“I don’t give two shits about the MTA funding right now,” dad says. He’s definitely talking into his phone.
I see Jocelyn turn her head as the footsteps come toward the living room. She doesn’t bother looking at me, but rather collects herself and briskly walks out of the opposite exit to the living room. She wants to avoid dad.
She’s gone not a second before he comes into the room. He sees me standing next to a table filled with food and champagne.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me.
I didn’t really plan this excuse out, but it just comes naturally to me. “Today’s Jocelyn’s birthday,” I
tell him.
He stares at me blankly for a second. I hope he’s not trying to figure out which Jocelyn I’m talking about.
“So?” he finally asks. “That’s what all the food and champagne is for?”
“Want to join us?” I ask him darkly.
What a fucking horrible motherfucker. I mean, sure, I was just kissing her a few minutes ago so maybe I’m not saint, but I didn’t go about marrying her, and if what she says is correct, never fucking touch her in the whole time I’ve known her.
No wonder Jocelyn is crushing all over me. For the first time in a long ass fucking time, someone is showing real, genuine, affection for her. Someone is showing desire for her.
“I think joining you would be a waste of my time,” dad says, turning around after hanging his top coat in the closet. “I have plenty of better things I could be doing with my time.”
“Dad,” I paused and watched him as he froze at hearing me call out to him. “At least go upstairs and wish her a happy birthday then.”
Dad seemed to consider, but then shrugged his shoulder. “If that's all it takes for her to feel better, then I’ll leave that to you, son,” he tells me. “No one is better than you in winning people over.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “She’s your goddamn wife.”
“She’s a political prop,” he says to me. “And don’t you dare talk to me like all of a sudden you’re my son.”
I’m silent. Seething.
“You’re nothing more than an orphan that I bought with my credibility. You’re more like a window dressing for me. Never forget that,” he says to me, looking me in the eyes, telling me he’s deadly serious.
He turns, having gotten the last word.
And with that, he’s gone.
Lance
I curl my arms in another set of bicep exercises and watch my movements in the mirror. I look good. I don't fucking care how vain you think I am. I'll admit it. It's no wonder I've banged nearly every type of woman there is—co-eds, professors, housewives, and even the President's daughter, which I now sort of regret.
Besides, after the last two days since Jocelyn’s birthday, I need to clear my head.
We’ve been fucking too close to the fucking fire. Twice. The first time, I could understand. Her fight or flight response was kicking in and she was going through adrenaline after her close call. I was there.
The second time, on her birthday. That was a fucking different animal. We kissed. And held each other fucking close.
No, I fucking need to shake myself of her.
I look around the gym at the odd mix of people. Even though this gym offers up a strange, and sometimes annoying blend of gym goers, I never miss a day of working out. Let's face it; you don't get the ripped body of a gladiator by just sitting around, right? I'm a fucking machine, and I plan to keep it that way. As I'm curling my rock-hard muscles, I overhear a couple of teenagers next to me.
"No way. Steroids are expensive. You know what you need bro?"
"What?" the other kid asks.
"You need some McDonald's in your life."