by Alexis Angel
Now I’m curious. What's worse that Kenneth could do?
“I’ll not only expose your father, but I’ll pull enough strings that when you finally do have that baby, Social Services will come take it away because you’ll be an unfit mother,” Kenneth hisses. “And Michael will be long gone after that shit comes out. He won’t be able to protect you.”
I’m frozen as I hear the words that my baby might be taken away.
“Sure, you’ll be able to deny that the baby isn’t yours, but once Michael starts getting hit, he’ll throw you overboard to save himself. And then no one will be around to defend you, dear,” Kenneth says, taking a moment to pause and look into my eyes.
“You won’t win in this situation, so it’s time to make sure you end up losing the least,” he tells me. I’m still frozen. In shock. Awe. Disgust. Revulsion. “But Mrs. Anders, if you cooperate with me and do exactly what I tell you to do, maybe you can mitigate some of those losses.”
I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. My baby is being used as a bargaining chip.
“If you leave Michael, and do it convincingly, and make the world believe you guys split,” I’ll not only not hurt you, I’ll help you land on your feet after Michael starts destroying your father.
I stare at him.
“But you only have one week to end things with Michael,” Kenneth concludes. “One week to break off your ties to that man.
I wonder if I’m in a weird twisted dream brought about by pregnancy. I can’t believe just a few weeks ago I was routinely enjoying mind-numbing sex with Lance. And now, this?
“Why?” I ask, simply. That’s all I need to know.
Kenneth seems to consider a moment before answering, “Because I love that man in ways you would never understand,” he replies. “And I want what’s mine without you taking it away from me.”
I try to reply, but Michael finishes his speech and the crowd goes wild. News reporters and bodyguards crowd around us with the reporters asking questions or taking pictures and the bodyguards ushering off the stage.
I know Kenneth wants to speak more, but he just looks at me and says, “One week,” before a bodyguard comes over and ushers me off the stage and toward the waiting limo.
One week in which to end a marriage.
And lose my soul at the same time.
But anything to protect my baby.
No, our baby. Lance’s and mine.
Our baby.
94
Lance
Since Jocelyn broke up with me that I haven't been the fucking same. How could I? It might be a fucking dumb thing to say, but she ripped my fucking heart out and stepped all over it. And I still can't take her out of my fucking mind. I'm going fucking crazy here, that much I can tell you.
I thought of packing my shit up and catching the first plane out of the fucking States, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not yet, at least. Not while my mind is in fucking tatters. Before I make a decision, I need to fucking unwind, and what better way to unwind than to be in a place packed to the ceiling with hot sluts? That's exactly the reason I'm out tonight. Yes, that's right; Lance Anders is fucking back, ladies. At least for today.
"Whisky, neat," I ask the bartender, leaning on the counter and scanning the dance floor. The fucking nightclub is completely packed, and since I've chosen one of the most exclusive venues in New York, it's packed with hot young ladies. Just what I fucking need right now—women, bright lights and loud music.
A few of the women on the dance floor are already eyeing me, but I don't feel like going up to them. If they're that interested, they can be the ones to approach me, and they can also buy me a fucking drink, once they're at it. It’s a brave new fucking world, ladies, fuck chivalry. Yeah, I’m in a foul fucking mood, in case you still haven’t noticed. Can you fucking blame me? Thought so.
"You're Lance Anders, aren't you?" I hear someone say from the side. I turn toward whoever is talking to me—a twenty-something blonde wearing a dress so tight it should be fucking illegal. Her tits are almost jumping out of her bra, and her eyes tell me everything that I need to know; she's on the look for some fucking action tonight, and she has set a target on me. Maybe she thinks I'm famous, maybe it's because I'm better than all the chumps in this place. Whatever it is, I don't give a fuck. She’s hot and has the curves to prove it, so she gets my fucking acknowledgement.
"That's me. Lance fucking Anders," I tell her, gulping down the whisky the bartender has set in front of me. I point to the glass and ask him for another one. He could just leave the fucking bottle, as far as I'm concerned, but I don't want to look like a fucking drunken asshole, even though that's probably what I am right now: a fucking drunk with his heart in fucking pieces. Yeah, yeah, I’m a fucking cliché, get over it.
Moving subtly, she comes up to me, laying her hand on my arm. She's fucking trying to reel me in, and I might just let her do it. I mean, why the fuck not? It’s not like I owe it to someone to be fucking faithful. Not anymore.
"I've heard about you," she tells me, a fucking lewd smile on her lips, a hint of white teeth showing. Her eyes wander all over my body, and I can almost bet the fucking slut is picturing me naked. If I had a dollar for every time a woman looks at me like this, I’d fucking rolling in money.
"Yeah, what did you heard about me?" I ask her, turning my attention to the whisky in front of me. She's fucking hot, I'll give her that, but it's not like I'm fucking interested right now. It's fucking weird, to be honest; if this were happening before Jocelyn came into my life, I'd already be taking her to the bathroom so that I could fuck her brains out. I’d make her moan, I’d make her come; I’d spray my cum all over her face without even worrying about how she’d look like when leaving the club. Yeah, I’m an asshole, didn’t you know that already? I'm not saying that something like it won't happen, but it's going to take a lot fucking more than her just knowing my name. I'm flattered, sure, but please try fucking harder.
"I've heard... rumors," she says, licking her lips wantonly, almost as an invitation to slide my cock deep in her mouth. "I was wondering if there's some truth to them."
Rumors—yeah, they spread like fucking wildfire. My mind automatically translates what she's saying, and the true meaning behind her words is twofold: is my cock as big as people say, and do I want to fuck her? The answer to the first question is yes, to the second one is maybe. Hey, I’m not ruling out a fucking thing.
"My name is Samantha," she tells me, replying to a question I didn't fucking make. I look at her, expressionless, and take a sip of my whisky. She doesn't seem taken aback by my silence and, in fact, takes it as fucking encouragement. "I live just around the corner. Five minutes by cab." Well, this one is as blunt as they fucking come. I like that. I mean, I would like it more if I could get Jocelyn out of my fucking mind, something that's starting to look more and more like an impossible fucking mission.
Fuck! I need to man the fuck up, and I need to do it right now. Why the fuck am I sitting here, wallowing like a little girl? I'm Lance Anders, and I'm fucking better than this. It’s time go fucking crazy.
"Do you have a goldfish?" I ask her, grinning as I take the whisky to my lips. Her eyes widen, and she finally seems taken aback, surprised by my response.
"A goldfish? I... No, I don't have one," she replies, not knowing what else to say.
"That's a pity. Because if you had one... You could take me to your apartment... so that you could show it to me. I have a weak spot for goldfish." Her eyes widen some more, but then she smiles, realizing what I'm saying. Yeah, it's true; these girls will go for something as dumb as what I just fucking said. It's not like I needed to say it, though, she was already down for taking me to her place... But why ruin the fun? I just fucking love to mess with cock-hungry women like her.
"Oh. I was being silly. Of course I have one... I completely forgot about. And I'd love to show you my goldfish." Oh, I bet you would... I bet you fucking would. Maybe seeing her, ahem, goldfish is exactly w
hat I fucking need right now.
"Well, lead the way," I tell her, downing the rest of my whisky in one single gulp and giving the bartender a neatly folded bill, tip and all. She grabs my hand and pulls me in, turning her back to me and guiding me through the crowd. I follow after her, and a few girls stop dancing as we go through—first they fucking eye me, and then they turn to Samantha, jealousy flickering in their eyes. Fucking nasty creatures, women.
Finally emerging on the other side of the fucking dance floor, we go past the bouncers and out the door, into the cold air of the street. She holds my arm as if I were her fucking boyfriend, her body close to mine. I hail for a taxi, and we get inside; she tells the driver the directions, placing one hand on my knee as she leans toward the opening in the divider. I'm definitely in a fucking off mood; if this was any other day, I'd already have my hand on her pussy, and I would make her cum at least once before we got to her place. Well, at least I’m going to her place, so I guess that's a fucking victory.
Just like she said, five minutes and the taxi stops in front of an apartment building. I pay the driver. a rastafari guy with a thick accent, and he gives me a fucking wink and a nod, knowing that I'm about to fucking score. Thanks, random taxi driver, I appreciate the fucking support.
Samantha and I leave the taxi and I follow after her as she gets inside the building. She calls the elevator and we step inside as the doors open with a subtle ding. Inside the cramped metal box, she grabs my arm again, looking up at me expectantly. I simply smile, not giving her the fucking reaction she's expecting. If this were a good day, she'd be having her second orgasm of the day before the elevator reached its fucking destination. As it is, all I manage to do is fucking smile at her. Fucking pathetic.
We get inside her tiny apartment, and she doesn’t even bother with turning the lights on. The moment she shuts the door she’s on me, her huge tits pressing against my chest as she looks into my face expectantly. Her eyelids start to droop, and she parts her lips, waiting for me to lean in and kiss her. Jesus fucking Christ, why is my heart racing? Fuck, and it isn’t racing because I’m getting fucking hard, let me tell you that. It’s fucking racing because this is fucking wrong! What the fuck am I doing here? Fuck!
I take one step back, pushing her away from me. Her eyes widen, confusion taking over her face.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks, fear settling in.
“Yeah,” I say at once. “Where’s the fucking goldfish?” With that, I turn on my heels and fucking bolt.
I leave her there, completely stunned, and enter the elevator without even bothering to look back. This was fucking harsh of me, I know, but fuck…! When she pressed her body against mine, one name echoed in my mind: Jocelyn’s. I fucking love her. What the fuck was I thinking, going out at night looking for fucking trouble? The woman I love is at home.
She told me it was over. She told me I was nothing more than a fling. But her words don’t ring true, and fuck me if I’m going to give up on her without going to the bottom of this!
As I step out into the cold New York streets, there’s a look of determination on my face. I feel fucking renewed. My head is clear, my heart is in the right place: I’m not giving up on the woman I love. The situation might be a fucked up one, if I take my father into consideration, but I don’t give two fucks about that.
For the first time in my fucking life, I know what the word love means. And it means everything.
95
Jocelyn
This is my first major appointment. Where is he? I take my phone out of my purse and tap it on. The screen comes to life and my eyes scan for the time. 2:15. Michael's late. It looks like he isn't even going to show up, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He wasn't particularly interested in joining me today, but during breakfast this morning, he opened his newspaper and without so much as looking in my direction, he agreed to come to keep up appearances. "Maybe a reporter will see us walking out of the office," he said, almost to himself. Is that really all he thinks about?
"Mrs. Anders, we're ready for you." My mind snaps back to the present.
I look up from my phone and see a nurse holding a clipboard. Well, it looks like I'll need to handle this appointment solo. He's definitely not going to show up. I gather my things—phone, keys, and purse—and head back. The nurse begins by taking my vitals—weight, temperature, and blood pressure. She asks me an assortment of personal questions, such as when my last period was, and whether or not I smoked or drank prior to conception, and if I'm taking pre-natal vitamins. It almost feels like an interrogation. I'm not used to this. After answering, she instructs me to undress and put on an unflattering paper gown—it' a far cry from the dresses in my wardrobe—and then she says that the doctor will be with me shortly. As I'm lying on the exam table, my mind starts to race again. I mean, here I am, pregnant with another man's baby, and to top it off, that man happens to be my stepson. How in the hell did my life take this turn? But before I can mentally answer that, I hear a soft knock at the door, and my OBGYN walks in. He's in his mid-50s with a bushy white mustache. He has a jovial twinkle in his eyes.
"Are you ready to see your baby today?" he asks with more enthusiasm than I expected.
Wait. I didn't realize I was going to see anything at this appointment, and I'm immediately nervous. "I am," I say, simply. Shouldn't I be feeling more excited?
"There won't be a whole lot to see, but because you are at approximately the 6-week point, we should see a heartbeat."
"Oh wow."
"Pretty great, right?"
I nod my head.
"But before we take a look, I'd like to review your chart with you. I see that you're 36 years old. I don't want to scare you, but we consider that advanced maternal age, so we need to closely monitor things."
Did he just say 'advanced maternal age'? What is that supposed to mean? Am I really that old? He notices my alarm and quickly finishes with, "But you look fantastic. I see you're in great physical health and I don't foresee any problems, so let's go ahead and take a look. Lie back. I'm going to use this wand. We call it a 'magic wand.'" He says this and chuckles. I'm not sure whether to laugh or not. Is he planning to stick this wand inside of me? I watch as he rolls a condom down the wand and lubes it up. Yep, he's definitely sticking this inside of me. I try to relax and keep my eyes on the small screen to my right side. Within a few moments, a black and white image appears, followed by a fast, rhythmic sound that seems to glow white.
"That's the baby's heart beat."
I squint my eyes and gaze at the screen. There, right in the middle, is a small image that resembles a gummy bear and sure enough, there is a beating heart. I'm not an overly emotional person, but when I see that, I cry. A mixture of emotions are surging through me—love, fear, resolve, courage—you name it. I wipe my eyes, carefully avoiding my mascara.
"It happens to everyone," the doctor says. "The first appointment is always emotional."
"You can say that again," I laugh. I wonder what Michael would've thought or felt, standing in this room today. But now I'll never know.
Once the appointment is over, I drive back home. On the seat next to me is a printed sonogram picture. The doctor gave it to me so that I could share it with Michael, although I doubt he'll care. I keep this picture in my hand as I walk into our home. The hall light is on, which is strange. Michael must already be here.
"Hello?" I call out. There's no reply. I walk upstairs. I still don't hear anyone, but I can smell a hint of cologne and there are a number of different lights on throughout the house. It's not Michael's cologne that I smell, but still something familiar. Where do I know that smell?
I walk toward his study. There's a light on. He must be answering emails or reading one of his books. I turn the knob and push the door open. What I see in the middle of the room makes me drop the picture in my hand, and it flutters to the ground.
"Oh fuck, yes," Michael says. He's sitting in his chair, and there's a man's face in his naked l
ap. His hands are buried in the man's dark hair, and he's rhythmically pushing it down on his cock. I recognize the man as Kenneth. Now I recognize the cologne.
"Come for me," Kenneth growls. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. I knew Michael and Kenneth were having an affair, but I never thought they'd bring it here. Michael grunts and cums hard into Kenneth's mouth until he's completely drained, every last drop. It seems I arrived just in time for the finale. His cock spasms, and I watch as it dies down. I can see thick strands of cum drip from his mouth, and coat his tongue and lips. Kenneth is still on his knees and gets up slightly, placing his hands affectionately on Michael's chest. "You can have this every day—you are I, pure bliss—just say so. We can be happy together," Kenneth says, and then leans in to Michael, pressing his lips to him. He brushes his tongue against his lips, and Michael sucks it eagerly, cleaning it of the cum that covers it.
It is only at that point that both men notice my presence at the doorway. They both pull away from each other and gaze at me, wordless. There is a thickness to the silence, and for a moment, no one knows what to do. Kenneth seems pleased that I've just witnessed it all. A sly grin dances across his face. Michael is stunned, and debates how he should respond. I can almost see his mind working overtime. Then he finally speaks, "Really now, Jocelyn. Don't look so surprised." He bends down and picks up his pants, carefully pulling them on, one leg at a time.
"You were supposed to be at the doctor appointment with me today."
"I changed my mind," he responds, shrugging his shoulders. "And besides, this was only a fair turn of events. While you go off and fuck—who—no, I don't even want to know—whoever it is that you're fucking, I'll get mine."
I look at Kenneth and he nods his approval. He looks ecstatic and casually runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into place. I bet this was his idea to be here, in this house, with Michael today. It would make sense.
