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 the 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.
95
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.