The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  Nick’s still got my hands captive; he never let go of my wrists. His free hand’s jerking at his tie, like he can’t get it off fast enough. He doesn’t even undo it completely, just slips it over his head. Over his head...and over my wrists. I feel the slide of silk, and then he’s tightening the knot, pulling it flush against my skin. “Yeah?”

  I nod. Yeah.

  He rucks my dress up slow. Normally, I’d be uncomfortable with this kind of exposure—the way he’s taking his time, drinking in every inch of me; normally, I’d be trying to pull him closer, hide my body with his. But this is...this is....

  Instead of rising self-consciousness, I feel a shameless excitement surging through my body, making my palms tingle and my breath catch in my throat. I hold myself perfectly still under his scrutiny, biting my lip to hold back a whimper when he leans down to kiss me just above the knee.

  Where last time was urgent, this feels slow and languid. Nick explores me like he’s got all night. I feel myself floating, lost in the sensations, as his palms and lips follow the lines of my body. He touches me in places no one thought to before, nipping at my collarbone, breathing softly against the inside of my wrist, biting my shoulder when I try to arch against him.

  The teasing rides an edge between delicious and overwhelming. Is he trying to make me beg? Doubt’s creeping in again: do I say something, or keep mum? He’s making it hard to think, hard to concentrate, one finger trailing down the midline of my torso, between my breasts, over the swell of my belly... And is he disappointed with the softness there? Was he hoping for a firmer, younger, pre-kid body?

  Quit ruining it!

  I risk a glance at Nick’s face. He looks rapt, utterly absorbed in what he’s doing. There’s something ravenously intent in the way he looks at me, like he’s laying claim to everything he touches.

  I wish he’d say something.

  Maybe I’m supposed to say something.

  I try to find my way back to that blissful haze of sensation, but it’s no use: I always do this. Just when things should be kicking into high gear, all inhibitions forgotten, I—

  “Everything all right?” Nick’s cupping my cheek, all gentle concern.

  “Yeah.” I exhale a little laugh. It comes out too breathy, too shaky. “Just, uh...I—“ What can I say that won’t make me sound like a spaz? “You’re still wearing most of your clothes.” Ugh. Why couldn’t he have stuffed his tie in my mouth?

  But Nick doesn’t look put out. “Oh—my pants getting scratchy on that soft skin of yours?” He shifts against me purposefully, so the fabric drags against my thigh. An involuntary shudder courses through me. Nick grins as I snap my mouth shut on an undignified sound. “Undress me, then.”

  Undress him?

  I hold up my hands, assuming he’s going to set me free, but he’s got that wicked look in his eyes again, the same one he got just before he put my hand on his cock under the table. “Uh-uh. No hands.”

  He holds me steady as I wobble to my knees. Where I’d expected awkwardness, clumsiness, humiliation, I feel...calm. He’s given me a task. I don’t have to guess any more. I can just...concentrate on him.

  His hand on the back of my head, guiding me to his fly, is strong—comforting, even. When I take the fabric between my lips and tug, the button pops free easier than I thought. I hear him murmur “good,” and I keep going, pulling his zipper down in a series of quick jerks. He pushes his pants down himself, and his underwear with them. His cock bounces free and slaps me in the face. A sharp, unexpected spur of excitement lances through me.

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry!” Nick reins in his dick with one hand, caressing my cheek with the other, wiping away precum. “Kind of sprang up on me, there.”

  “No, no...I kinda—“

  Liked it—I was about to say I liked it, and what would he think of me then?

  I feel my head being lifted, two fingers under my chin. My eyes close: I can’t look.

  “Hey. Look at me.”

  I can’t refuse, either. I open my eyes.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Really. I’m just....” He’s looking at me with such concern, I can’t bring myself to tell him anything but the truth. “It’s embarrassing. I...kinda liked it, and... I didn’t want you think I was...think I was....”

  “Think you were what?”

  “The kind of person who likes getting slapped in the face with a cock.” Shit—this is mortifying; this is—my face must be as red as my hair, and now he’s worried about me, and I’m blowing it, and how do you fuck up sex? When you have instructions, no less? Seriously, all I had to do was open my mouth and—

  “What kind of person is that?”

  I don’t know how to answer that either. I feel like I’ve waded out into deep water, forgotten how to swim. “I...I don’t know. Someone who...someone weird?”

  Next thing I know, my hands are free, and Nick’s rubbing my wrists, where his tie’s left the faintest of red marks. “I’m—hey, listen—this is my fault.” He’s kissing my forehead, gathering me into his arms. “We should’ve talked first. I just assumed, after the other night....”

  In spite of my embarrassment, I feel myself relaxing into his embrace. He’s running his fingertips up and down my spine in an idle and familiar motion, like this is all somehow fine, like the next words out of his mouth aren’t going to be “Guess that’s that,” or “What’s your problem?” or “Mind if I jerk off before I go?

  What he really says is “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “No, it’s not you. I embarrassed myself.”

  “I’d disagree with that—for what it’s worth, I think you’re great. Really hot. Open-minded. I like that.” He bumps our noses together. “Definitely not weird. If anything, I’m the weird one. I love to get weird with it.”

  Why can’t I be like that, embracing my weirdness? “Thing is, I... I can be kind of a perfectionist.”

  I feel the puff of Nick’s laughter against my neck. “You don’t say.”

  “So I...during sex—during pretty much anything, actually—but especially sex, because it’s so personal, so exposed... I have this endless internal commentary running through my head, like, should I turn off the light? Is my cellulite showing? Do my boobs look flat from this angle? Are my knees too knobby?”

  “Your...knees?” He reaches down and pinches one of them. “Think mine are knobbier. Aren’t they supposed to be knobby?”

  “Hey, I’ll pick on anything. It doesn’t have to make sense.” I retrieve his hand from my knee and twine our fingers together. It’s easier talking like this, spooned in his arms, back to his chest. Like if I can’t see the judgment in his eyes, it’s not there. I keep going: might as well get it all out there. “And then when I have to think of something to say...ugh. Like, my worst nightmare would be if I’d say I liked something, or wanted something, and you’d look at me like a slug in your bathtub, like ew....”

  “I’d never look at you like that.”

  “Never?”

  I feel him shaking his head. “Even if you were into something, and I didn’t swing that way, the worst I’d say would be no.” He pulls me closer. “And for the record, all that stuff about cellulite and—what was it, bad boob angles?” He does the tiniest of snorts. “When a man has a beautiful woman in his bed, his brain’s more like ‘Yippee!’ or ‘Where do I start?’ than ‘Let’s hunt for imaginary flaws’.”

  It would probably come across as fishing for compliments if I insisted those flaws were real. “I liked what you did with the tie,” I say instead. “Felt good not to have to worry about where to put my hands. To give you control.”

  His cock swells against the back of my thigh. Apparently, it’s in agreement. “That’s...a huge relief, actually.” He nuzzles up against my neck. “I thought you did, after what happened in the car, but then you seemed—and I thought....” He turns my head again, brushes his lips against mine. “I want us to be on the same page.”

  I
kiss him back, feeling like we finally are. He shifts against me again, one hand cradling my head, the other finding its way back under my skirt. Maybe this time, I can—

  Something’s buzzing.

  “Shit—sorry!” It’s my phone; of course it’s mine, and if I hadn’t blown it before—

  “Mm?”

  I pull away. “Sorry. It might be—it might be work. I have to get that.”

  Nick lets his head flop back on the pillows. He doesn’t seem put out; he’s even laughing, but... It’s got to be politeness at this point, right?

  I don’t have time to read too much into it. The text’s from my babysitter: sorry to disturb u. there’s a weird smell and joey’s throwing up.

  Okay. Not great. And what’s she even saying?—Do you mean he’s throwing up and it smells weird, or there’s a weird smell that’s making him throw up?

  the 2nd thing.

  What the hell? Like...a gas leak? Our building’s all electric... Where would gas even leak from? Maybe—fuck; no time to think. I glance at Nick. “Sorry, I... There’s kind of an emergency. I need to....” Where’d my other shoe go? I’m hopping around, texting one-handed: oK take Joey next door! Mrs. D. should be home. check if smell also in her place, if not, see if joey can stay there. On my way now.

  Nick’s smiling, handing me my shoe.

  “Thanks.”

  “It was hiding under the bed.” He holds me steady while I put it on. “So, I guess this is your coach turning back into a pumpkin?”

  “Yeah, sorry; I—“ My phone’s buzzing again: its just ur place. mrs. d. says he can stay. should i stay 2 or???

  No, it’s fine. Go home. I’ll drop by your pay in the morning.

  “That wasn’t an escape text, I swear. There’s a...kind of disaster at home, and, uh—I can’t get into it now. Can I, uh...let me write down my number.”

  “Put it in here.” He’s holding out his own phone. I key my number in quickly and shrug into my coat. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  “Quicker if I just walk from here.” I’m being rude, but there’s no time, no time for manners. My hands are shaking; the buttons of my coat keep slipping through my fingers. “Sorry again! I feel—“

  “Ssh.” Nick takes me by the hand, and pulls me just close enough to do up my coat for me. He snugs my collar in tight and pulls up my hood. “There. All good. Deal with your disaster, and we’ll pick this up when you’re free.”

  There’s no time, but I hug him anyway—a quick tight squeeze, and I’m out the door.

  Joey’s feeling better by the time I get home, cuddled up on Mrs. D’s couch with some apple juice and a plate of Ritz crackers. No fever, no sniffles—seems like it was just the smell. I fuss with his hair till he starts to get mad, pledge Mrs. D my undying gratitude, and head home to investigate the offending stench.

  It’s not strong, but it’s rancid. Definitely not gas: this is something organic. Something...rotting. Smells like low tide on a hot day, that fishy, kelpy, wet smell, without the sea breeze to freshen things up.

  Surely it can’t be coming from inside. We haven’t had fish in weeks, and I took the garbage out just this morning. I step out onto the fire escape, thinking someone must’ve left some trash out there, but the outside air’s...well, if not exactly fresh, no more disgusting than usual.

  There’s nothing in the fridge, nothing in any of the cupboards, nothing in or under the sink. Nothing in the bathroom or the closet. It hits me that Joey’s probably left some old snack in the bottom of his bag... But there’s nothing in there but a well-loved pack of crayons.

  What the hell?

  The smell is starting to make me gag. It’s insidious: not that bad at first, but the more you breathe it in, the thicker it gets. Most smells, you get used to them after a while, but this one...nope. Not so much.

  I drag the fridge out of its nook, but that just leaves me sweating and panting, with nothing to show for it. Same deal behind the oven: nothing but crumbs and a long-lost spatula. I vacuum the empty space, anyway: when else will I get the chance?

  This is driving me nuts. Where haven’t I checked? This place is tiny; there are only so many nooks and crannies that could be hiding something gross.

  I shake out every shoe in the closet. Nothing but dirt.

  I stand in the middle of the kitchen, spinning slowly, taking in every inch of the cramped space. Cabinets, toaster, oven, fridge—where else is there?

  I kneel down in front of the oven. I don’t remember the last time I opened the drawer underneath, with the cookie sheets and broiling pans, but it’s the one place I haven’t checked.

  The smell rolls out and hits me in the face. I don’t know whether to scream or retch: not a fish, but a rat, dead as a doornail, skin stretched tight over guts that look bloated enough to burst. Must’ve...must’ve crawled in for warmth, when I left the stove on, and—no. That can’t be right. It wouldn’t have had time to get this dead, this stinky, overnight. We don’t even have a rat problem, or we didn’t—where’d it even....

  Ugh. No point obsessing over it. It’s New York. There are rats. I grab a pair of rubber gloves and fish it out gingerly, breathing a sigh of relief when it doesn’t split open between drawer and trash bag.

  The pong hits me again when I come back from ditching the rat. It’s worse now: opening that drawer truly released the beast. A quick Febrezing only serves to brew a nice rat/lavender cocktail: I’ll have to air it out overnight. Which means it’ll be fucking freezing, which means Joey can’t come home, which means I’ll owe Mrs. Dzhokharova...pretty much anything she could possibly ask for.

  I fling open the doors to the hallway and fire escape. A chilly breeze starts to circulate. I pour a bag of frozen berries into a pot, top it up with water, and set it to a low simmer. Soon, a fruity, jammy smell’s floating out to me on the fire escape, where I’ve set up camp with Joey’s bike and my cleaning supplies. Figure I might as well make some headway while I’m freezing my ass off.

  Tomorrow after work, I’ll swing by the bargain bookstore, see if there’s anything Joey might appreciate.

  I catch myself wondering if I’ll hear from Nick. He did take my number, but... He could still reconsider. Once he’s alone, with nothing but blue balls to remind him of our encounter, what’s to stop him deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth? And I haven’t even mentioned Joey yet. Or his dad. Especially his dad. What’s going to happen when he finds out...?

  It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for any of this.

  But I’ll make time....

  I might just be in over my head.

  130

  Nick

  The smell of Chinese food greets me when I emerge from my study. I never told Katie she could order in... But I never said she couldn’t, either. I think I smell hot and sour soup. Must be for me: Katie thinks it tastes like old soap.

  “Hey, Dad,” she says, looking up from her homework and a plate of something red and noodley.

  “Hey, Katie. That hot and sour soup I smell?”

  She nods, gesturing vaguely at a paper bag at the end of the counter. “In there. There’s spring rolls as well.”

  “Thanks.” I plop down across from her and tuck in. She must’ve just ordered: the soup’s still hot enough to scald the roof of my mouth. “Need any help with your homework?”

  “Nah. Cindy’s coming over soon. We’ve got our science fair project, and then she’s going to spend the night, so we can set it up together in the morning.” She looks up. “If that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Just, no staying up talking all night.”

  “I know.” No eyeroll today. She must want something—something more than the sleepover. I nibble on a spring roll while I wait for it.

  “Dad?”

  “Mm-hm?”

  “I was wondering... When can Cindy and I come to your work?”

  I blink. “You want to...what? Come to a board meeting?” Wouldn’t that be boring as hell for a couple of nine-year-old
s? I guess there is Take Your Daughter to Work Day, but....

  “No, your other work. The volunteer place. We wanna do it too. Cindy’s sister helps out at the hospital, but she says we’re too young.”

  Well, this is new. “Uh...I’d be happy to take you, but I’m not sure how much fun you’d have. It’s just a lot of sorting through food, checking expiry dates, putting stuff in bags—“

  “We can put stuff in bags!”

  “It gets pretty heavy: there’s tons of cans and jars.” Still, she’s trying to do a good thing. I should be encouraging this. “Okay...how about this? It’s not a good idea for you kids to be doing the heavy lifting, but we got those big windows out front. We usually have seasonal displays, art from the community, that kind of thing. How would you like to come in maybe...maybe Saturday afternoons, and do something with those?”

  She makes a show of checking her phone, like she’s seen me do when I’m setting a meeting. “Yeah. We can do Saturdays.”

  “Saturday it is, then.” I’m about to ask her what brought this on when the buzzer goes off.

  “That’s Cindy! Later, Dad!” She grabs her books and her phone and clears out, leaving me to deal with the remains of dinner. I’ve got a housekeeper, but it feels rude, leaving trash lying around when somebody else has to pick it up. I even make a halfhearted pass at wiping the countertop, but there’s something else on my mind.

  I’ve been wanting to text Lina since she rushed out of the hotel, but last night seemed too soon, and this morning was out, given the Weds AM scrawled on the back of her business card. Tomorrow would be too late, so...yeah. I’ve been gearing up all day. Figuring out what to say. Not obsessing, exactly, but...planning. Planning carefully. Something casual but concerned; enthusiastic, not weird:

  hey.

  hope everything turned out OK after you left.

  had a great time btw. hope we can do it again soon.

  Oh, yeah. Textual masterpiece. I tap on the edge of my phone, waiting for the ellipsis to pop up on her side. About thirty seconds later, it does. It feels like she’s typing for a long time—maybe typing and deleting. Maybe—