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The flash from the camera bulbs is intense. Like a thousand fucking suns just descended.
"Mr. Carlton," a reporter shouts. "How long have you been sleeping with your stepdaughter?"
"How long have you been sleeping with Sloane Hardman?" another one yells.
"Where was the first place you had sex?" another reporter shouts out.
"Have you thought of resigning from your position due to the scandal?" comes yet another fucking question.
This time Drake looks worried. The last question came out of nowhere. But th
e reporters are just snowballing now. They're leading themselves on. And the story is writing itself.
"Do you believe you've violated criminal laws?" the first reporter yells.
"Have you retained counsel in the event you get arrested?" another follows up.
The questions are coming too fast.
And before Drake knows it, he's gonna be broke, in jail, and out of a job.
He can't stop this press conference. The mob is too strong. It's out of control.
There's only one thing to do.
I clear my throat and step into the center of the crowd from the edge I was just in.
"If you guys wanna fucking pick on us, at least send some questions my way, won't you?" I say with a loud booming voice.
Immediately the crowd stops. They turn to me.
There's shock from the people in the audience as I start to make my way over.
Then the flash photography starts up.
Looks like this is going to be a fun fucking morning after all.
Drake
I can't believe it; these reporters have just put a whole new spin on the term 'bloodthirsty.' The camera flashes are still popping and they're blinding me. The questions won't stop coming. I feel like I'm fucking dodging bullet, after bullet, after bullet. These reporters won't stop till they have my head on a platter it seems—a public display of conquest for the world to see.
They want every juicy detail. This transcends them needing facts for the public good. No, this boils down to ad dollars and an insensitive, insatiable curiosity—a sport that's a race for sensational headlines, and Internet click bait. A sport that will stop at nothing to see you bleed.
I thought I would set this press conference up to clear the air. To give the public the fucking truth. I thought that maybe if they'd hear it directly from me, the sensationalism from all of this would blow over. That I'd get to clear the air. But it seems that I was wrong.
Very wrong.
Reporters are now asking if I've retained counsel in the event that I'm arrested; they're asking if I've violated any criminal laws; they're asking where we were the first time I fucked my stepdaughter, and if there had been any coercion involved. I start off keeping my cool, but it suddenly all becomes too much. What if I get thrown in jail? What if I've fucked up everything for good, and not just for me, but for Natalie and her company—everything she's built for herself, her hopes, and her dreams—as well?
My head is spinning faster than a tornado, and I feel like I'm fucking drowning in the debris of it all. But just when it feels like I can't possibly take another breath, I hear a familiar voice. It's loud and commanding, and all eyes immediately turn away from me to find the source.
"If you guys wanna fucking pick on us, at least send some questions my way, won't you?"
I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. It's Sloane.
What's he doing here?
The crowd has now completely quieted. They're remaining still, hardly daring to move a muscle in case they miss what is transpiring on this stage.
