by Vince Taplin
Copyright © 2019 Vince Taplin
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7348138-0-7
Cover design by: Vince Taplin
Library of Congress Control Number: Pending
Printed in the United States of America
Alex Six
When the devil had finished all this tempting, he left him until an opportune time. Luke 4:13
Dedicated to my wonderful wife, Amy, for supporting me and taking care of our beautiful boys while I wrote this book.
ALEX SIX
A Novel by
Vince Taplin
PR3F4CE
Her office was sparsely decorated with a pair of Route 66 signs and a painting that looked like it was created in the style of “Realism by 8-year-old.” She sat behind a glass coffee table and motioned for me to park in a large black chair directly across from her. I sat, crossing my legs as I tugged on the hem of my skirt. I felt a line of missed hair on my leg, an annoying stripe only I could tell was there but will bother me until it gets skimmed.
“So! Here we are again,” she said, resting her hands in her lap.
How should I respond to that cluster? I certainly didn’t want to start the conversation. Not after last time. A long, uncomfortable pause lingered. She smiled at me while I smiled back. I could smell her perfume. It’s cheap, probably something she picked up from a department store. Her suit was surely bargain basement, too; I could tell from the poor cutline on the shoulder and hips — clearly, she needs to charge more. She cleared her throat again and waited for me to speak. Some people describe a heavy silence as loud, which is bullocks because real silence is so quiet you can hear your heartbeat in your eardrums.
“Last time you were here…” She opened her notebook and skimmed a few lines. “You told me your husband has been acting strange. You also mentioned he has been seeing someone else?” My fingers picked at each other. Stop fidgeting and breathe. You can handle this.
“Yes. He has.” Good. Good answer. See, you’re doing a great job, no need to be intimidated by the ugly girl at the dance.
She wrote more notes. I could hear her pen scratching ink onto the page in the quiet office. I peeked around at her bland wallpaper and her small oak desk. On the desk, a variety of red, blue, and black pens sat neatly in a “World’s Greatest Mom” mug. Does she have vodka in her bottom drawer? Does she tire of listening to problems all day, day in and day out?
Her pen scraped the page. “Do you know the woman?” she asked.
“I know her, yes.”
“Does it upset you that he is having an affair?”
“He isn’t cheating!” I felt my heartbeat behind my eyes again.
Moisture began to build along my brow. “He is just…” In my lap, my pointer finger quickly traced circles on a fingernail. “I don’t know, experimenting!” I paused and adjusted my skirt again. “Once he finds out how much I love him, he’ll love me.”
“Do you think it’s a healthy relationship if he is seeing other people?” she said and lifted her eyes from the notepad.
“No! Of course it’s not healthy, but we’ve always had an interesting relationship. This is just… just… just another curveball. “Stop! Stop feeding her. Short answers, remember? Short, controlled, answers.
She jotted more notes. “Does he know you know about her?”
“Does he know? Does he know?”
I wiped my brow. My makeup was running, tears welling, mutilating my mascara. Control yourself. Don’t let go. Don’t lose control again. I forgot how hard it is to come here.
The therapist slid a box of tissues across the table. “Tell me about that.”
Pins and needles in my mouth. I pursed my lips so tightly they went numb. I snatched a tissue from the box and wiped black smudges from my cheeks. How did this happen? How did this happen to me? To us? I hate him for it, but I can’t live without him. His touch and his laugh and his… everything.
“We’ll save that for later…” She scribbled on the page. “Does he know you’re struggling? Taking medication?”
Words are trapped. My mouth opened but my throat was too tight to make a sound. My palms were wet. “No,” I squeak.
“Last time you were here, you told me you felt invisible. Like his life is being lived without you. Do you still feel this way?”
My throat hardened around the spit I tried to swallow, like a snake squeezing my neck from the inside. Why are you pushing me, bitch? Stop! — “Yes…” My eyes met hers. Rage — sadness — Oh my God, I’m too vulnerable.
More scribbling. “Does he know about your condition? Your history? Your…” she began as she leaned forward, “…your mental health history?”
I see you.
I see you watching me from behind your coffee table. I feel your judgment. I know you. You’re like all the others. I seeeeeeeeeeee you. No! Not today. “No, he doesn’t know about my history.” I’m so vulnerable. Why did I come back here? Check, please. Check, please! I’m done. Done! I should have never talked to anyone about this. Who do you think you are? You’re a peasant therapist with certificates from a state school and a 2-dollar barn painting on the wall in the waiting room. I stood and walked to her side of the table. She leaned back with a smug, uncomfortable smile. “And no one else should know about my condition.”
The knife felt sticky as it slid into her neck. Her eyes watched mine: predator and prey. She got too close — Why did you have to do that? Look what you’ve done! Why didn’t you let me talk about him, or let me talk about my day and about how much I love him? Or you could have asked me why I love him. Or, or, or, or tell me that he will run to me and he will love me. He doesn’t want that other woman. I am the only one for him. You did this to yourself, Counselor. You should have played nice.
She tried to yell but it was just bubbles and gurgling. “You don’t know about my condition…” I pull the blade from her skin. “… anymore.”
She slumped back in her chair, holding her neck with a goofy, surprised expression. You should have known I’d bark back, bitch. Her eyes turned off, leaving her with a final, dim, expressionless gaze. She looked pretty.
Chapter One
Professors never stop being professors, they only cease to have a classroom. I was no different. I’d taught at the University of Minnesota for five years when I was fired. Said I wasn’t following curriculum, which is bullshit because their curriculum considered Watergate to be a recent scandal. I wanted to teach college kids to think, but the dean wanted them smart enough to think they’re getting an education, but dumb enough not to realize they weren’t. I taught calculus and business in the morning, general finance around lunch, and closed the day with a gen-ed class.
I’d graduated from the University of Wisconsin at the ripe age of twenty-two. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and gullible. Recruited into the army as I walked out of the graduation ceremony. I had a smile, a grad cap, and nowhere to be. Recruiters can smell that, before I could say “student loans” I was off to boot camp. My mind was sharp, street smarts dull.
Drill instructors could see I was green. I blushed, bled, and after being badgered, l became burly. Traded the soft touch of a college textbook for the cold pull of a trigger. I earned the rank of second lieutenant in the army and did some traveling. Saw the sights. Shot a few bad guys. Landed in a few hostile zones and ate a few hot dogs on other continents. After losing a
few friends and killing some of theirs, I decided not to reenlist. I slid back into the civilian world and found the only job I knew other than strangling foreigners. Academics. The University of Minnesota offered me a job. They had a veterans program that put me ahead of the other pocket protectors.
After I was fired, I didn’t know what to do. I was in a decent position though. The military still sent me checks for the bullet I’d caught in the shoulder. It didn’t leave any long-term health problems, but they refused to stop paying me. There had been a lot of bad press around firing veterans in the last few years so I received a golden parachute from the university to go away quietly. It wasn’t enough to retire, but it was enough to pay down my house and put some money into a rental property. I embraced my new life and wore paint-covered overalls when I visited renters to fix their toilet or stove. I could solve complex math problems on any continent while returning gunfire, but fixing a busted gasket on a toilet seemed an ambitious adversary.
One afternoon while I was cleaning the lint trap on an ancient dryer vent, my tenant introduced me to her friend. A knockout. “This is Kraya, my friend I was telling you about…” My eyes met hers. Then they met her feminine neckline and gold necklace. Her neck jewelry naturally led me to her chest. I tried not to stare, but trying is overrated. Her waistline and hips were petite, legs immaculate and tanned under her skirt. I wondered what other treasures lie beneath. “So I thought I’d introduce you. Kraya, this is Victor.” I tuned back into the show at just the right moment. She looked at me shyly, acknowledging my eyes dancing along her seams.
“Hi,” she said. That voice. Ugh! Sultry and feminine.
“Nice to meet you, Kraya. Czechoslovakian name, right?” Of course I’m right, but I want her to know I’m more than a couple of ogling eyes and a pants tent.
“Yes. Wow. Not bad, Victor,” she said with more confidence.
“Vick, please. My friends call me Vick.”
“Are we friends, Vick?”
“I’d like to be.”
I found every excuse to stop by the rental house. I mowed the lawn every other day and gardened for hours when I saw her car out front. I routinely came in for doorknob inspections and thermostat modulation tests. It didn’t take long for us to start dating. We had a connection. A great connection. I could listen to her talk all day; of course, we never made it that long. The sex was good enough that I alone funded my chiropractor’s coke habit.
After a year or so, she moved into my cozy two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Minneapolis. We talked more, fucked less — par for the course. Anyone who expects the handcuffs and oral to maintain the same frequency after their girlfriend moves in has never had a girlfriend move in. The dogs playing pool were soon replaced with an abstract piece that “ties the room together.” My furniture slowly migrated to the basement. My once dark, simple motif was replaced with what is now described as blossom white with “pop” colors, whatever those are. On her birthday, I gave her the present she’d wanted since she stopped taking birth control without my knowledge.
A bouncing baby took hold in her fertile womb. I was neither prepared for this, nor unprepared. It wasn’t a money or responsibility problem, just an unforeseen obstacle. Keeping it was not up for debate. I was smart enough to know not to touch that topic. Instead, I kinda poked at it from a distance with a stick — “We never did take that vacation to Fiji. We should, ohh, wait… We can’t with the baby.” I also left her a copy of Cosmo magazine with the headline: “It’ll never be the same down there after the munchkin arrives.” All these attempts were either ignored or misunderstood. Either way, he was coming.
November seventh. He arrived. I’d seen battle. I’d held dead friends. Nothing prepared me for the moment of birth. Both beautiful and disturbing. (Maybe disturbingly beautiful?) He stared at us with big blue eyes. I learned then what love is.
We were married shortly after. Her dress was beautiful, smile bright. My tux rented, fitting tight. I knew she was the one. My one. I’d been in love before — some overseas, some domestic. Some hot, some dull. But none compared with Kraya. Sweet. Gentle. Loving. Kind. Beautiful and sexy. She knew me, understood me, and hated me at times. Most importantly, she loved me.
We bought a few more houses and our rental business paid the bills. Most of them anyway. Our budget was tight, but not tight enough for us to have to budget for twenty-dollar purchases. I enjoyed the simple life. Married. Kid. Bills. A few cocktails at the end of the day. Sex twice a month. This is what people dream about, right?
The dream was shattered though. The day I met Alex…
Chapter Two
Grocery stores are always busy. I often wonder who my fellow shoppers are. Do they work? Why are they wearing flannel pajama pants at one o’clock in the afternoon? Why are there seventeen boxes of fruit snacks, five bottles of Tylenol, and a can of generic baked beans in your cart? I reviewed my list, carefully designed by Kraya. Bananas, oranges, applesauce, asparagus, broccoli.
She caught my eye. She caught everyone’s eye. Asianish, Russian? Something exotic. She was out of place, like a bicycle sitting in the first-class cabin. She had pants, or tights, or a dress — some striking pant combination I’d never seen. Tight tan leggings with bell bottoms and a biblical ass on the other end of ’em. A slit ran up the side of her pant leg.
I picked up my bananas and weighed them. Why do people weigh their bananas? Are they concerned with the additional twenty-six cents that extra banana would yield? It gave me a reason to stare through the scale to where she stood. She wore a bracelet so dainty it made dental floss look like anchor chains and a necklace that shook glimmering stones as she walked. Her high heels clicked as she walked amongst the fruit. My first thought was how incredible the heels made her legs look. Secondly, why is she wearing heels in a grocery store?
Our eyes connected. Busted, dude. I turned back to the fruit scale, raising an eyebrow. I bagged my bananas and pushed my cart toward the pear section. Is it still a pear if there is only one? I focused back on my list: bread, dressing, those crunchy onion thingies. I continue reading, pausing occasionally to look down the aisle to make sure I don’t trample other shoppers as I flee the veggie section.
I passed through aisle two and grabbed some spaghetti. One? Two boxes? They’re on sale. But what is the normal price? Then I saw her. Standing in the middle of the aisle, staring directly at me. I decided to buy two boxes and threw them in the cart like a Frisbee. As I walked toward her, she blocked the aisle with a wide stance. I didn’t mind the view, but why was she just standing there? I smiled politely and whispered, “Hi, excuse me,” like any good Midwesterner would. She didn’t move. If this were a two-hundred-pound man blocking my path it would be a completely different scenario. Why was she any different? Sexiness clause probably. My cart moves closer. She’s still blocking my way. Move, ya hot broad, I have places to be, potato chips to buy.
“I’m sorry, if I can sneak by you here,” I said, pushing my cart to her side. Why was I apologizing again? Because I’m in Minnesota, dammit, and that’s how we roll.
“No,” she said. Her eyes softened. She gasped and her lips gaped. A tear slid down her cheek to her shirt (or blouse or whatever that silky, sexy thing is). “It’s… it’s unbelievable!”
I’m only slightly less disturbed than she is.
“You… you look… you look just like him!” she whispered, a somber raspiness to her voice.
I smiled out of discomfort. “Miss? I look like… who exactly?” Did I mention she was still lost in a strange gaze — directed right at me? Or through me? It’s the winner of the weirdest-shit-that-happened-to-me-this-week award. I took the opportunity to look her over once more — why not? I was close enough to smell the intoxicating, yet pleasantly light perfume she’d wrapped around herself. She stood motionless, staring at me. “Miss? Can I help you? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry…” she said as she wiped her cheek. “I’m so sorry. You… you… you look like someone, that’s
all.” She moved briskly by me, trading glances as she passed. She disappeared past the endcap of miniature toy cars and frosted cereal, leaving the light scent of her perfume and the diminishing sound of her heels on the tiles.
I carried on after she left the aisle. I needed peas. Green peas. What was she looking at? Did I pass the peas? Who the hell was she? Dangit, I passed the peas again. What was that all about?
I’d made a mental movie of the situation to tell my wife. I’d also recorded a few key shots to keep for another time altogether. Two hundred bucks later, I checked out and left the store. I pushed my cart through a few potholes before I remembered that I didn’t recall seeing the vanilla extract in my cart. I scanned the receipt. I remember going down that aisle, and I swear I grabbed it, but… dang, I must have forgotten it.
Some would say, Skip it. Go home. Fools. You can’t bake a decent cookie without gobs of vanilla extract. Kraya makes cookies every Saturday. Today is Saturday and there is no way I’m missing another cookie-Saturday. I loaded the back of my car with flimsy, overstuffed plastic grocery bags and ran back inside. I jogged through the familiar aisles looking for the vanilla while keeping an eye out for my mystery girl. I bought the vanilla, declined a bag from the pimple-faced checkout kid and left.
Could I still smell her? I drove, replaying the bizarre encounter. My flashbacks replaced with an empty lane, a green light, and a honk from the asshat behind me. I probably didn’t run any red lights or sit at any green lights the rest of the trip home.
Kraya played with our kid in the living room. He laughed when I walked in. I used my leg to close the door behind me, hands full with bags of groceries.
“Welcome back! You missed the Carters. They stopped by with the baby,” Kraya said with a smile.
