Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(58)

"And Michael told me it was a secret, sure," Kenneth says, gently  touching me on the arm. But there's no warmth to it, despite what it may  look to the crowd. "But I don't like it."

At last, I get the courage to reply back.

I shrug. "Doesn't matter if you don't like it, hun," I tell Kenneth. "If that's what Michael wants."

The fingers squeeze harder on my hand.

"Michael doesn't know what he wants half the time until I tell him,"  Kenneth says. "He doesn't realize that you don't deserve him. He doesn't  understand that the population of this city doesn't care who he's  sleeping with."

I remain silent as Kenneth continues. "But that's fine. He doesn't have  to make the hard choices. That's why he has me. And I'm making the  choice for how he has to deal with you, Mrs. Anders."

"What do you mean?" I ask Kenneth. His eyes are looking at me coldly, evaluating me.

"You're no good for him," Kenneth says to me matter-of-factly. "If  anyone ever finds out that baby isn't his, it could mean ruin  politically for his future. We'd be stopped at the mayoral level."

"We?" I ask, with an arched eyebrow.

The crowd cheers again and Kenneth waits until it dies down.

"You need to leave him," Kenneth says to me.

I shake my head. I can't do that. He doesn't know the conversation Michael and I have already had.

"I don't think you understand, Jocelyn," Kenneth says to me, looking at  me shaking my head. "Michael may have threatened you, and he may carry  through it, but it's nothing compared to what I'll unleash on you if you  don't leave him."

Now I'm curious. What's worse that Kenneth could do?

"I'll not only expose your father, but I'll pull enough strings that  when you finally do have that baby, Social Services will come take it  away because you'll be an unfit mother," Kenneth hisses. "And Michael  will be long gone after that shit comes out. He won't be able to protect  you."

I'm frozen as I hear the words that my baby might be taken away.

"Sure, you'll be able to deny that the baby isn't yours, but once  Michael starts getting hit, he'll throw you overboard to save himself.  And then no one will be around to defend you, dear," Kenneth says,  taking a moment to pause and look into my eyes.

"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.





49





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.