Harem: An MFMM Romance

by Abby Angel

  I remove my eyes from the paper and pull my cell phone from my pocket. I need to speak with Sloane and Natalie. I dial Sloane first and listen to my phone ring. It rings and rings and rings, and then goes to voicemail.

  Fuck. He's not answering.

  Then I dial Natalie. Again, I wait and listen as the phone continues to ring until I'm directed to another voicemail box. Instead of hanging up, I decide to leave a message.

  "Natalie, it's Drake. Listen, ignore the papers, ignore the news, and give me a call; we need to meet. All three of us need to meet. It's important. We can get through this."

  And just in case she doesn't get to her voicemail, I follow up with a text.

  "Plz call me bc it's important."

  I take a deep breath and shove both of my hands in my pockets for a moment. Should I keep calling? Should I email them? Would any of that even help in this very moment?

  It's clear I'm not going to be able to meet with Sloane and Natalie fast enough. With my best guess, it would take several hours at least. I think about Natalie and all of her work with Dirty Lil' Angels. I think about how much the company means to her, and how she's poured every ounce of her resources into the venture.

  I look around my office, at all of the confused faces staring back at me. As their CEO, I need to do something about this, and I need to start moving now. I need to fucking lead, and I know exactly what my next step is going to be.

  I turn to CJ.

  She's staring at me wide-eyed, and waiting to hang on my every word.

  "Set up a press conference for tomorrow … and tell everyone about it."

  She nods her head and disappears.

  Sloane

  I don't know how Drake got any fucking sleep last night.

  I mean, sure, shit was bad in the morning, but the level of fucked up-ness as the hours went by just seemed to get worse, you know?

  Don't look at me like that. Don't shake your head. There wasn't anything I could do at that point.

  The only think I could think of doing was talk to Natalie. Just a quick phone call.

  Obviously, it probably wasn't a good idea to go to her place, or have her come to mine. Not with all the reporters I was seeing camped out on the sidewalk outside of One57.

  Turns out there were reporters outside Natalie's apartment too.

  I mean, it's not hard to tell why. A reigning king of Wall Street, the daughter of one of the most prominent politicians in New York City, and a venture capitalist like me, all having sex with each other?

  You can't make this shit up. This is like one of those books that Alexis Angel comes up with. It just doesn't happen in real life.

  Until it's happening now.

  All of a sudden, people are seeing this happen right in front of their eyes and they can't get enough of it.

  The news has been nonstop about this on television. They're waiting for the press conference to start.

  It's being held outside Carlton Capital's headquarters and I decided to come see for myself. There's a pretty decent crowd standing on the steps of the building. It's reporters in the front and middle with regular people crowding to see what's going on too.

  The newspapers followed the television stations this morning with more scandalous headlines.

  "Three's a Crowd? Not Anymore!" said the Daily Post. I don't know what the New York Daily Journal said.

  I don't really fucking care at this point.

  I mean, it really seemed like we were getting somewhere, you know?

  I know we had the threat of Linda Vanderhill over our heads the entire time after Python, but it seemed that we were getting stronger. It seemed that we were going to overcome this.

  What I think we never fucking realized was how fast and how strong the negative backlash was going to be. How quickly it spread from breathless gossip to negative fucking judgment.

  No one has recognized me yet, and I don't know that I really care about that.

  I know, I know. I shouldn't be fucking ashamed of the people that I love.

  And I'm not.

  Really. If someone has a problem with Natalie they can come tell me to my face. Then they can watch as I proceed to break that fucking face.

  Even fucking Drake. Anyone has a problem with him and I, then they better get the fucking undertaker ready.

  Like I said, I'm not gay. But you assault my family—the people I consider to be my lovers—and you better be ready to face the fire that is Sloane Hardman.

  But that's not why I'm staying on the edges of the crowd today.

  This is Drake's show. This is his shit.

  His firm is the one that got the brunt of the media scrutiny. That basically had the rug pulled out from under him.

  The banks stopped lending to Carlton Capital. Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about mixing morality with business.

  So it's Drake who has to do whatever he's gotta do to get this shit back on track.

  Personally, I would've gone to the newspaper office and beat the shit out of the Editor In Chief. Probably gone to jail, but I would've fucking smiled and written a check for the assault charges. Bought that fucker a new wardrobe and told him it was worth every fucking penny.

  But that's why I do venture capital. Because I don't have to deal with negative consequences for a lot of my actions. I don't have regulators from Washington D.C. crawling up my ass like they do for an investment bank.

  So Drake probably had to do the more civilized thing to defend himself. And I know the guy. I know that even though he's calling a press conference, deep down he wants to go and kick some ass too, literally.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," a woman who probably handles the press relations for Carlton Capital says into the microphone. "Thank you for attending today. Mr. Carlton will be making a brief statement. And then taking questions."

  There's silence and a few clicks as the woman steps away from the podium and Drake comes out of the doors from the inside of the building and takes her place.

  "Thank you," Drake says.

  Silence. Flash photography. I take a step closer. Yeah, you got me. I'm fucking curious.

  "Yesterday, the news media had a feeding frenzy unlike one I've ever seen before," Drake says. "Accusations were lobbed. Allegations were made. Assumptions were taken and reputations were smeared," he continues.

  Photographers begin to click their cameras. They don't fucking care what he's saying. They just want to capture the moment for history in case he fucks it up pretty badly.

  "I want you to know that the effects of this action touch not just me, but my entire company. And through that, it has touched over $1 trillion dollars of investments that are managed for pension funds, teachers unions, and everyday retirement accounts. You're not just hurting me, but yourselves," Drake says. I gotta say, he sure knows how to put it down.

  "On top of which, the allegations from yesterday represent a surprising invasion of my personal privacy, as well as the privacy of my stepdaughter and stepson," Drake begins. "While I understand that Linda Vanderhill running for public office is something that places our lives in public scrutiny, I am here today to tell you that Linda and I are divorced. Both Sloane Hardman and Natalie Vanderhill are consenting adults. And free to run their own lives."

  The reporters are starting to stir.

  "I'm not here today to confirm or deny any allegations," Drake says flatly. He's got a fucking challenging tone that basically says that if you fuck with him, he will cut you down. "What I am here to do is to personally vouch for the integrity of Natalie Vanderhill."

  Right. That's the key component of this entire mess.

  "There exists no quid pro quo relationship between the funding of Dirty Lil' Angels and Carlton Capital," Drake goes on to say. "There is no unholy alliance between Hard Times and Carlton Capital. In fact, at the very beginning, I pulled the funding for the initial investments because I was concerned about the viability of Ms. Vanderhill's company products. I am no longer concerned."

  Flash bulbs i
ntensify. Now we're getting somewhere.

  "I categorically denounce anyone who has the audacity to claim that sexual favors were traded for favorable investment services," Drake says into the microphone as he looks into the crowd. "Since that violates at least 20 different regulations and implies criminal conduct, if you are planning on making that accusation, I plan on bringing at least fifty lawyers to that conversation."

  Mild laughter. We might actually get through this. Motherfucker might actually pull it off.

  "If we are clear on this, then that concludes my statement," Drake says and then gives a sigh of relief as he says, "Any questions."

  There's a momentary pause and I think that the worst is over.

  Fuck. I've never been so fucking wrong in my life.

  "Mr. Carlton, do you believe your shareholders would approve of your sexual relationship with your stepdaughter and stepson?" a reporter from the front asks.

  "I don't think they'd care," Drake says quickly. "Everyone is an adult."

  "Mr. Carlton, was there any coercion involved with Ms. Vanderhill?" another reporter piles on.

  "No," Drake says. "None."

  "So you are in fact confirming that you do have a simultaneous sexual relationship with both of your step-children?" another reporter adds in, and now I see Drake is taken aback.

  "What does that have to do with anything?" he shoots back, snarling.

  Wrong move, Daddy-o.

  The flash from the camera bulbs is intense. Like a thousand fucking suns just descended.

  "Mr. Carlton," a reporter shouts. "How long have you been sleeping with your stepdaughter?"

  "How long have you been sleeping with Sloane Hardman?" another one yells.

  "Where was the first place you had sex?" another reporter shouts out.

  "Have you thought of resigning from your position due to the scandal?" comes yet another fucking question.

  This time Drake looks worried. The last question came out of nowhere. But the reporters are just snowballing now. They're leading themselves on. And the story is writing itself.

  "Do you believe you've violated criminal laws?" the first reporter yells.

  "Have you retained counsel in the event you get arrested?" another follows up.

  The questions are coming too fast.

  And before Drake knows it, he's gonna be broke, in jail, and out of a job.

  He can't stop this press conference. The mob is too strong. It's out of control.

  There's only one thing to do.

  I clear my throat and step into the center of the crowd from the edge I was just in.

  "If you guys wanna fucking pick on us, at least send some questions my way, won't you?" I say with a loud booming voice.

  Immediately the crowd stops. They turn to me.

  There's shock from the people in the audience as I start to make my way over.

  Then the flash photography starts up.

  Looks like this is going to be a fun fucking morning after all.

  Drake

  I can't believe it; these reporters have just put a whole new spin on the term 'bloodthirsty.' The camera flashes are still popping and they're blinding me. The questions won't stop coming. I feel like I'm fucking dodging bullet, after bullet, after bullet. These reporters won't stop till they have my head on a platter it seems—a public display of conquest for the world to see.

  They want every juicy detail. This transcends them needing facts for the public good. No, this boils down to ad dollars and an insensitive, insatiable curiosity—a sport that's a race for sensational headlines, and Internet click bait. A sport that will stop at nothing to see you bleed.

  I thought I would set this press conference up to clear the air. To give the public the fucking truth. I thought that maybe if they'd hear it directly from me, the sensationalism from all of this would blow over. That I'd get to clear the air. But it seems that I was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Reporters are now asking if I've retained counsel in the event that I'm arrested; they're asking if I've violated any criminal laws; they're asking where we were the first time I fucked my stepdaughter, and if there had been any coercion involved. I start off keeping my cool, but it suddenly all becomes too much. What if I get thrown in jail? What if I've fucked up everything for good, and not just for me, but for Natalie and her company—everything she's built for herself, her hopes, and her dreams—as well?

  My head is spinning faster than a tornado, and I feel like I'm fucking drowning in the debris of it all. But just when it feels like I can't possibly take another breath, I hear a familiar voice. It's loud and commanding, and all eyes immediately turn away from me to find the source.

  "If you guys wanna fucking pick on us, at least send some questions my way, won't you?"

  I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. It's Sloane.

  What's he doing here?

  The crowd has now completely quieted. They're remaining still, hardly daring to move a muscle in case they miss what is transpiring on this stage.

  The crowd's attention is diverted to Sloane, and the reporters are staring shocked, and open mouthed, gaping like fish out of water.

  Then the flash photography starts up once gain, and then yet another round of questioning ensues. But this time, I have to admit; it feels really good to have Sloane on my side. I no longer feel as if I'm a lone hiker in a forest, trying to fend off a pack of hungry wolves single-handedly. Now I have a real fucking ally.

  One reporter speaks up. "Mr. Hardman, are you here because you're lovers with Mr. Carlton?"

  "No, that's not why I'm here. I'm standing here in front of you all today because—"

  But before he can finish his sentence, another reporter cuts in.

  "Mr. Hardman, how long have you been sleeping with your stepsister?"

  "That's not—" Sloane starts to say, but is cut off again by the same, red-faced reporter.

  The reporter continues, "Was it before or after you started sleeping with your stepdad?"

  I try to step in and help Sloane. The onslaught is brutal. I'm quickly learning that this is a job for more than one person.

  "Excuse me," I cough, clearing my throat, "I think we should pull this narrative back to the real matter at hand, and that is simple: Mr. Hardman and I did not participate in, nor do we condone, criminal activity on Wall Street," I say into the microphone.

  That's right, Sloane chimes in. "We are here today to set the record straight, and reassure our investors that throughout the course of securing funding for Ms. Vanderhill's company, Dirty Lil' Angels, Mr. Carlton and myself followed all necessary protocol; every thing we have done, we assure you, has been in holding hands with the law. We take the law seriously."

  A large reporter with thick, black-rimmed glasses chimes in. "You haven't told us how you will you win back investor confidence. How can you ever regain their trust? Even if you were allegedly following the law, a lewd love triangle such as yours will be difficult to explain, don't you agree?"

  I look over at Sloane. I watch as he is carefully trying to choose his next words. As I look at him, it hits me. Yes, it's true, Sloane and I have had our differences and yes, it's true that we both love Natalie in our own ways, separately, but it's only when we are together that we are stronger. There is strength in us as a group.

  I jump in.

  "You call this lewd?" I ask. "I think you are losing focus on what matters, and that is—"

  But the reporter cuts me off, moving as fast and sharp as a rabid raccoon. "I think I speak for the entire room when I say that we're all laser focused on your investors, Mr. Carlton, which is something you should consider turning your attention to. There is no room on Wall Street for lewd and incestuous back-door dealings."

  "Let me stop you right there and—" Sloane tries to say, but he is cut off.

  "It's outrageous!" another reporter barks. "How can you stand up there and justify your actions? There are photographs."

  Sloane looks over at me and we
lock gazes. I can see the realization on both of our faces. We have come together and joined forces; we now know that we are a unit, not just Sloane and I, but Natalie too—all three of us. We are all tied together, forever, no matter how good or bad the outcome may be.

  But it's too fucking late.

  The media is out for blood and Sloane and I are standing here on this stage, two bleeding and wounded men. Each question from the reporters feels like a bullet piercing our flesh. Each dig makes us bleed a little more as we stumble and try to survive it. But the more we bleed, the stronger the crowd becomes.

  I look over at Sloane once more. All of the animosity I once harbored—the competitive fierceness I had against him—is now gone. Standing next to me is my best friend. I give him a smile, but it's a weak one; it's bittersweet. It's just my luck to realize who my best friend is moments before we are about to die.

  I'm about to motion to Sloane for us to exit the stage. I'm about to say that we gave a valiant effort, but it's time we leave. We aren't going to win this.

  But I don't.

  Because I’m interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” a voice calls out and I turn to the very edge of the crowd.

  The gaggle of reporters, now used to the drama unfolding before them turns around, their cameras ready for what new fresh twist they’ll be receiving.

  “If you’re going to go after my boys and spank them around, you’re going to have to do it over my dead body,” she says.

  My eyes don’t leave her.

  Natalie Vanderhill.

  Looking every bit the strong, sexual woman who says fuck you to the world.

  I couldn’t love her more. And I take glance at Sloane. He’s thinking the same damn thing.

  “After all,” she says as she walks up towards the podium. “Only I get to spank them and that’s during sex.”