by Vince Taplin
“C’mon… C’mon!” The computers booted up slowly. Five computer monitors flickered to life, each containing a dozen camera feeds. After a lengthy startup, the cameras blink and show the view I dread. Professor Miller’s car is parked outside her house. He is there without me. With a few clicks, the view changes to inside his rental house, specifically, the maintenance room. I’m so close to the screen I can feel its warmth. I turn up the volume. It is a woman. A skank. She canceled plans with me — for her?
I listen.
“Nice to meet you, Kraya. Czechoslovakian name, right?”
Is he flirting with her? My fingernail scratches furiously at my knuckle.
“Yes! Wow. Not bad, Victor.”
Her outfit revealed too much. A stripper’s version of fashion. But she is just another peasant; she may temporarily get his attention, but he doesn’t want you. He will never want you. He is better than you and you know it. But… he seems to be taking the bait. You’re smarter than this, Victor!
“Vick, please. My friends call me Vick.”
You’re getting too personal. Stop. My hand stings as I slap the table. I didn’t realize I was crying. My face is as hot as a sunburn.
“Are we friends, Vick?”
She leaned into him with a flirty, sultry smile.
“I’d like to be,” Vick said with a Cheshire grin.
I stumble back, falling to the plastic sheets on the bed in room 9. My throat is scratchy. My chest is tight. I’m dying. I think my heart is failing! This is it, look what you’ve done to me, peasant! I stand and punch the wall hard enough to knock the number 9 off the top nail. The upside-down 9 now a swinging 6.
I lie down, my heart still a mess of pitter patter. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there! I set up the perfect meeting for her. That was supposed to be me!
Chapter Ten
I rushed to the stove. Charred remains of pasta, chicken, or soup smoldered in the pan. It popped and hissed as I chucked it into the sink. It’s a miracle it hadn’t caught fire. Or had it, but burned out? I twisted the smoke alarm from the ceiling and smothered it under one of the couch cushions to halt the shrill beeping.
As soon as the smoke alarm silenced, I heard it. Screams from the baby’s room. My baby, my guy — wailing. Sobbing. I yelled for Kraya. My throat scratched from the belting volume. “Kraya!” What the fuck is going on here? I SWAT-kicked his bedroom door and found him standing in his crib, glossy red cheeks and puffy eyes. Gently, I pulled him from his crib, holding his warm body to my chest.
“It’s all right, buddy. You’re okay! Shhhhhhhhh,” I said to him softly. His cries wound down, replaced with stuttered sniffles.
We navigated through blocks and books, making our way from his room. He was soaked in pee and tears. How long had he been in there? “Kray! Where are you?” I yelled. I checked the bathroom, the hallway, living room, and finally, the master bedroom. She lay lifeless on the bed. I set him down and jumped on the bed. “Kray! Kray?” I shook her hard enough to cause her head to bobble a few times before she twitched.
Her eyes opened, surprised. “Oh, hi, honey.” She yawned. “You’re home!” she said, rubbing the crustaceans from her eyes.
“Are you kidding? Are you fucking serious? You were sleeping? You left a pot on the stove! He’s been crying in his room for God knows how long!” How did she sleep through the smoke? Or the smoke detectors? “What happened to you?”
She sat straight up, eyed the numbers on the clock, and wiped away a mouthful of hair. “Oh my gosh! It’s past seven!” Frantic sheets flew from the bed. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened! I… I… I put him down for a nap…” She picked up the munchkin, hugging him like she hadn’t seen him in a month. “I must have fallen asleep! Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, guys.” She held him. She knew she’d fucked up. It’s one of those terrifying things about being a parent — realizing how human you are and that accidents happen. And they tend to happen in an instant.
We spent the next half-hour airing out the house, which wasn’t cheap. The temperature was dropping. Minnesota weather was preparing for snowfall, lower temperatures, and higher gas bills. I could hear the ghost of my father saying something about “heating the world” and “you wanna singlehandedly cause global warming?” I swore I wouldn’t be like him, yet, here I am counting dollars as they high-fived on their way out the windows.
The pan was dead. Either a day of soaking and another day of scrubbing or a drop in the trash. I opted for the trash. Pots are a dime a dozen thanks to cheap Chinese imports. Thanks again, commies. I was right — his diaper had overflowed. He had spent hours in that crib. Probably sitting and potentially some thumb sucking, but mostly lots and lots of peeing and crying. Poor fella. Tortured thoughts of what could have been kept creeping into my thoughts.
Wasn’t long before it was bedtime. Some of us were more tired than others when the house finally warmed up. My little guy went down surprisingly fast. Kraya, too. I was left alone with my thoughts, staring at the ceiling. Since I’d been home, I’d been too preoccupied to think about the Livingston contract. It’s a lot of money.
Is it dishonest? I know, I know — it’s omission and one of those fucking white lies. I yawned. If the shoe were on the other foot, would I be upset? What, sell an egg for six digits and not tell me about it? If she put the money into the family, I say, Lie to me, baby!
But forty thousand — is it enough? Then it hits me. I snag my phone and blind myself as the screen flickers to life. I typed a squinted note for tomorrow and plug it back in. That will make the decision easier.
Tomorrow will be interesting.
Chapter Eleven
“You could make a submarine out of this thing.” Rob sounded like he was in a jar. “It’s airtight.”
“Am I on speaker?” I usually am. Rob tends to put me on speaker and pace the room as he talked. I heard a few crunches and a click.
“Is that better?” It was. “Good. Yeah, I read it. Twice. They spent some time on this one, Vick. It’s solid.”
“What do I need to know?” I’m not sure how to take the news. Is it good or bad that Rob didn’t make the decision for me?
“Nothing. You are literally only there to spank it, crank it, and leave it. You get paid and they never contact you again. But there is one thing…” Paperwork shuffled. “There is an adult contact clause. If child A, at any point contacts, makes notice, calls, writes, visits, blah, blah, blah, at any time, you are subject to a one million dollar claim. If aforementioned occurrence arises, Child A has, or will have, been told he was conceived from a frozen specimen from no less than ten years prior to the design of this contract.”
“In English, Rob.” It was challenging enough to drive and talk on the phone.
“My interpretation is if the kid ever does reach out to you, they’ll give you a million bucks and they’ll say it was from a frozen sperm bank. It means you donated long before you and Kraya were married.”
I shrugged even though no one could see it. “Not bad.” It was a good insurance policy if Junior ever made his way to my door. For a million bucks, I’d bet they’ll do their best to keep him from wandering. “What else?”
“Honestly, it’s a pretty good deal. You’re not responsible in any way. You aren’t legally able to even see him if you wanted to. No child support. No liability if she doesn’t get pregnant.” He laughed. “There is even a quality of life guarantee. Lucky bastard gets fifty million on his eighteenth birthday.”
He rambled for another minute or two, noting a few other high points. He covered how the money would be paid and a timeline of events. They even included a custody chain if Alexa were to die. Every angle, no matter how insignificant, was covered. At the end of the conversation, he laid on another classic Rob guilt trip. He told me I should tell Kraya. Involve her.
“Would you take the deal?” I asked him.
He paused. “Never. I’d never betray Sarah like that. No way.”
“Even if she’d never fi
nd out? And if she does find out, you get a cool mil and have a rock solid alibi?”
“I think it’s trouble, Vick. A slippery slope. Today it’s sperm donations, tomorrow it’s stealing the coins from the penny jar. I’m telling you, dude, just tell Kraya.”
We agreed to disagree. I was fine with it because I hadn’t made up my mind. Not entirely. Before we hung up, we talked about the kids, work, my Twelfth Street tenant, and a few other things. Now that I know the contract is tight and I’m not signing away my firstborn, I dialed the number. Alexa answered on the first ring.
“Professor, I knew you’d call,” she said.
Arrogant much, Alex? “Oh, wait, is this the Pizza Palace?”
“You’ve had time to review my offer. I hope you’re calling to say yes.”
It occurred to me late last night, right before I fell asleep. Never leave the car dealership without negotiating. It’s Sales 101, for God’s sake. “I appreciate your offer. I’d be more interested if it said sixty thousand. If you’ll adjust your contract, I’ll reconsider.” Once again I’d managed to push my decision on someone else. Since Rob didn’t put the kibosh on this thing, maybe she would. I was about to find out if I had big stones between my legs or if I had bigger stones between my ears.
“You’re feistier than I expected, Professor,” she said.
“Vick, Miss Livingston. Just Vick.”
“Just Vick,” she said, then paused, releasing a heavy sigh. “I’ll accept your offer for sixty thousand and sweeten the pot by offering a five-year membership to the Orchard Path Golf Club. But this offer is only good right now. Are you going to make me a happy woman? Or disappoint me?”
What a funny thing to say. She opted for pressure, and the worst kind of pressure, too. The emotional pressure that puts me in charge of her happiness or her disappointment. Thankfully, I’m good under pressure. “As for your disappointment or happiness, that’s between you and your shrink.” I chuckled to myself. “But I’ll sign.”
“Yes? Yes! Great! Yes! Wonderful! The instructions are on the packet. I’ll have a new draft written with the new dollar amount. Can you still make it on time?”
It’s a bummer I can’t brag about my negotiating skills tonight over the dinner table. Honey, guess what? I negotiated an extra twenty grand today with that hot Livingston broad. All I had to do was beat-off in a cup, and boom, our college fund is back in action.
“My attorney still has the contract. Can you give me the details again?” I said. She gave me the details and I wrote them on the side of a coffee cup. It’s nice to hear someone this happy — to make someone that happy.
I was looking forward to seeing her, and giving her something only I could give. It felt, I don’t know, selfless. Chivalrous? Fuck, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t do it if she didn’t pay me. Would I? I pondered that for a second. No good answers behind any of those doors.
“You’re going to give me something I’ve wanted for a long, long time, Vick. Thank you. See you in a bit.”
Looks like I might be giving her a little bastard after all.
Chapter Tw12ve
I watched in horror as months turned to years. Kraya, that fucking bimbo used some voodoo peasant magic on him. She’d tricked him — I can see it. It isn’t real. It isn’t real, Vick — she’s a farce!
I watched them eat breakfast. I watched them talk on the porch. I watched them get drinks and laugh. And I watched them have sex. Something will happen. Fate will intervene. He will love me. I say these words many times a day in the small mirror in the corner of room 9.
I record their lovemaking sessions, isolating the parts of the video with just his moans and body. I’ve captured a full, blissful hour and 26 minutes of just Vick’s torso, writhing and grunting. I play it every morning as I lie on the plastic sheets in my tiny room.
Sometimes he stares up at the camera in the ceiling. Can he see me? Does he know I’m cumming with him? …to him? He knows, underneath it all, he knows me. He feels my love and my desire and my passion and my yearning, oh my yearning is strong for you, love. Month after month it gets stronger. He knows I’m here waiting and watching. I’m his angel in the wings.
I hoard everything he sells on eBay. Personal effects like more shirts and a bike, as well as a box of hats and his old golf clubs. Some of the hats still smelled of him. I’d amassed a great collection of his treasures. Every time I touch his shirts, my legs quiver. What power you have, Professor. What power indeed.
The manikin in room 9 bares his watch, jacket, jeans, socks, and undergarments. I began sneaking into their house to borrow things, an activity that grows more exciting by the visit. Things like boxers and hair clippings, handwritten documents and photos. Items he would never miss — possessions I can’t live without. When I feel extra raspy I put cayenne pepper in his wife’s panties or steal her credit cards. I hope the missing items will spark controversy between Vick and his wife. They rarely do.
Next to my professor manikin was a blue Tupperware chest filled with vibrating phallics and insertables. My prized toy is a replica of what his member looks and feels like. It took me hours to analyze the videos and send all of the right angles to the manufacturer. A small fortune spent for a replica penis is a good fortune spent. He’d be so flattered to know how many hours he’s been inside me already.
I found out why I stopped finding wet condoms in the trash. She is using birth control pills now. I found them in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. She is sloppy though. Figures, peasant bitch. She probably can’t count. I started noticing pattern holes in the birth control dial. She’s skipping days. You cunt, you crooked cunt, what typical trailer park games you play. She was going to trap him and once she does, she will control him.
I visit almost every night while they sleep. Their alarm code is their anniversary. I crush birth control in her protein shakes, hoping to counteract her attempts. But I failed. How could I be so stupid? Had I not put enough in or did she stop using the shake mix? I watched as she told him about her missed period. I fucking watched, live, from the same hidden ceiling smoke detector camera.
I sobbed and scratched uncontrollably at my thighs. I rubbed my skin raw and my middle fingernail snapped off. The words “I’m pregnant!” echoed through my speakers. “I’m pregnant!” The world is dizzy. “I’m pregnant!” I’m glued to my chair in horror. “I’m pregnant!” Moments ago room 9 was comfortable — now it’s stuffy and claustrophobic. Her plan is working and mine is failing. “I’m pregnant!” How did this happen? “I’m pregnant!” Am I losing my edge? “I’m pregnant!” I’ve always believed I’m more intelligent…
I’ve underestimated you, Kraya the peasant.
I slapped myself hard enough for my skin to burn and swell. Again and again I pummel my deserving face with a closed fist, an open palm, and a slap that echoes like a lightning crack. I hug the manikin and cry in his arms. Snot, blood, and tears stream down my face onto his jacket. His scent is so fresh. I kiss his photo and whisper, “You will be mine, Vick. Hang on, Vick. I love you. I’ll straighten this out. I need to take this further…”
Chapter Thirteen
Livingston Tower had its own grocery stores, toy stores, bars, and chiropractic offices, so it wasn’t a surprise they had a clinic, too. I parked three or four rows from the main entrance. The chilly weather was beginning to bite. I rarely have gloves, never a hat, and my jacket is usually two seasons behind, which makes me the second worst prepared Minnesotan in the state. I entered the cavernous lobby again and greeted the receptionists. Why did they build the desk that large? If it’s an ego thing, it’s working. I can tell where I am and who owns the building. Kudos, marble salesman.
“I have an appointment with…”
“Me.” Alexa approached from a nearby hall, echoing with her clicking heels. The receptionists stood straighter. Typed faster. The blonde one smiled so wide I could tell she needed her wisdom teeth out. “Welcome back, Just Vick.”
What is it with this woman and t
hese slits that run up the side of her dress? She asked me to follow her and she took the lead. There is something different about her. Kinder isn’t quite the word — more personable? Just… different. Or am I different? Nah. I’m still me. Except now I’m walking behind Alexa Livingston. Rather, watching her walk. Her legs slid into a tight, slender torso that swayed on her step. This is exciting, but I know as soon as I deliver the goods I’ll be evicted and forgotten, not unlike so many of their tenants. What’s the difference between me and the others? I’ll be discarded with sixty thousand and access to the finest golf club in the state, the gold standard in golf and lounges. Even in the throes of winter, the richest geezers gather for morning coffee at the club. Anyone who had a few commas in their bank account is a member. Or wants to be.
We made our way through the Livingston labyrinth and found the elevators behind an elaborate fountain. She entered a code on the brass button rack like Ol’ Needledweeb. Her dainty fingers dialed one-one-three-zero, then selected floor forty-four, one floor above where we met yesterday. I wonder what those numbers signify? I know it’s Winston Churchill’s birthday, November thirtieth (a fact that was drilled into me by my balding seventh grade homeroom teacher with gingivitis), but she doesn’t strike me as a history nerd.
