door as opposed to the bombshell. Fuck my life.
“TheEd,” I stop myself, feigning a laugh just to knock her down a peg, “is sending you kissy emojis, why?”
“He’s a reader?”
“A reader?” Now I am laughing
“Yeah... a reader.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say. I’m sure he read your story and I’m sure helovedit.”
She sits upright so fast all I see is a blur of dark hair and pale skin. “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to talk to my fans?”
“Fans,” I snort. “Babe, that’s a touch degrading to Ed, don’t you think?”
