I can tell I’m panicking on the podium. I’m frozen.
I have a lawyer who’s with me, but that’s it. I don’t do public appearances. I don’t have a PR person or Chief of Staff. Kenneth set everything up for me.
Where is Kenneth?
I’m about ready to faint, when I hear another voice.
“Jesus fucking Christ, do you think you guys could learn some fucking manners?” the familiar voice says out and I snap my head to the right.
Dressed in an impeccable suit that hugs his body like a glove is the 21-year-old love of my life and father of my child. Lance Anders.
He apparently didn’t bother to listen to his father or to me and he’s here anyways.
“If you’re done picking on my girlfriend, I’ll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know,” he says with the confidence of just being a superior human being to most men. Then he turns to me and says, “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything is gonna be all right.”
And I just know that no matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.
We are going to be okay.
62
Lance
Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not supposed to have been here. I’m not supposed to steal the fucking thunder or whatever the fuck it is that I’m doing right now. Well, I’m here. So fucking sue me.
“If you’re done picking on my girlfriend, I’ll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know,” I say to the gaggle of journalists who were getting ready to tear into Jocelyn.
Besides, it looks like she actually is appreciating the fact that I’m here.
“Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything is gonna be all right,” I tell her. She nods to me. She’s overwhelmed by what she had to go through—she hasn’t had something like this that she’s been thrust into ever. It takes a lot of fucking balls to do that.
If I ever had any fucking doubt that she loves me, it’s all gone now.
Now it’s time for me to save the fucking day.
“Get your cameras ready folks, because that baby, as far as I know, is mine,” I say into the microphone.
And boom. The photographers just let that shit fucking fly. They’re taking so many fucking pictures of me I’ll probably be on every single magazine and newspaper cover in the morning.
They’ll probably put the most controversial fucking headlines they can. Think about it. The son of the mayor of New York City just admitted to fucking his wife.
Only let's get one thing straight right from the get go here, folks.
I am not fucking related to Michael Anders. Or to Jocelyn Carter.
That’s right. It’s about time we start using her maiden name because by the time I get done, there won’t be a person in this city who will want her to stay married.
“Did your father know at the time the baby was conceived?” a reporter from the front row asks.
“Are you ashamed of yourself?” another reporter asks over him. I turn to him on that one. It’s the same guy who brought out the whole line of questioning as to whether or not the babe was mine—the one who torpedoed a perfectly good press conference.
This is the guy who I’m gonna destroy first.
“I’ll take that question…sorry, I don’t know your name,” I say into the microphone, looking at him.
“Carson Maddox, from the Downtown Metro,” he says back to me.
I nod. Here I go.