by Vince Taplin
“We…” Alexa stutters. “We’ll need to stop at my apartment first. My lawyers drafted a new copy and should have it finished and waiting.” Her eyes focused on the digital numbers as we passed floor twenty, twenty-five, etc. I nodded. Our eyes connected awkwardly followed by shy smiles. She is an interesting bird.
“Oh, yeah. No problem,” I said. I always enjoy seeing how other people live, especially rich folks like her. I wonder what her place looks like… Is she secretly a My Little Pony collector? Or a hoarder? I’d put money on her being a red wine drinker, and I’d double-down on her having a sign that reads something like “Live, Love, Laugh” in squiggly cursive.
We exchanged a few casual remarks, mostly about the weather. She pulled a strand of hair from her forehead and tucked it gently behind her ear. She knew I was watching. She must know; these fancy broads can feel it. Her neck, too, strong, polite, feminine, and inviting. I’m glad I am married. If I wasn’t, I’d never sleep again. I made a joke about her commute to the office. She’s the only person I’d met who lives a floor above their office. Must be rough.
“It’s quite nice. But it can feel a bit isolated. I can spend weeks, sometimes months inside this tower. Easy to forget the outside world,” she said.
The elevator stopped, dinged, and the mirrored brass doors opened. Another set of doors stood alone in a tight hallway. She entered one-one-three-zero on another keypad next to the knob. The same code.
She opened the door. I’m met with a landscape view so sprawling it made me dizzy. It smelled of new carpet and kitchen cleaner. Not a hoarder — not even close. The apartment was sparsely decorated with lots of rooms and plenty of doors, many closed. One of the rooms had a number on it. Hard to see from way over here, but I’m pretty sure it was a five. Probably a maintenance closet.
I popped my head into the bathroom. It too had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city’s buildings and parks below. Next to the tub was a set of gold faucets and a bidet. Gaudy for my taste in places to poop, but impressive.
The living room was massive with recessed flooring and perfectly spaced couches, all white, clean, immaculate leather. Empty coffee tables and lonely books on shelves peppered the room. Lots of stainless steel. Plenty of glass. Not a hair out of place, or a kernel of dust. Like a game show host’s assistant, she pointed to her space. This chick’s as neat as an autistic librarian.
“This is it! Cozy, but I love it.”
Cozy? As in, small and homey? I think she’s been in this tower too long. My entire home and the land it sits on would fit in her living room. I followed her into one of the back rooms where she offered me a seat. It had a desk, computer, and a white cup containing a cluster of new pens. She opened her laptop and typed a few passwords.
There I am, staring back from the wallpaper on her computer. Her husband, my likeness, graced her screen. I’m not getting used to this. I was staring back at myself from a few pictures on her desk, too. And several more from the walls. Pictures of my clone at the beach, holding onto Alexa’s waistline and a cocktail. There I was again in Paris, standing next to her at a fancy restaurant. Over there, I saw myself shaking hands with someone, likely her father from the size of his belly. It’s weird. Cool, I guess, but weird. His good genes were about to pay my bills. Thanks, dead guy.
“Shit, it’s not here yet.” Agitated, she typed a note to someone, presumably her lawyers. “I pay them enough, you’d think they could send things on time.” Yep. Lawyers. Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. They’d start suing you before you could reload. “I’m sorry, it’ll be a few more minutes. Can I show you around while we wait?” I obliged. We started at the kitchen. She offered a bottle of water and I took it. She then told me about the imported granite and her European appliances.
I was right about red wine. She had a temperature-controlled wine fridge. The dining area was nice, but a pinch too sterile for my taste. A massive table held twenty-two spots, all with plates, silver, and a few glasses. It looked as if the tags were pulled off yesterday.
One of those goofy celebrity magazines lay crookedly on the side of the couch and a cup of coffee rested nearby. So far, it was the only sign of life in that place.
We wound our way to the other side of the apartment. We skipped the maintenance room with the number six on the door (wasn’t a five after all) and entered a storage room. She scoffed at the clutter, although I didn’t see anything out of place. My idea of storage meant stacks and leaning piles of old shit. Hers was colorfully organized Tupperware bins.
Just as I was about to leave the room, a small reflection caught my eye, a tiny camera in the corner. I looked back to the living room. There, too, mounted high in the corner of the room, tiny cameras watched. I asked her about it. She laughed. “My husband and I liked to travel. We had them installed to watch the dogs while we were away.” Dogs? I can’t imagine an animal ever being in here. If it were, she must have hired a forensics team to pick up every dog hair with a tweezers.
We walked into her bedroom; rather, she walked into her bedroom. I stayed near the door like a gentleman. She wandered through the room, telling me about her French bed frame and Norwegian makeup chair. How long had it been since I’d been in another woman’s home, let alone her bedroom? A while. Quite a while.
Eighty-some pillows lay on her bed. This room smelled of a nutty vanilla, and of course, more of that fruity, sensuous stuff. A few more of those pictures of her croaked husband stood next to the bed. Another beach shot. Pink bikini this time, shrouded by one of those designer booty scarves women loved to wear around their waistline. Poor bastard. I bet they had some good times in here. Which reminded me to look around for cameras. No luck. At least she had some sense of privacy. Or her pups did. Whatever.
Scattered bottles of makeup and other feminine elixirs littered a desk on the far side of the room. Cotton balls and lipstick lay haphazardly. Everything else in her lair was perfectly orderly. I have a theory that no woman has the ability to maintain a clean makeup section. This now, is proof.
Her phone buzzed. Gentle fingers scrolled on the screen. “Ah, the contract is here.” A printer roared to life in the nearby office. I was relieved to get the hell out of that bedroom. Too many ideas that would land me in divorce court.
Pages pumped from the printer. Seemed endless. I waited, eventually sitting back in the seat I’d been in before. She pulled the first stack from its hopper. “The adjustments are here.” She pointed. “…and here in red. The dollar amount and the club access have been added.” She leaned closer. The smell of her hair was intoxicating — a bouquet of femininity. She leaned in such a way the fabric rested to one side, revealing two tanned mounds. I focused back on the contract; I signed and initialed. Signed again, and put my initials on a few more spots. Mortgage paperwork is less demanding.
After I signed the last page, Alexa said, “Oh, I did add one thing.” She smirked. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Chapter 4ourteen
I have a distraction. I’ve made a new plan.
Francis is perfect. A New York State alumni, stockbroker, and exemplary example of my level of society. I found him on an exclusive dating site. He had enough money to travel and enough sense to know he should.
I met him on the tarmac. His father’s plane wasn’t as large as I’d been told. We wined, dined, and spent the evening in my apartment on the 44th floor. We avoided everyone, taking cargo elevators and private cars to and from. No need for gossip and no need for anyone else to know about my fling with Francis.
The seduction was easy. He was ready before he’d even met me. We were a perfect match. Beautiful. Wealthy. Fun. Everything was perfect except for that wretched East Coast accent. Can I mold him into the person I need him to be?
We started meeting every weekend. Usually at a resort or distant destination. I laughed at his jokes and I fucked him like he was a god.
Three months after we met, he proposed. It wasn’t out of the blue or too fast for me
. I’d dropped hints, leaving plenty of notes about spending our life together and I read “bride to be” magazines by the pool. I said yes, gasped, and threw myself on him.
We were in Spain when he popped the question. I sent emails and made all of the obligatory phone calls. Everyone was excited. Even Mother showed a glimmer of happiness behind her heavily sedated eyes. She still took pills. She still drank and she still slept more hours than she was awake.
We toured Europe and planned a magnificent destination wedding a few weeks out. Daddy flew over but the rest of the family didn’t. Francis’s parents came, too. They wanted to meet the vixen who stole his heart. I could tell from the Skype conversations that they didn’t approve, but what could they say? He’s a grown man. A handsome, rich, young, grown man.
The wedding was small. Very small. Just the parents, less my mother. It took place on a beach in Ireland. The hotel was beautiful. It didn’t matter that it rained on my white dress. I smiled and cried — all the things a bride should do.
We honeymooned and returned to Minnesota to stay in Livingston Tower a few more nights before we decided where to move. He was ecstatic. I was his fantasy, his super bride. All woman, all sexual, brilliant, wealthy, and all loving.
We still avoided the main elevators. It’d become habit. It was exciting, living in secret, making the world wait to see who I’d picked. No one in the building had met him. My plan: to have a grand reveal to the family, friends, and other wealthy families next week. Daddy spent so much time (and money) planning the welcome home reception.
The first night home I made him feel like a man. I am his wife, a trophy to be played with. We stayed naked all night, rolling and tossing with labored breathing. Once our bodies finally had had enough, we twisted together to rest. Bottles of empty champagne littered my room. He snored, drunk and asleep.
But I was not asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
“What is the change?” I picked up the stack, flipping through it like I knew what the hell I was doing.
“Oh, it’s nothing. A quick meeting. We’ll need to meet again in a few days to go over your family ancestry. You know, things he or she may ask down the line.” She took the contract from me, sliding it into an envelope with a thud. “Standard practice.”
Seemed legitimate. “I can do that. Probably a good idea. The kid’ll ask someday where he came from.” Besides, my family history was short. Mom and Dad were pretty vanilla. Grandparents from somewhere Nordic. Easy peasy.
We found ourselves back in the elevator, heading down to the clinic on the twelfth floor, creatively named The Twelfth Floor Clinic.
“Good luck down there, Vick. This means a lot to me.”
I felt a soft hand on my arm. Her arm remained for longer than a tap, but shorter than a power-play handshake — you know the one.
I smiled, staring into those damn eyes again. “Means a lot to me, too. Glad I can help, Miss Livingston.” Shit, yes, I’m glad to help. I’m thinking about a trip to Disney. And at the end of a long day, I might just go hit a few balls with other socialites.
“We’re past Miss Livingston, Vick. Call me Alex. You’re about to father my child after all.”
I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Those words were sharp. Kraya would be so hurt if she knew what I was about to do. So many conflicting voices raced through my noodle. My decision had seemed so obvious. Now it felt more like cheating — a painful violation. If Kraya ever found out, it’d go over like a box of chili-flavored tampons. But, it might be too late now. The contract is binding and I signed the thing. I can’t imagine what her legal wolves would do to me, do to us, if I backed out now.
Get in, get out. Get paid. Forget about it. I offered Alex a halfhearted grin. “Okay, Alex.” What else can a guy say here? This wasn’t in the manual.
The clinic was accompanied by a pharmacy, a quaint bookstore/coffee shop, and a few other stores. Phil’s Ice Cream Shoppe and the Wing Shack also flanked the sides of the hallway. The clinic had a massive logo above the row of glass doors. The neon sign was a big number twelve with the word clinic running vertically up the inside of the number one and a small “The” in cursive above the twelve.
Alex was nervously wringing her hands. “Well!” She paused, smiling widely. “This is it, Vick.” She pointed to the clinic. “Dr. Vanberg is waiting for you.” A thin, white-cloaked man stood near the entrance. Again, she touched my arm, this time with a few gentle squeezes. “I’ll be thinking about you.” This broad is something else.
I spun my phone on the tips of my fingers. “Oh!” Alexa gestured to my device. “I forgot my phone upstairs. I need a picture of our big moment. Do you mind?” I lifted the phone and unlocked the screen. I tapped the camera icon and snapped a picture of her.
“No, of us! Today isn’t about me. It’s about us, making something magical. Something special.” I cocked my head. About us? Funny. She approached from my left, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. Her face, so close I could smell her breath, sweet and minty. Her hair whipped to my side like a shampoo commercial. I wrapped one arm around her waist and with the other, held my phone at arm’s length. Her stomach is warm, hard too, moving with her breaths.
I snapped the picture and clicked a few more times to make sure we got the shot. “Can you send those to me? You have my direct line.” I did have it. She’d circled it on the contract.
“Sure. As soon as I…” I wanted to say as soon as I’m done beating off in the room back there, I’ll send it, but I opted for tact. “…am done in the clinic, I’ll send it over.”
“Please!” What is it with her and touching my arm? “Please send it now.” Her voice controlled. Serious. Apparently she wanted it now, like, right now.
“Yeah. Can you give me your number again? I’ll save it this time.” She recited her number. I added it to my contacts and clicked my way through the steps to send her the pics. I sent them all. After that show of intensity, I wanted to make sure she got what she wanted.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. “Oh! Looks like I had my phone after all.” She pulled it out and flipped through the images. “Perfect. Just, perfect! Oh, you look just like him. It’s… uncanny. You look amazing.”
I thought so. I dressed in my finest polo and my favorite jeans. I extended a hand. “Well. This is it. Thank you for everything. I guess I need to do my part now.” I’ve got people to make and places to touch.
She took my hand. “Yes, right. (Ah-hem) Go on. And thank you again.”
She watched me enter the clinic. I’m certain she didn’t blink. I offered the same hand to the doc. He, too, shook it and led me to a blank, fluorescent hallway. He talked as we walked.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. I’ve heard much about you from Miss Livingston.”
We rounded a corner. It smelled like a hospital, a nasty combination of ammonia and whatever else makes that smell. Is there a kit that hospital administrators order with ten horrible art prints and sprayable hospital smell? Probably.
“Mr. Miller, have you donated specimens before?”
“Yes, but never in a hospital setting.”
The doc paused and pointed to an open exam room. “I’m not interested in any of your foul jokes, Mr. Miller.” His sense of humor is clearly as colorful as his lab coat.
“I’m sorry. No, I have never donated sperm.” He seemed content with that answer. He seated me in a small chair in the blank room and stood over me.
“Have you had sex or masturbated in the last seventy-two hours?” He looked at me through thick glasses. His hands paused on the clipboard.
Hmm. Tricky. What night was that? Not sex, of course, but I definitely flogged the dolphin at some point recently. “Two days ago?”
“Was it two or three days ago?”
“I’m not sure."
“Do you remember what day? Or any events surrounding the session?”
“How important is it? I mean forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? What’s the difference?”
“Yes.”
What the fuck kind of answer is that? “It was seventy-two hours ago.” I’m lying. I don’t care. I’m done with this topic. He asked me a few more questions after that. Am I sexually active outside my marriage? My last STD check? Have I ever had any ball cancers? Do I hang to the right or the left? Normal dinner conversation stuff.
After he seemed reasonably content with my answers, he left me with a cup, a few wet wipes, and a television screen. “You’re welcome to browse our selection of stimulating entertainment if you need it.” He smiled, checked his watch, and picked at his nostril with a fat pinky finger.
I thanked him and locked the door. I don’t want anything to do with that television or the remote control that goes with it. How many other fluids have been spilled in this room? Blood, spooge, and poo-poo, too? And what about hepatitis, AIDS, and all the other diseases you normally get from having too much fun with a brunette named after a city?
I browsed some sites on my phone. Nothing raised my flag. I felt a bit like a pervert. Usually I have the decency to pull my pud in the privacy of my own home. I stopped scrolling. I swiped the internet away and opened my photo album. Alex. The photo of her, standing in the hall. This might work. I propped my phone on the desk and went to work. At a pace of about a thousand dollars per pull, I finished. Easiest sixty grand I’d ever made.
I opened the door and called to the doc. From afar, he asked, “Do you need me to come over there?” I told him it was too late. I already did. Another one lost on the doc. He collected my fruit’s smoothie and escorted me to the front counter. I signed a release and was on my way.
