Page 4 of White Pawn
Chapter Three
Justin
“Headband”- BoB, 2 Chain
Thud. “I hate you, you dick,” Shanna growls through the mail slot. She keeps pounding her fists over my apartment door. Bam. Bam. Bam.
For the record, I blame my ex, Meredith, for turning me into a dick. I gave that girl the fucking world, and she took a big old, steaming dump right on my chest. Running off with my best friend, Manwhore Matthew, who she said was “a better man” than me. After that, I vowed to just be a prick. Prick’s don’t get their feelings hurt. Pussies do.
“Open the door you ass!” Bam. “I hate your guts.” Bam.
She’s been out there for fifteen minutes, yelling. The thing is, I may have dicked her over, but yet, she’s holding on to hope because I’m the best fuck she’ll ever have. I know it. She knows it. I’ve fucked my way through a lot of women, paying attention to the way their toes curl, to the things I do that make them hold their breath in anticipation. My goal with every girl I get in bed is the same: leave them a puddle of blubbering bliss on the mattress. Fucking is like a fine art, and it’s a shame more men don’t treat it as such. It’s a skill that should be honed and crafted, because when you can make a woman feel like she was made for you, like every breath you draw is for her with nothing more than the stroke of your cock, you’ve nailed it, and you’ll leave droves of women cockstruck in your wake. Wham. Wham. Wham. “Justin,” she whines.
Sighing, I grab a beer from my fridge and walk to the mudroom by the entrance. Cobain trots after me, his short gray fur bristling as he barks at the door. He turns his huge head toward me when she pounds the door again, and he tucks his tail on a low growl.
“She’s fucking crazy,” I say, patting his head. He barks again like he’s agreeing with me. Even the damn dog knows this bitch is insane. “Shanna,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re so mad.”
“Are you kidding me? You…you lied to me. You were cheating on me, you—”
“No. I was never with you.”
“Oh, you asshole.”
“Shanna, tell me when I ever told you we were exclusive?”
“You are a shithead. You could have broken it off with me instead of just posting that picture of you and that girl.”
I groan. “Shanna, if you don’t leave, I’ll just call the cops. Jesus, the neighbors are going to think you’re a raging psycho.”
“Fuck you.”
And then…silence. Beautiful silence. I hear the elevator doors ding open, then close. I take another sip of my beer and drag my free hand down my face. This is the problem with being a god of fuck and a public figure, you’re never safe. I can’t causally date the first woman without her trying to make it serious, without her reading too much into what I say. It gets old. It’s not like I asked for this shit. I write. I’m a recluse, an introvert. Who the fuck knew that writing a few books about my ex would turn into what it did—a six figure publishing contract and #1 New York Times Bestsellers? And who knew a title like that could pull the ass it does? So here I sit, the fucking Mick Jagger of the literary world. King Prick and writer of words.
I go to tip my beer up and Cobain jumps up on me, paws on my chest, knocking me off balance. The beer sloshes out of the neck and onto my shirt. “Shit.” I huff, shoving Cobain down. I set the foaming bottle on the kitchen counter and head to my bedroom to change because I have to write today. I have to. I’ve had the most annoying writer’s block to ever exist. I’ve tried meditation. I’ve tried a high protein diet. Low protein diet. Hell, I’ve even tried binge watching Pornhub. Nothing helps except going to the coffee shop at the end of my street. Cliché, I know. I think it’s the people watching. The quirky customers. The mother of five. The business man on the verge of a coronary every day. The emo kid that never orders a coffee, but sits alone at one of the tables most likely planning some horrendous crime. That coffee shop is my only fix for writers block, and as much as I don’t want to go outside of my apartment right now because I’m afraid Shanna is going to be standing outside keying my vintage Mercedes, I’m 25,000 words behind on my deadline, and these publishers are riding my ass like the last horseman of the apocalypse.
I grab a t-shirt from the clean pile on my floor and pull my beer soaked shirt over my head. Cobain slinks around the corner of the bed, head hung as his big blue eyes lift to me. “You should be ashamed of yourself. That was my favorite writing shirt. Gremlins are fucking epic, Cobain.” Groaning, I shake my head and slip the clean shirt over my head. I grab my phone, snap a selfie, and do a few quick edits to make sure I’ll make my followers gush their panties before I post it to Facebook with the update: Need some writing fuel. #Coffee #AmWriting #AllTheFuckingWords
I grab my Macbook and put Cobain on his leash before heading out. We step onto the elevator and he sits, staring up at me, his tail barely wagging. “I gotta start doing background checks on these girls, huh?”
And he just sits there. Fucking lucky ass dog.
