by Vince Taplin
“Would you like a water?” This is it. Take it. Take it. Take the water!
“Sure.”
I hand him the bottle. His fingertips grip the sides while his other hand twists the top. He lifts. Lifts higher. Higher. As the water bottle touches his lips, his eyes transfer to mine, watching me as he drinks the cold liquid. He blinks and drinks and his endorphins start to shimmy and dance. His heart rate increases, and his eyes dilate. None of which is perceivable if the dose is right. He feels calmer, cooler, and sexier.
I need to kill some time, but only a few minutes for this to fully kick in. I place my hand on the countertops and give him some spiel about the granite. I watch his eyes. Are they glossier? Is his smile stronger? Did he wink at me? No. Couldn’t be. He sipped the water again.
We tour a few more rooms. Does he understand that I’m clean, unlike his wife — that clutter-hoarding whore? I watch her dig through drawers and leave dishes scattered about. An animal she is. Filthy and unkempt. I make an excuse for the mess, knowing full well my apartment is pristine compared to the junkyard his wife makes him live in.
He points to the cameras. “What’s up with the eye in the sky?” He knows. He must. Is this a joke? Is he baiting me? Nice move, Vick. Gosh, I love you! Play the game, Alex, play the game.
“My husband and I liked to travel. We had them installed to watch the dogs while we were away.” He shrugged. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
I lure him into the bedroom. The final stop in our journey. Not today though, Vick. Today we will not make love here. Another time we will make love on this bed, right here, but not today. Unless, of course, you want to? Do you want to? Can I take you? Now? Here? In this bed, between the sheets with our bodies laced together with warmth and sweat?
I’m dizzy. Vick — my professor of love is standing here, in my room, looking at me, so close he could touch my bed. My heart beats faster. I feel a light glow of perspiration along my brow, between my legs, and on my chest. I’m sweating, fuck, I’m sweating. Gross! You’ve got to calm down. This is the moment you’ve wanted.
Get it together. Stop fidgeting. Stop fidgeting. Is your hair a mess? Dress too short? Lips the right color? Am I losing it? I’m losing it. The world is getting darker. I’m going to pass out. Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to pass out. This is embarrassing! Ugh, stop. Stop! Stop!
My phone buzzes. It’s Gordon. It reads: “Contract is ready. See attached. Sincerely, Gordon McKay, ESQ, Attorney at law, Livingston Property, Inc.”
I snap out of it just before the lights go out. I feel less weight on my knees. “Ah, the contract is here.” I think I’m going to be okay… for now, anyhow.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I caught up to Alex in one of the pool rooms. This room, another abnormally tall, ridiculously built space, was peppered with bear and moose heads from hunting trips. It was deserted, with the exception of a few wrinkled, drunken duchesses sitting in the hot tub.
“You okay?” She was drinking. Not champagne — no, she’d graduated into something stronger and darker. Smelled of whiskey and chlorine from the pool.
“Yes, I’m sorry for leaving you out there.” She sipped again, finishing the tumbler. She let out one of those “wow” sounds at the end of the long sip, short for, “Dang, that’s strong stuff.”
“No, it’s all right. You looked like you needed a moment.” As the words left my lips, she cried. A silent, mouth open cry that lasted too long. She hugged me. Hard. If I knew she was going to break down, I would have given her another ten minutes. I lifted my arms, thought for a moment, and then committed to the hug. Shit.
This may be the best time to ask her why, why am I here tonight? What do you want? If there is anything I can give her, now is the time. Anything to help her stop this horrid stream of wetness that is drizzling down the front of my shirt.
“Alex…” I hugged her. “Name it. What can I do for you?” She peeled her face from my chest with a sniffle.
“Yes. There is, Vick.” She pawed at the strips of running mascara. “It didn’t work.” More waterworks. “I’m not pregnant…” She hugged me tighter.
Okay. Think about this, buddy. What now? Choose your words carefully. You knew you weren’t here because she likes you; she needs more you-juice and now is the time to give it to her, but at a steep price. Negotiating with a fragile woman may seem harsh, but I’ve got bills to pay. “Do you need another sample?”
She lifted her head, still clinging to me. “I do… but it needs to be different.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this. I’m so embarrassed.”
“No, no. Go ahead. You’re not embarrassing yourself! I’m the guy who had to jack off in a cup, remember?” Too far. Dangit. Was that too redneck for her? She smiled. Maybe it was just the right amount of blue collar humor she needed.
She lets go of a quick laugh and nods her head. “Yes, I need it again. Two samples this time, twenty-four hours apart…”
“Easy. I can do that." Stop crying. Please stop crying! Oh, and I’ll need money, too, lady. We can discuss that once you put your face back on.
Her smile returns, but not completely. I can tell she is holding something back. “The rest… is…” she stuttered, “complicated.”
“How is this complicated?”
“We need to be in the same room. I need a…” She made air quotes and changed her voice to sound like a man. “…fresher specimen. Immediately after ejaculation it needs to be inserted.”
Immediately after ejaculation, it needs to be inserted. I paused and thought about that sentence. Never have I heard such a personal, clinical, sexy, and disturbing phrase.
“So, I need to pass it straight to you?”
“Basically, yes. To a doctor, who will inject it.” She picked at her fingernails. She’s all nerves and fidgets. “They say my body rejects anything that isn’t fresh. They’re not sure why, but they’re telling me this is the only way I can conceive.” She looked around, making sure no one overheard our conversation. The cougars were still basking in the far corner of the room, drinking martinis and whispering to one another in the hot tub.
We both played some cards. We both have a few left. I laid my king on the table. “I don’t mean to be insensitive. But I’ll need more money. It was an incredibly challenging decision last time. And it’s getting more personal and much more difficult.”
She laid a tender hand on mine, pleased with my response. The first real smile I’d seen since I showed up tonight. “I’m not concerned about money, Vick. I want a child. Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Sure. I’ll do it. But I need one-fifty this time. Double-duty, double pay.” Am I negotiating right now? I’m so proud of myself I could dance an Irish jig.
“Done. I’ll text the legal team and have it sent over right now.” She whipped out her phone and started pecking at the screen.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, maybe even enough to buy another property. With another paid-off property, I’m only a few years away from an early retirement.
She hugged me. She wiped the tears free and laughs, “I’m so excited! Oh, thank you!” and then she hugged me again. Lines of makeup were dry on her cheeks. She looked halfway decent again, back to normal except for the painted Indian face, which, could be hot if you’re into that kinda thing. Her phone buzzed. She checked it and says, “It’s ready. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” I swig my champagne, finishing it. “Were they waiting down the road? It takes at least thirty minutes from the city.”
“They aren’t driving, Vick.” A mischievous smile. “I have a surprise for you.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The rotor blades were loud, much louder than I remember. It’d been a long time since I’d been this close to a landing helicopter. The wind kicked up pebbles and ice. They stung as they pelted my arms and face. Alexa was faced away from the landing chopper, on her phone. She was immune to how impressi
ve it was.
It touched down gently on the snow-covered ground. One of her beer-bellied attorneys hunched below the blades, exiting onto the icy helipad. He held a briefcase, passing it to Alex with a wave. It was far too loud to talk so she used a thumbs-up to say thanks, or good to go, or whatever.
She crouched, walking below the blades and approached the cabin. She slid on a pair of headphones, sat down, and waved to me. Wait. What? I pointed to myself, then to the helicopter. She nodded. The wind from the engine is furious, louder than a rumbling train. It’s been years since I’d been in a bird. Since the military.
I leaned down, sliding beneath the spinning blades and boarded. She passed me a pair of headphones and I slid them on.
“Let’s celebrate, Vick!” Her voice sounded mechanical through the headset. Celebrate? I have a sitter at home. I shouldn’t be going anywhere. Then again, fuck it. I’ll give her double her normal babysitting rate. How can I pass up a ride?
“Where are we going?” I pulled the door closed with a thud I could feel but not hear.
“You’ll see.” She got the attention of the pilot and pointed up.
It was a feeling I’d forgotten. The woozy, gravity-defying teeter-totter of lifting vertically from Earth. The helicopter was newer than any I’d been in. It had leather cushioned seats and wood-paneled walls in the rear. There was even a flat screen TV in the wall. It certainly wasn’t a spacious interior, but it felt luxurious, unlike the scratched steel paneled interior of the war birds I rode in over the desert.
We stayed airborne for a while. She watched me the entire time. Not occasionally, no-no, she watched me through the trip’s entirety. I wasn’t paying too much attention though. I caught her gaze when I took a break from watching the view. The city was beautiful. A winter wonderland of brightly lit buildings and cul-de-sac Christmas lights. I love this time of year. I’ll trade beaches and mai tais for blizzards and sledding any day.
We landed gently at the airport on a freshly plowed runway. Kudos to the pilots for a steady descent and perfect landing. I wonder how much the Livingstons pay for a helicopter on standby?
I don’t recognize this side of the airport. We landed at the far end of the runway near a few hangars that appeared unused. From what I’ve seen, the airlines generally congregate, forming tightly knit anthills of activity. This wasn’t that.
Two other helicopters were parked on big letter H’s next to the hangars. Blue lights glowed from the cracks in the massive hangar doors. We hopped off and immediately the helicopter lifted and disappeared into the sky. I shrugged, confused, pointing to the departing helicopter. Where the fuck is he going?
“C’mon. They’ll be back,” Alex yelled and grabbed my hand. She’d fixed her makeup just before we landed, so she was back to her normal intimidatingly put-together self.
We entered through a side door on hangar number thirty-four. A black guy sat behind a desk and barely lifted his head as we entered. Alex stopped in front of him, putting her hands on the desk.
“Octopus.”
He lifted his head from his book, made eye contact, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled like a fat guy at a Little League game. A white guy in a black hat popped his head around the corner. “Name.”
“Alexa and Victor Miller.”
The guy checked his list. A thin, battered clipboard held a few flipping pages. “Yes, yes. Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Miller. These guys will escort you to VIP.” He stamped our wrists with a red octopus.
More of them now. Four guys appeared from a side room. All of them in black uniforms, bulletproof vests, and tactical cargo pants. These guys were security, heavy security, from the looks of ’em. They weren’t fucking around with pepper spray and polite words either, they carried rifles.
We followed them. Rather, we followed two of them while two followed us. We were surrounded by a blanket of security. Feels nice to be special. One door led to two, then a hallway. I heard music. Some kind of wild beat. Just the bass like that terrible dance music I hear the neighbor kids playing.
Umph, umph.
It got louder as we wound through the next hallway.
Thump, thump.
Stickers from various bands were stuck to all of the walls. The lights were dimmer now. And different colors. Red. Then blue. One of the guards pushed a few stoned, green-haired kids out of the way as we approached.
Bump, bump, bump.
They opened a door at the end of the hall.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
I could feel the loud music in my chest. The last door opened, exposing the entire hangar, decorated in purple lights and strobing LED lights. Hundreds of people danced and jumped in tune with the beat. It stinks of bleach, perfume, and cigarette smoke.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The crowd is young. Mostly twenties and pockets of thirties. All kinds of people danced. Asian, black, white, red. Purple hair, green and yellow. Painted. Drunk. Stoned or just plain excited, all of them danced and hopped around like they’d never heard music.
Alex stopped the platoon outside at an ice bar, just past a massive totem pole, the kind of thirty-foot pole I saw in Norway. Painted faces and monsters carved into the side, climbing eagerly to the top. “Purple Passion X!” Alex said to the bartender, loud enough to be heard over the thumping music. She made a peace sign with her hand and yelled, “Two of them!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
I was yelling, “Alex, I need to go soon… maybe half an hour?” I do. I know I sound old and crotchety but it’s getting late. I’ve got a precious kid who is sleeping and a wife who’s passed out. She placed a finger on my lips.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Shhhhhhhh, Professor. Give me an hour. Let’s have some fun. Celebrate!” She pulled the glowing purple drinks across the bar and slid one to me. She grinned and slid the straw through a slit between her lips.
I watched her drink. Then I watched a slithering, half-naked dancing girl in a cage suspended from the ceiling. “One hour. Fine. But then we need…” Fuck. She did it again. Same finger. Same shush noise. This time followed with a straw. She handed me my drink and shoved the straw in my mouth.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Tasted pretty good. Like a piña colada and something else. Good. Damn good. I sucked down a bit more. My nerves weren’t as fried as they were earlier, thanks to the champagne, but I could feel this purple cookie or whatever the fuck it’s called working its magic.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The guards pushed through the crowd, creating a wide, safe path for us. I felt my neck loosen. My shoulders lost their tightness. She turned, looking back at me, still sipping her purple thingy. I hate this music, but it feels different somehow. I can feel it now. In my chest and in my heart. It feels good. My heart pumps in rhythm with the bass. It’s energy — pure energy! Adrenaline! A smile slips across my face. A careless smile I vaguely remember from the days of the past.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A long red velvet rope was lifted as we approach a secluded part of the hangar. The folks past the ropes aren’t dressed like the raving, hippy kids in the crowd. This group is dressed well. Classier. Like the guys at the party we just left. Mostly expensive tuxedos, dresses, and suits. Some danced. Some didn’t. Mostly they sat at tables, watching the madness behind crystal glasses of glowing liquid.
Our security squad broke off and stood along the velvet lines. They weren’t the only security. Ten or so black hats also stood at the line, protecting it like the Tijuana border.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
I can’t remember the last time my head felt this clear or the last time I’ve felt this alive. It’s like I’m seeing color for the first time after years of monochrome. A waiter, also dressed in a tux, sat us at a small red table and brought a bloated bottle of vodka and a tray of pills. She winked and slid one of the tiny white pills onto her tongue. She flicked her tongue at me, showing me the pill just before she swallowed it.
Fuck, she dosed me. I looked at wh
at was left of my glowing purple drink. What secrets do you hold, purple thing? Am I mad? I feel too damn good to be mad. Every nerve ending is blasting with an orgasmic tingle. I haven’t felt this calm and carefree in… years.
Boom! Boom!
Ch9pter 2wenty-n9ne
“I need a picture of our big moment. Do you mind?”
He lifts his phone and snaps an image of me. I need both of us, love, both of us. Though I did pose. Maybe he will frame it someday.
“No, of us! Today isn’t about me. It’s about us, making something magical. Something very special.” He walks toward me. He’s really doing it. I feel his hand on the side of my hip. His arm wrapped snugly around my waist. Does he feel the sweat? Does he feel the moist glow oozing from my pores? Control your breaths and stop being nervous. Victor Miller is touching me. Me. Breathe. He snaps the picture.
“Can you send those to me? You have my direct line.”
“As soon as I am done in the clinic, I’ll send it over.”
“Please!” Vick. I can’t take the suspense. What if you forget? What if I never get my hands on this picture? The first time we touched. The first documented photo of us together. “Please send it now.” Send it, send it, send it!
Yes. Sigh — he will. He agrees. I give him my number again. I can’t believe my luck when I feel my phone buzz in my purse. I wanted him to take the photos because I want his hand doing the work and I want those images saved in his collection.
“Perfect. Just, perfect! Oh, you look just like him. It’s… uncanny. You look amazing.”
I thank him again and shake his hand, his hand, Vick’s hand! After I watch him enter the clinic, I skip back to the elevators. I’m just feet from my Victor as he pleasures himself. He is touching his penis right now, right there for me! Oh my God! This is incredible! I look at the picture of us. His arm around my body, smiling into the camera.
