by Alexis Angel
"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 what 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 th
e 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.
30
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 lap. 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.
"As you wish," I say, all emotion hidden. I tell myself that I shouldn't care. This was always a marriage of necessity. A favor for my father. I've never loved Michael and he's never loved me.
Michael clears his throat and says, "Good, now if you know what's good for you, you'll close that door and run along."
31
Lance
Sometimes, love means letting go.
I swear, I fucking tried. After that fucking awful night out, I went home ready to take on the world. I wouldn’t let anything get in the way—in my mind, Jocelyn and I were meant to be together, and I wouldn’t allow for that not to happen. Of course, that was nothing more than a childish thought. It fucking hurts to put it like this, but she was fucking right: I’m nothing more than a kid, and I was living nothing more than a fucking fantasy.
But there’s one thing that I won’t let go of: I love her. I fucking love her. With all my being. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll ever love another woman like this. It’s just fucking impossible. So why am I not going after her? I’m astonished that you still have to fucking ask. Have you read the newspapers? Have you seen the fucking news on TV? She’s happy. Fucking happy. Swear to God, it hurts like a motherfucker to say it, but Jocelyn is happy. And she’s ca
rrying my father’s child. Let me put it like this so you can understand it: I’m going to have a fucking brother. How can I come crashing into her life now? How can we ever be together like this? Fuck, I’d do anything to have her with me, but I won’t fucking ruin her happiness… I fucking won’t. It might cost me my own fucking happiness, but I don’t give a fuck. As long as she’s all right, the world will keep spinning on its axis…
That’s why I left in the middle of the night, not bothering to tell a soul that I was leaving. I packed my shit up in a duffel bag and called a cab. Half an hour later I was checking in at the Plaza, laptop propped up on my knees as I booked a flight to London.
Yeah, that’s right, come tomorrow morning, I’m getting the fuck out of New York. Maybe being on the other side of the planet, as far from her and my father as I can fucking get, will help. Or maybe it fucking won’t. Whatever, I’ll take the British night by assault and I’ll work through everything by going back to being good ol’ Lance Anders.
Yeah, sure, I know what you’re thinking. Things didn’t exactly go the way I intended the last time I tried to work through things like that. But, listen, this isn’t the way I wanted things to go. But what do you want me to fucking do? Try and break Jocelyn and my father apart, now that they’re waiting for a child? I’m an asshole, sure, but I’m not a fucking evil bastard. I have fucking limits. It might not look like it, but there’s a fucking conscience inside this pretty head of mine. Don’t believe me? Well, fuck you then.
