“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.
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.