The Good Twin's Baby

by Vivien Vale

  This isn't like me at all, to be sleeping with some girl in a shitty apartment, in a shitty part of town. I'm slipping. I've gotta get a hold of myself.

  I have a goal, and I can't afford to get derailed now.

  I need to get out of here. There's no telling where my clothes are, or my wallet, or my keys, or my phone…but I don't want to wake Nicole up, so I'm going to have to feel my way through the dark.

  This place isn't that big. My stuff has to be close by.

  I carefully slip my feet out of the comforter, and swing my legs off the bed. I stand up, my body stark naked, the darkness my only cover. I don't see my clothes, so I shuffle my feet against the carpet, hoping to walk into them.

  There's nothing. They’re not here.

  So I get down on all fours, and picture what I must look like if someone where able to see me: Ridiculous. I feel like a kid going behind his parents' back and sneaking out of the house or something…but I guess that's partially true.

  I'm trying to sneak out of this apartment.

  I look over at the bed, to make sure Nicole is still sleeping. Luckily, she is.

  I continue to feel along the carpet, and then I finally find my suit pants and boxers.

  Thank God, I think. I slip them on. The room is so quiet that the sound of the fabric seems irrationally louder than I know it is, and I cringe as I pull them on and zip them up.

  Fuck. I still need my keys, my phone, my wallet, my shirt, my shoes… okay, think, think, think, I tell myself.

  When did I last see my things?

  Last night was such a blur, I honestly can't remember.

  There was food. There was wine. And then things escalated from there.

  There was sex. Great fucking sex that I can't think about right now. I've gotta get—

  My thoughts are cut short when I see two amber eyes peering at me from the darkness.

  I walk over and see that it's Nicole's cat Whiskers, and that underneath the cat are my coat, shirt, wallet, and keys.

  I walk over, and try to shoo the cat off my things, but it doesn't budge.

  Move, cat, scram. I need these things more than you do.

  “Meeeooww,” the cat voices back its disdain before jumping away. Even in the darkness, I can see cat hair all over my coat and shirt, and I try, with as much quiet as I can muster, to brush off as much as I can.

  But of course it's no use. I'll need to get these dry-cleaned.

  I slip my shirt and coat on, and then, as soon as I turn around to look for my shoes, they find me.

  I trip and stumble into the bedside table, almost knocking over the moon-shaped clock. It teeters on its edges before finally settling back into place.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Seriously? Fuck my life right now.

  Thankfully, Nicole still hasn't moved. At least I can still get out of here without her knowing. This'll be less a walk of shame, and more an act of Houdini.

  I slip my feet into my shoes, hopping on one foot, and then the other. The cat eyes me from the corner of the room, as if mocking me with its orange orbs.

  “Stop that,” I whisper. But Whiskers refuses to look away.

  If it could laugh me right out of this room, I'm sure it would.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and look for my phone. Shit. It's not there.

  I pad my suit pockets—the two exterior and two interior pockets—but there's still no phone.

  Then I see it out of the corner of my eye—a sliver of light bouncing off the glass of the phone's screen. It's on the chair next to the bed. I grab it and slip it into the pocket of my suit pants.

  Finally. I have everything I need to make an exit and leave this place.

  I take a few steps, heading toward the door, but I have a sudden urge to turn around and look back at Nicole, to look at her one last time before leaving.

  When I do, I see the silhouette a perfect woman lying there. The bed sheets are pulled just below her breasts, and they're exposed to anyone lucky enough to look. It takes everything in me not to slide back into that bed and take her soft, warm body into my hands.

  To run my tongue across her nipples and pinch them between my teeth.

  I shake my head in disbelief. I've been with plenty of women in my life, but Nicole is different. When she's near, the rest of the world melts away. The maddening rush of the world seems to stop.

  It's almost unreal how one woman can be so hot and so fucking perfect…and make me experience such mind-blowing sex.

  “It's a shame,” I whisper, shaking my head again. I can't have any distractions in my life right now.

  The clock is ticking.

  And I have a restaurant to run.

  Nicole

  He's making enough noise to wake a bear. No one could sleep through that. How stupid does he think I am?

  I can feel the bed shift as he slides out from the comforter. I hear him shuffling around the room looking for his clothes.

  He's literally on his hands and knees fumbling his way through my dark bedroom. I stifle a laugh. I mean, he nearly knocks over my nightstand. How clumsy can one man be?

  And even my cat seems to be annoyed with him.

  For a moment, I think about saying something. Letting him know that I'm awake. Maybe even flipping the light on so he can find his things.

  But if he's the kind of man who thinks it's okay to slip off after getting me in bed with him without so much as saying a good bye, or a thank you for a good night, then as far as I'm concerned, he doesn't deserve to leave here easy.

  Besides, it doesn't matter. Not really.

  Even if I did say something, I'm sure he'd rattle off some fake nicety, and give me some bullshit excuse as to why he has to leave here in a big hurry. He would probably say something along the lines of, It isn't you, it's me.

  I'll let him think he's slipping out of here undetected, if that's what he wants. So I lie there, pretending to be asleep.

  Which feels like both the dumbest and smartest choice I've ever made… all at the same time.

  Then I hear him say something under his breath.

  "It's a shame,” he whispers.

  My mind reels. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Is it a shame he's leaving? Is he considering getting back into this bed?

  Or is he ashamed for coming here in the first place and being with me?

  As I listen to him leave, and hear the front door click open and then shut behind him, the silence of his absence weighs heavy on me.

  There's no more wondering. He's gone, and he didn't bother sticking around.

  The silence is definitive.

  Why the hell did I sleep with an asshole like Palmer? I'm mentally kicking myself for being so weak.

  Although if I'm being honest, there really is something about him that's magnetic. I'm drawn to him like ice cream is to cake, or like a strawberry is to chocolate.

  When he's around, it's like the most natural thing in the world, and even though there's a small voice in the back of my mind that throws warnings and alarm bells, my body moves toward him without hesitation. I even cooked him my grandmother's secret recipe!

  I slap my hand down on the mattress in frustration, bunching the bed sheets beneath me. It's clear that he's an asshole…but he's a hot asshole, and I've just had the best sex of my life.

  Well, the first and only one, too, but I’m sure that sex isn’t always that…amazing.

  That chiseled body. Those eyes. That smile. And those hands.

  I feel my pulse flutter just thinking about him, and I grow wet.

  He was a god in bed, he really was. I can feel my pussy begin to tingle as I think about how amazing sex was with Palmer—the way he moved with purpose, without hesitation, and how confident and calculated he was and how he just knew what he wanted—and what I wanted, too, for that matter.

  Slowly, as is possessed, I part my legs under the bed sheets. I grab my breasts in my hands, and pinch my nipples between my fingers.

&
nbsp; This immediately sends my body into overdrive, and I close my eyes and part my mouth, letting out an involuntary sigh.

  I picture Palmer touching my breasts, not me. I imagine it's his strong hands grabbing my nipples, and kneading the soft flesh as if it were something prized.

  I slowly move my hands down lower and lower, across my abdomen, and hover just above my pelvic bone before making the plunge even deeper.

  I can’t believe I'm doing this. One minute I'm thinking about how much I regret sleeping with an asshole like Palmer, and then next I'm fantasizing about him.

  Screw it, I think to myself as I spread my legs further. A little fantasizing never hurt anyone.

  My mind focuses on Palmer's body.

  Biting down on my lower lip, I slide my hand down between my thighs, pressing the tip of my fingers against my pussy. I stifle a moan, and then decide to go all the way; I slide my hand further and then press down on my clit.

  Pleasure electrifies my nerve endings all at once, and my eyes roll back as I imagine Palmer back here in my bed, that mysterious smile dancing on his lips. I’d cook him a hundred more secret recipes just for him to be really here again.

  I’d just reach for his cock, feeling it harden against my eager fingers…

  Oh, God, I can’t stop myself now. I slide my fingers in my wet pussy and, parting my inner lips, slide my middle finger inside. I curl it upward like a hook, driving it all the way in and only stopping when I find my G-spot.

  I press hard against it while I use my thumb to stroke my clit. I close my eyes as my brain starts to hum with an electricity all its own.

  I imagine the chiseled chest that Palmer hides under his tailored suits and fancy chef coats, and how I'd like to explore the ridges of his abs with my tongue… and with my tongue on his abs, how I'd explore further down between his legs.

  I can already imagine his enormous cock sliding in and out of me, taking my pussy…

  “Oh, God,” I moan, my quivering voice echoing throughout the darkness of my apartment as I start moving my hand faster.

  I slide one more finger inside my pussy and start flicking my wrist fast, my fingers moving in and out of me at a furious pace. I pretend they’re his cock, stretching me wide and driving me insane with a newfound hunger.

  I arch my back, moaning loud enough for my cat to dart off—Whiskers must think I've lost my mind, but I don't care. This is too good.

  I take my free hand to my breasts, squeezing them eagerly. Images of Palmer's naked body flash behind my eyes. I shut them tight, and a burning need to feel his body on mine consumes me.

  In this moment, it's the only thing that matters.

  “Oh, fuck,” I groan, my inner walls tightening around my fingers, and without warning, I begin moaning through grit teeth as a sudden spasm takes over my body. Every muscle fiber inside me begins to twitch erratically, and I have no choice but to ride the wave over.

  When everything subsides and I'm able to open my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling.

  Finally, my mind has cleared, and I decide: Having Palmer in my bed tonight was fun, but it was also a mistake.

  He's a much better fantasy than he is a reality.

  Palmer

  I've messed up more dishes in a single afternoon than I have in my entire professional career—too much salt, too little salt, too much flame, not enough flame.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I can't get Nicole out of my mind. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her.

  I'll never be able to look at another pasta dish without remembering that night at her apartment.

  And just when I think the day can't get any worse, it does. Oh, it gets so much worse.

  I'm standing in front of a hot skillet, searing a fresh tuna steak and getting ready to squeeze just the right amount of lemon on it when Brit bursts through the kitchen doors.

  "Have you seen this?" she says. Her eyes tell me she's wild with frustration.

  I look down and see her cellphone in her hand. The browser is open on her screen, and it appears to be a published article.

  "Doesn't look familiar," I say, shaking my head.

  "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but read this."

  By the look on her face, I know it can't be good. I grab her phone and begin scrolling.

  "Among the dishes offered by Chef Palmer's Pearl is a dry fish akin to prison food,” I read out loud. “I was too timid to try some items on the menu for fear of developing digestive problems, and that's putting it mildly. The risotto was inedible—having taken on the consistency and flavor of what I can only describe as wallpaper paste."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Oh, it gets better," Brit says. "Keep going."

  I continue reading it aloud.

  "I wouldn't wish for a natural disaster to strike anyone's restaurant, but if it did, then no one would have to eat the food offered by The Pearl on Park, and that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

  “There literally isn't a single redeeming dish on the menu, unless you count the glass of ice water that accompanied my food. Chef Palmer's dishes are where hopes and dreams go to die. Hot mush, gummy waste, and lukewarm puddles are all apt descriptions for the food I tasted, which is a travesty.

  “Even my salad looked as if someone squeezed an entire bottle of cheap dressing on it just to watch every piece of lettuce drown in its own misery. The steak was so overcooked that it resembled the grey innards of an unidentifiable animal."

  My voice is now beginning to shake and I tighten into a ball.

  "That's going too fucking far—I know I make the best fucking steaks!"

  "This is bullshit," Brit says. "These are all lies. It's as if he's purposely trying to ruin you."

  I look back down and continue reading the review. If I've read this far, I might as well finish.

  "Chef Palmer's restaurant is a bungled and lack-luster attempt at bringing another fine dining destination to New York City. Even the foods that might deserve mild praise, like the grilled asparagus spears, were under-seasoned and could be procured for cheaper if you simply went to a nearby deli.

  “As far as the potato soup goes…well, let me just say that it was as thin, murky, and unappetizing as dirty dishwater. As a kid, I was once dared to eat a worm freshly dug up from the school playground. I recoiled, and got so far as to place its wriggling body on my tongue before spitting it out.

  “In retrospect, I'd gladly eat that worm before placing another ounce of Chef Palmer's food in my mouth. In summary: Eat at The Pearl on Park at your own risk."

  I knew Percy Whitman was an asshole, but I didn't realize he could sink this low. This is possibly the worst review I've ever read. What the hell does Percy have against me?

  "Can we survive this review?" Brit asks. She's visibly worried, and I don't blame her.

  But if there's one good thing about me, it’s that I'm not a quitter. I have the resolve of a stubborn bull.

  "Of course we can," I say. "We're going to keep making high-quality food, and win customers over one meal at a time."

  "Uh—Chef—" she says, tapping me on the arm.

  "Leave the worrying to me. I have everything under—"

  "No, uh, I mean, the tuna," she says, pointing to the pan. "I think it's on fire."

  "Ahhhh, fuck," I say, removing the skillet from the heat. The tuna is ruined. I was so caught up in reading Percy's review that I completely forgot about the dish that I was working on.

  "Shit, this was supposed to be for table 7," I say, as a thin line of sweat zigzags down my temple. I can't believe how many meals I've fucked up today.

  First, it was Nicole, and now it's Percy. I just can't focus. Even though we're busy, the best thing I could do right now is probably remove myself from this kitchen.

  I need to do something about all of this.

  I need to get my head on straight.

  If I don't, I'll be helping everything Percy said come true, and I can't afford for that to happen.

  "
Brit, I need you to do me a favor," I say.

  "Anything, Chef."

  "I need to hand over all kitchen operations to you today."

  "To me? Are you sure? It's so busy, and—"

  I cut her off. "Look at me. There's no one I trust more."

  With that, I unbutton my Chef coat, toss it to the side, and grab my car keys.

  There's only one thing that can help me right now.

  I need to find Nicole.

  Nicole

  I remove the mop from the bucket and press it against the tiled floor. Leaning on the handle, I push the fibers of the mop back and forth, and watch as their grey strands leave foamy streaks of soap in scattered patterns.

  Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm a painter wielding a giant mop brush—painting the place in wild streaks.

  I'm a firm believer that a restaurant's safety and success hinges on how organized and clean a place is. And judging by the amount of soap I'm using, this floor is going to be clean enough to eat off of.

  Not that I'd suggest that, but I’m just saying…

  As I push the mop, I perform a mental checklist—disinfect prep surfaces, wipe down the splash walls, clean the grill, pour a drain cleaner in the floor drain, run the hood filters through the dishwasher—check, check, check.

  I'm making good progress, and even though it's late, I kind of like how quiet and solitary this place is after hours—when the guests are gone and everyone else is back at home. It's when I do my best thinking.

  The quiet, the monotonous movements of cleaning… I can just let my mind wander.

  Unfortunately, my mind keeps wandering back to the same thing: Palmer.

  It's a tortuous loop.

  His charisma. The way he can effortlessly keep a conversation. The way he can make me laugh. The way his eyes pierce me and reel me in. And of course what he can do in bed…

  I shake my head. No. Not again.

  I can't be thinking about him. It was one night, and it was a mistake.

  A big mistake.

  But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't constantly on my mind.

  I let out a sigh and push the mop back into the bucket, rinsing it of soap and the day's grime.