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.

The crowd's attention is diverted to Sloane, and the reporters are staring shocked, and open mouthed, gaping like fish out of water.

Then the flash photography starts up once gain, and then yet another round of questioning ensues. But this time, I have to admit; it feels really good to have Sloane on my side. I no longer feel as if I'm a lone hiker in a forest, trying to fend off a pack of hungry wolves single-handedly. Now I have a real fucking ally.

One reporter speaks up. "Mr. Hardman, are you here because you're lovers with Mr. Carlton?"

"No, that's not why I'm here. I'm standing here in front of you all today because—"

But before he can finish his sentence, another reporter cuts in.

"Mr. Hardman, how long have you been sleeping with your stepsister?"

"That's not—" Sloane starts to say, but is cut off again by the same, red-faced reporter.

The reporter continues, "Was it before or after you started sleeping with your stepdad?"

I try to step in and help Sloane. The onslaught is brutal. I'm quickly learning that this is a job for more than one person.

"Excuse me," I cough, clearing my throat, "I think we should pull this narrative back to the real matter at hand, and that is simple: Mr. Hardman and I did not participate in, nor do we condone, criminal activity on Wall Street," I say into the microphone.

That's right, Sloane chimes in. "We are here today to set the record straight, and reassure our investors that throughout the course of securing funding for Ms. Vanderhill's company, Dirty Lil' Angels, Mr. Carlton and myself followed all necessary protocol; every thing we have done, we assure you, has been in holding hands with the law. We take the law seriously."

A large reporter with thick, black-rimmed glasses chimes in. "You haven't told us how you will you win back investor confidence. How can you ever regain their trust? Even if you were allegedly following the law, a lewd love triangle such as yours will be difficult to explain, don't you agree?"

I look over at Sloane. I watch as he is carefully trying to choose his next words. As I look at him, it hits me. Yes, it's true, Sloane and I have had our differences and yes, it's true that we both love Natalie in our own ways, separately, but it's only when we are together that we are stronger. There is strength in us as a group.

I jump in.

"You call this lewd?" I ask. "I think you are losing focus on what matters, and that is—"

But the reporter cuts me off, moving as fast and sharp as a rabid raccoon. "I think I speak for the entire room when I say that we're all laser focused on your investors, Mr. Carlton, which is something you should consider turning your attention to. There is no room on Wall Street for lewd and incestuous back-door dealings."

"Let me stop you right there and—" Sloane tries to say, but he is cut off.

"It's outrageous!" another reporter barks. "How can you stand up there and justify your actions? There are photographs."

Sloane looks over at me and we lock gazes. I can see the realization on both of our faces. We have come together and joined forces; we now know that we are a unit, not just Sloane and I, but Natalie too—all three of us. We are all tied together, forever, no matter how good or bad the outcome may be.

But it's too fucking late.

The media is out for blood and Sloane and I are standing here on this stage, two bleeding and wounded men. Each question from the reporters feels like a bullet piercing our flesh. Each dig makes us bleed a little more as we stumble and try to survive it. But the more we bleed, the stronger the crowd becomes.

I look over at Sloane once more. All of the animosity I once harbored—the competitive fierceness I had against him—is now gone. Standing next to me is my best friend. I give him a smile, but it's a weak one; it's bittersweet. It's just my luck to realize who my best friend is moments before we are about to die.

I'm about to motion to Sloane for us to exit the stage. I'm about to say that we gave a valiant effort, but it's time we leave. We aren't going to win this.

But I don't.

Because I’m interrupted.

“Excuse me,” a voice calls out and I turn to the very edge of the crowd.

The gaggle of reporters, now used to the drama unfolding before them turns around, their cameras ready for what new fresh twist they’ll be receiving.

“If you’re going to go after my boys and spank them around, you’re going to have to do it over my dead body,” she says.

My eyes don’t leave her.

Natalie Vanderhill.

Looking every bit the strong, sexual woman who says fuck you to the world.

I couldn’t love her more. And I take glance at Sloane. He’s thinking the same damn thing.

“After all,” she says as she walks up towards the podium. “Only I get to spank them and that’s during sex.”

Whatever we were trying to do, Natalie has just changed the rules.

This is going to be fun.