Chapter Five
Justin
“Gucci Coochie”- Die Antwoord
Cobain trotsover to his bed and flops down, huffing through his jowls. I toss my computer onto the couch, Word still up and glaring at me. So much for getting work done. Fuck my life. I fall face-first onto the couch and groan. When I look up Cobain’s standing beside the couch, tail wagging, his head cocked to the side. Exhaling, I sit up, grab my phone and click on the Facebook app. First, I go delete some random girl from my Facebook friends and look up the brunette fuck-doll I met at the coffee shop. Marissa Brown, Marissa Deacon…Marisa Dawson, there she is. I send her a friend request, offering her the coveted spot of my 5,000thfriend even though I just met her. Sure, it makes me seem desperate, but you see, women like her—sexy bombshells reminiscent of a 1940s-pinup girl—that’s what they want. Beautiful women are used to men falling all over them, but I’ll only fall just enough.
I flip through channels on the TV. I drink a beer and check to see if she’s accepted my request. Nope. Laughing, I toss the phone down. So, this is how we play this, huh? The problem is, you can’t play a player, sweetheart.
A text from my publicists pops up on my phone:
Sales on the new book suck. Where are you at on the deadline. Don’t tell me close. I want exact word count.
I toss my head back against the cushion before I type out: 60,123.5
I glance up at the computer. At the word count: 50,012. I’m annoyed, so I shove the computer to the side and grab another beer, popping the top and letting it fall to the floor. Kobain crawls out of his bed, walks over to the top and sniffs it before turning back around and lying on the floor. This release has fucking tanked. My last release was abysmal and I have a feeling this one will be too. I glance around my 2500 square foot Manhattan apartment; I look at all the expensive shit I bought when I was raking in money…and my stomach knots. My self-esteem plummets.
And I pick up my phone, pick a random chick, and send a quick text:
I miss you.
* * *
The dance musicthumps through my chest when I step inside the Lazy Iguana. People are leaned against the redbrick interior of the entrance. Girls give me passing glances and smiles as I walk by. Guys size me up as competition. I place my hand on the waist of a pretty brunette as I slink past her in the crowded room. The second I step into the main lounge, I spot Marisa leaned against the bar. Arms crossed, hip cocked to the side. The tight red dress clings to her curves in a way that’s begging for me to fuck her. Her long brown hair hangs over one shoulder. Fuck, that girl is gorgeous. She glances toward the door and her eyes land on me. I straighten the collar of my shirt as I approach, smiling when I stop beside her. “Shit, you look amazing,” I say.
“Thanks.” She doesn’t smile. She looks completely uninterested and bored. What the fuck is her deal?
“You ever been here before?” I ask, unable to keep my eyes from dropping to her supple chest spilling out of the low-cut dress.
“No.” She tips her drink back, her red lipstick staining the rim. And then, silence. She pulls her phone from her purse and stares down at the screen.
Clearing my throat, I lean across the bar and snap my fingers. The prissy redhead behind the counter looks up with a smile, her eyes trailing down to my chest. I flex my muscles under the tight shirt and her grin deepens.See. Works here? What’s Marisa’s deal?“What can I get you, hottie?” she asks.
“How about a whisky sour.”
“Sure think.” She flips her ponytail to the side and grabs a glass to fill with ice. I turn around and lean against the counter beside Marisa who is still on her phone. This is ridiculous. A few second later, the bartender slides my glass in front of me. I hand her my card and step to the side, snaking my arm around Marisa’s tight little waist and pinching her side.
“What’s up, mopey?” I laugh.
“I’m sorry?”
“You look fucking pissed. I mean,” I take a sip of the stout drink and shrug, “by all means, don’t feel like you have to be here.”
Her eyes narrow and the smallest sexy smirk inches across those amazing lips of hers. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Oh, just hard to impress?”
“Something like that.” Her grin deepens as she steps away from my hold. “Being aNew York TimesBestseller’s not exactly enough to make me go all swoony.”
“So, youdoknow who I am?”
“Of course I do.”
God, she is such a little shit, and as I watch the neon green and yellow club lights bounce off her fair skin, I think, I may have just met a challenge unlike any I’ve seen. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to work for attention. That shit’s thrown at me like cheap confetti. I’m successful. Rich. I’m better looking than half of those fuckfaces that don the covers of Romance books, and I’ve learned that combination means I can basically be a fucking dick and still pull girls most men can only dream of.
And then there’s this chick.
Some upbeat song pumps through the speakers and I grab her hand, leading her to the dance floor. She resists for all of five seconds before she gives in to me. I turn around and grab her hips, moving them in beat with the music as my fingers slip over the sleek material of her dress. My eyes lock with hers, every so often drifting down to her lips. Her red lipstick perfectly outlines their graceful curves. My hands glide to the small of her back and her fingers squeeze my biceps. Her chest rises in a deep swell. Her body language—the way she’s pressing against me, the way her fingers so subtly trail over my muscles—it says she wants me, but her face, well, that’s a different story. Her expression is unreadable, stone-cold indifference. I sweep her dark hair from her shoulder and lean down. “You are incredibly beautiful,” I whisper, lingering by her ear.
