I hate doing interviews-wait hate is too strong a word.
I detest doing interviews, especially on talk shows. But my manager Ryan says I should. I have dropped three hot albums and I haven’t made a public appearance or gone on tour, so this is me meeting him half-way.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans. They are the ones who keep me motivated and inspired to keep doing what I love. All I wanted to do was make music. It’s just that some talk show hosts have a way of rubbing me the wrong way or pressing all my wrong buttons. They weren’t all bad though, some of them were really nice; like Ellen, Jim and my Martin Hugo.
Lately, the media has been obsessed with my marriage and started circulating rumors of my impending divorce.
Lana Carter is stuck with me until death do us part. But chances are, I’ll probably be waiting for her at the pearly gates. I’m never letting her go.
Then there was the ongoing hogwash that Kyle Kinley and I were having an affair-like- ewww.. It sickens me to my stomach to repeat it, let alone hear it. Not only is that sick but it would be like incest. Kyle is like the big brother I never had-the only father figure I will ever look up to.
Worst of all, they thought I was having a sordid affair with Kyle’s wife Amaya. Again that is the highest order of incest. I will never think of Maya in that light. Sure she’s beautiful and guys practically froth at the mouth when they see her-but she practically my sister and a mother figure too.
My correct guess is my sperm donor Alexander Carter is stirring up all these rumors-whispering to all the wrong people-to paint me in a bad light. Just so he can punish me for not giving him my kidney. But like I told him, I’d rather eat my twin babies crap or drink my own urine than give my kidney to that sorry excuse for a father. He could go and sit on a snake for all I care.
The talk show host was looking at me expectantly. I think he’d asked me a question and I wasn’t paying attention. Why can’t it be over already...
“Are you going to give us an answer Jordan?”
By the irksome look on his smug face, I knew that wherever he asked me was in my ‘Don’t Go There’ box.
Propping my elbow on the armrest of the couch I frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you please repeat the question?”
“There’s been a lot of speculation about you and your mentor’s wife. Would you like to comment on that?”
My face clouded and she was silent for a few seconds. I specifically told him beforehand that I did not-why am I even surprised? They always did this. You gave them a set of restricted questions but they asked them anyway.
“There’s nothing to say.” My eyes expressed my disapproval and my jaw twitched. If this guy had half a brain he’d know that I was ticked off and it would be in his best interests to back off.
But it seems like he had cotton wool between his ears after all because he kept provoking me further. “Is it true that she fattened the calf so she could eat it later?”
I pinned him with a glare that could have killed a few men outright. “What are you insinuating?”
“We have reason to believe the delectable Amaya Walsh-Kinley raised you so she could satisfy the fetish for younger guys.”
“She does not have a fetish for young guys, She’s happily married and faithful to her husband.” Why was I even signifying this madness with a response?
“But we all know Hollywood marriages are mostly flexible-take yours for instance-”
My eyes flashed and my jaw tightened. “You’re treading on very dangerous ground Mark.”
“We also have it on good authority that you have no qualms about sharing a bed with the irresistible Mrs. Kinley. You probably keep it warm for Kyle while he’s away. True or false?”
Without warning, I leaned forward and grabbed him by his scrawny little neck. The studio audience gasped but I was way past caring.
“If you’re not careful you’re going to be digesting your teeth in a few seconds.”
“Truth Hurst doesn’t it,” he replied in choked gasps.
“The only thing that’s going to hurt is your body after I’ve beaten you to a pulp,” I tossed him back in disgust.
He slumped down on the sofa, clutching his throat.
“Bet she’s a freak in the sheets,” he continued to provoke me. “Fancy a threesome some time? Maybe you can invite your wife too," he gave a humorless, taunting smile.
All my fury came pouring out as a curse rang out and the dull thud of blows was echoed. The raw burning rage was released and I let it free. I lunged at him, catching him on the jaw with an unexpected blow that sent him skidding across the stage. I grabbed him and slammed him against the floor, raining blows in his head. He kicked out at me, driving me back but only for an instant. He tried to crawl away even though he couldn't see where he was going through his swollen eyes when I came back with a sharp uppercut that sent him crashing into the wall.
Women from the crowd shrieked and that's when it dawned on me that we were live on national television. I stared at my hands that were dripping with Mark's blood. His face was battered and he wasn't looking so smug anymore. I slowly turned around as the security guards came running from backstage. But they were a little too late. The damage was done-Mark had eaten his words and I didn't care if he pressed assault charges.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," I apologized to the audience before I swaggered off the stage with as much dignity as I could muster.
That should teach them.