Chapter Thirty-Seven
Justin
“Self Esteem”- Offspring
Exhaust hangsheavy in the air. The rumble of motors and the blare of horns, driver’s shouting at pedestrians. “Smile,” Marisa sings, pressing her cheek against mine as she lifts her phone in front of our faces. She takes several selfies, touches them up like I taught her, and then posts them. “What hashtag do you think?” she asks as we walk into the lobby of the hotel.
“Uh,” I readjust the heavy boxes I’m carting, “hashtag the signing... ”
She nods and taps over her screen, not paying a bit of attention to where she’s going. We follow the signs leading us to the signing room. Some redheaded woman smiles as she holds open the door to the ballroom. “Oh,” she says when Marisa waltzes past her, “you’re Marisa Dawson, right?” Marisa stops and smiles, shaking the woman’s hand.
“Yes, and you’re Amanda, right?”
“Yes, that’s me.” The woman grins from ear to ear and I’m just standing here with five fucking boxes of books in my arms.
“Thank you so much for the invite, I was more than thrilled to receive it.”
“Oh, we’re just glad you could make it last minute. I lovedFriction.It’s my top read of the year.”
“Aw, thank you so much.” Marisa beams as she glances back at me... still holding her books. “Oh, Amanda, you know Justin, my boyfriend.” Amanda turns to face me, her smile slightly fading. “Justin Wild,” Marisa continues.
“Oh...yes.” Her lip snarls before she turns to look back at Marisa. “Anything you need, you just let me or one of the volunteers know, and thank you again for coming.” She walks off and Marisa shrugs before heading into the room.
There are only about thirty authors at this signing. New York, New York: Authors of the Big Apple. This signing is huge. I mean, shit, EL James is at the damn thing. This is a signing most romance authors are chomping at the bits to get into, and Marisa just waltzes up in here like she owns the motherfucker, with me as her assistant. I follow her to the table at the back of the room. There’s a tiny folded sign set in the middle with her name on it. She trails her fingers over the black tablecloth, smiling at me. “I’m so excited they invited me.”
I grin at her as I set the boxes beside her table. “I’m proud of you, babe.” I pull my keys from my pocket and jab one along the seam of the box, opening it.
Less than an hour later and there’s a line for her. I smile, I tap the Sharpie over the table. Women look at me. They grin, some of them blush, but their focus is on Marisa and her book and how awesome it is.It is awesome, but...And then I think, shit, what if I’m done for? I had my ten minutes of fame and now I’m old news, washed up. I mean, how long could I have possibly hoped to keep that career alive? Aren’t most authors a one-hit-wonder, one-series success? Shit! I’m not a fucking King or Patterson. I’m fucking toast is what I am.
Panic chokes me. My pulse clangs around in my chest like a lose canon, and I get this sick sinking feeling in my gut. My days of glory and adoration have come to an abrupt end. I managed to make it through my lost publishing deal and having my slut-ridden ways exposed. Hell, I survived being a straight-up dickhead. So, what has happened? I tap the pen over the table, deep in thought. And then I hear it: “You guys are so cute. I just love seeing all your selfies with Justin. Iwasa huge fan of his.”
Stop. Back up...wasa huge fan. I glance at Marisa and she’s all smiles, signing her book and talking to this girl. I stare over the line, and that’s it. I’m off the market. It’s obvious. I changed my fucking Facebook status from “Single” to “In a Relationship with Marisa Dawson”, and that was like closing up shop. Fuck my life.
I sink down in the seat, grabbing my phone and scrolling Facebook. I can only imagine what the hell is going to happen when she announces that I knocked her up. I may as well just give up on the gym and go ahead and let my killer abs melt away into Dadbod. The girl whowasmy fan steps in front of me, handing me a bookmark to sign. I scribble my signature over it and hand it back.
“Don’t you get scared sleeping next to her?” she asks with a grin.
“Her?” I thumb toward Marisa. I laugh. “Please, she may write some fucked up shit, but I can assure you, that girl does not scare me. She’s harmless. I mean, look at how innocent she looks.”
Marisa glances over and smiles, her perfect red lips pulling up into a pretty, little smile. “The deadliest of things are usually the most enticing.”
“Hey, you wanna slit my throat in your sleep.” I shrug. “Have at it, might turn me on.”
The lady sighs, clutching her hand to her chest. “You guys are too cute.” And then she walks off, leafing through Marisa’s book.
“Hey, babe,” Marisa says, handing her phone to me. “Can you handle the card payments?”
“Sure.”
And so, here I sit, swiping cards and handing her books to sign. Washed up. Forgotten about. Just a pretty face in the crowd. I’m finishing up a card transaction when a Facebook message pops on her screen.
Ed: LOL. That’s true. God, I’d love to be in your head for a minute. I mean it, we’re meeting up when I’m in NYC, you.
You?Oh Ed, trying to be flirtatious you little shit? I take a quick glance at Marisa. She’s busy talking, signing things, laughing. A tiny part of me feels guilty for what I’m about to do, but I’ve been fucked over before, and I’m not getting fucked over again. Besides, she’s pregnant with my kid. Doesn’t that give me some kind of leeway here? I click on the messenger app and go straight to Ed’s message. I scroll back. Jesus, he’s all over her. Telling her she’s beautiful... she mentions me and he says, “Well, I hope he treats you like the little dark queen that you are.” The fuck? Are you kidding me right now?Little dark queen.I roll my eyes. Message after message of him praising her. Asking her to meet up with him. Jesus, it’s like all he does all day is follow her posts and comment on every single one. Come on, Ed. Don’t you have better shit to do like write pussy-ass songs about love and break-ups? Anger slowly builds inside my chest like the pressure crackling along a fault line. Winding up and popping, threatening to explode at any moment. I’m tempted to send him a message and tell him I’ll beat his ass if he likes when he shows up in NYC, compliments of my little dark queen, but I don’t. Instead, I just drop the phone to the table and silently brood in my chair, watching everyone gloat over Marisa. Listening to everyone tell her how she deserves to hit a list, yadda-fucking-yadda. And then, because god evidently has a sense of humor, Ed’s newest song, “Gonna Get Your Girl”, comes blaring over the sound system.
“I’m going to take a piss,” I say, scooting my chair back and dropping her phone to the table with the message from fucking Ed still pulled up.
