The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  He looms over me suddenly, the effect only slightly spoiled by the burger he’s still brandishing. “Well...all I have to say to that is... This is a Big Mac, the most powerful burger in the world. It’d blow your tastebuds clean off. You’ve got to ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

  I shove him off, laughing. “You sound more like Batman than Clint Eastwood.”

  “Ohhhh; clipped my funnybone on the steering wheel!” He rubs at his elbow.

  “That’s what you get, trying to be all manly in confined spaces.”

  “Way I remember it, you liked me getting manly in this particular confined space.” He raises one eyebrow. I feel myself reddening.

  “Well... Now you’re just changing the subject.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  I have to think about that for a moment—not because I can’t think of anything to ask, but because I don’t know where to start. The remark he made earlier about a rough childhood springs to mind, so I go with that. “Where’d you grow up?”

  He gestures at the window. “Here. The city. Around.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was avoiding the question. He takes a big bite of his burger—now I know there’s something he’s not telling me. I’m curious, but we’re having too good a time. Don’t want to risk pushing and spoiling the mood.

  “All right: what kind of music are you into?”

  “Well, I like—“ He cocks his head suddenly. “Actually, y’know....” He digs in his pocket and fishes out a brazen red iPod. “Do you have one of these?”

  I nod and hold up my purse. “In here.”

  “Okay—let’s trade. Just till our next date. You listen to mine, I’ll listen to yours—no going through camera rolls, or anything personal.”

  “No camera, no problem.” I fork mine over. It’s the original video iPod, nothing on it but music.

  “Shit—haven’t seen one of these in years!”

  “I’ve been insanely careful with it.” I really have: this’ll be the first time it’s been out of my reach since...since I can’t even remember. There’ve been times when it’s been more or less my only comfort, my only escape. I don’t tell him that.

  “I’ll tell you one thing: I’m a big music lover. I’m... I have, like, a soundtrack for every era of my life—does that make any sense?”

  “You mean, songs you were listening to back then, and when you hear them, it all comes rushing back?”

  Nick nods. “Only, more than that. I swear, there were certain songs, certain times—I’d be holding onto them like lifelines; maybe you....” He shakes his head rapidly, like he’s trying to clear it. “Sorry. That probably sounded more intense than it should’ve.”

  “No, I....” I do know what he’s talking about. “Hell, by the Squirrel Nut Zippers—whenever I was freaking out about something, it used to start playing in my head. And it was so cheery, so silly, I’d start to calm down in spite of myself. It got to be part of my chilling out routine, like before a job interview, or if I had to do something I didn’t want to.”

  “That Eminem song with the falling rain in the background, for me—the one he did with Dido. It was just the one line, though, about it not being so bad—don’t think I ever learned the rest of the lyrics.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know that one: years go by; something-something...get out of bed....” I realize that’s all I know. “Guess I never learned the rest either.”

  He nudges my foot with his. “Pretty sure there’s no line in that song, or any song ever written, that goes like that.”

  “It is calming, though. Just that part. Not the whole Eminem part, with the murdered girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I pretend that part doesn’t exist.”

  I take my time polishing off the last of my fries. The last of the sunset’s faded from the sky, and I’m cutting it fine with the babysitter. I said I’d be home by seven. The dashboard clock’s flashing six forty-five.

  I can’t put it off any longer. One more sip of Coke—mostly water, by now—and it’s time to go. It shouldn’t be this hard to tear myself away. Obviously we’re going to see each other again: we’ve got each other’s iPods. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s a timer somewhere, ticking down the seconds on our romance.

  I barely register Nick’s lingering kiss goodbye: I’m off in my own little world, wondering if we’ll ever have the technology to save a memory like a file on a computer, play it over and over and over again. Put it on repeat and live in it.

  My walk home is short, but by the time I’m paying Maria and getting Joey ready for his bath, the full weight of my worries is back on my shoulders.

  145

  Nick

  I seem to remember a time when I looked forward to Mondays—back when work was about numbers and code and problem-solving, full of challenge and excitement. I felt like I was getting in on the ground floor of something. Creating systems that had potential far beyond the movement of money. I thought I saw a future where variants on the infrastructure I’d built could increase efficiency and reduce waste in everything from the farming industry to public transit.

  Instead, I’m barely involved with the math that drew me to high-frequency trading in the first place. I’ve heard of people getting promoted beyond their competency, but when I decided it was time to open my own investment management firm, I think I...promoted myself beyond my interest.

  This board meeting, for instance, became a bored meeting an hour and a half ago. Ten minutes after it started.

  I have enough money now. Too much money. More than I could spend in several lifetimes. I could walk away. Get some of those old dreams out of mothballs. It wouldn’t be abandoning Mark: I can’t believe this was what he wanted. Not in the way—

  My phone vibrates. I raise my hand for silence and pick it up. “Go ahead.”

  It’s Harold, my secretary. “Mr. Carter, you have a call from Rich, on line one. Shall I put it through?”

  I look around. It’s not a secret that I’ve been devoting more time to charitable activities lately. The board even agrees it looks good. But it still feels crass to take a call from my other job right in their faces. “Tell him to hold. I’ll take it in my office.”

  I’m all too happy to make my excuses and duck out for a few minutes. But my relief is short-lived.

  “Yeah, look—sorry to bother you at work, especially with something like this, but...aw, man.” Rich sounds genuinely uncomfortable.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s—I hate to even bring this up, but, uh... Those little girls, they painted something in the window yesterday at the downtown location, and...someone’s painted something...else...over it.”

  I feel a headache settle between my eyes. “Could you—are you near the window now?”

  “Yup. Looking right at it.”

  “Could you text me a picture?”

  “On it, boss.” Rich hangs up. A few seconds later, a shot of the display window pops up. Katie and Cindy filled it with a fountain of smiley faces in neon colors, with “HAPPY HOLIDAYS!” underneath. Only now, each face sports a bright red, dripping bullet wound, smack in the middle of the forehead. And there’s something else scrawled over “HAPPY HOLIDAYS!”. It takes me a minute to decipher it, but when I do—

  “Oh, come on!”

  —GET A JOB. It says GET A JOB.

  I dial Rich back. “I take it you’ve tried to wash it off?”

  “Yup. Think they’ve used some kind of enamel, like nail polish, or... I don’t know. Soap and water won’t touch it. Matt’s gone for some acetone.”

  “Okay, just—just, I don’t know. Try the acetone thing. If that doesn’t work, get some paint. White it out. Ugh!” I feel anger in my gut, coiling tighter and tighter. “I mean, ‘Get a job?’ ‘Get a job?’ Because everyone’s hiring people who’ve been retired fifteen years!—not to mention—“

  “Hey, hey! Take a breath!”

  “Sorry, Rich. Preaching to the choir. I
know.”

  “You coming in later?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll have it good as new by the time you get here. Promise.” Normally, his deep, soothing voice would be like a pat on the back, but I’m seething. About to boil over.

  “Put something over it till Matt gets back. People coming in don’t need to see that shit.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Thanks, Rich.”

  I disconnect the call, and instantly swipe over to Twitter. Katie’s last tweet’s a cat gif, timestamped ten minutes ago. So she doesn’t know. But it could easily have gone the other way: she goes right past there on her way to school. She’s too young to find out what it feels like to do something nice and get slapped in the face for it.

  I can’t go back to the meeting like this. My frustration’s on the verge of boiling all over the place. Nobody needs to deal with that.

  Lina’s iPod’s still in my coat pocket, from last night, promising distraction. If she’s into techno, or—or anything 80s—heaven help us all. I think I might explode if I hit play and Tom’s Diner or Heaven is a Place on Earth comes blasting out.

  I plug in my earbuds, take a deep breath, and press play.

  The rushing static of an old recording fills my ears. It reminds me a little of the soft rainfall in the track we were talking about last night. I didn’t tell her, couldn’t tell her, how I clung to that sound when Mark’s death was still fresh. When I never knew whether I was hovering on the precipice of a panic attack or a temper tantrum—when I needed something, anything to moor me to reality.

  A woman’s voice joins the static, sweet and hesitant, almost breathless. She’s singing in some language that isn’t English, and doesn’t sound like Russian either. Maybe French or Italian. There’s a wounded, despairing note to her song that only intensifies as a second voice joins, and then a third. I find myself straining to make out the words, though this isn’t a language I understand.

  I’m not sure this track’s actually doing much for my mood. If anything, it’s stirring my anger. It sounds almost like the three voices are arguing. Upbraiding each other. The original voice rises above the others, full of indignation.

  My thumb hovers above the skip button, but I don’t press it. I don’t hate what I’m hearing, just... I might not be quite in the right frame of mind for it.

  I check the video display. It identifies the song as Bellini – Norma – act I – Oh, di qual sei tu vittima!

  Opera, then—that’s unexpected. I wonder if she’s ever actually been to one. I could give her that. I’ve always kind of wanted to go, myself—seems like everyone I know has season tickets. I’d have jumped on that bandwagon, if not for fear of coming off like a total rube. Like if I bumped into someone I knew at intermission, and they were all Oh, how divine; she’s so... Uh—I don’t even know what you’d praise an opera singer for, what qualities might be considered impressive. So I’d be nodding along like, yep, yep, uh-huh, pretty groovy, and Cindy Rajania’s mother would be there to roll her eyes and call me nouveau riche, and my social stock would plummet. Further.

  But if I had someone to go with, someone who was into it, someone who wouldn’t judge my ignorance....

  Unbelievable: I’m actually smiling. I didn’t expect Lina’s iPod to do much for my mood, but... Her choice of music was just surprising enough to jolt my train of thought onto another track.

  The song ends, and I navigate to her playlists. She’s got quite the variety: a lot more opera, hits from the 60s and 70s, couple of movie soundtracks, a mercifully small folder dedicated to the dreaded 80s—even a selection of novelty rock. Apparently, she’s too sexy for her shirt... Which I guess makes sense, as The Streak’s in there too. I count tracks in at least six languages, and make a mental note to find out how many of those she speaks. I figured she was smart—she comes off as sharp, sensitive—but maybe I’ve been underestimating her.

  I shoot her a text before I head back to my meeting: your iPod just unfucked my morning. <3 hope your monday’s going better than mine!

  I don’t feel the vibration of her reply till much, much later, standing in my kitchen, staring into the fridge. There’s an antipasto platter from the deli there, taking up most of the top shelf, and not much else. Not much that can be eaten on its own, anyway. I don’t have the energy to tackle a couple of raw chicken breasts and a pile of veggies. Katie’s eating at a friend’s, so nothing’s been ordered in.

  When’d I start depending on my nine-year-old for dinner?

  I’m picking halfheartedly at the deli platter, trying to decide whether to fill up on stuffed mushrooms and capicollo or call for Chinese, when my phone goes off.

  Hey! Just got home! Glad to hear my iPod unfucked your morning; sorry to hear it was fucked! What happened?

  Where to start? It’s too much, too complicated—I text back work, and leave it at that.

  Totally feel your pain.

  Endless shift here.

  Been dying to slip out of my shoes all day.

  A wicked idea flashes across my mind. Slipping out of things, eh? I could pull that thread, see where it goes.... She did say she liked me taking charge. And it’s not like I’m sending a dick pic. My thumbs fly.

  do it.

  take them off.

  you know you want to.

  I think about pushing it even further, but she beats me to the punch. Mmm...feels amazing. Better than... ;-)

  Oh, really? Sounds like a challenge. With the mental image of her blissful face for inspiration, I press on: anything else pinching or chafing? constricting your breathing, maybe?

  I can see her typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Was that too much?

  Are you sexting me?

  Oops! Guess she’s not so much into it.

  Because I...might not exactly mind. If you were.

  And yes. There may be ONE garment more rapturous to take off than a tight pair of shoes.

  It’s a little exciting, how shy she is, how she dances around what she wants to say. I wonder if I can get her to type something truly filthy, cast her inhibitions to the wind.

  take that off too, I tell her.

  imagine me standing behind you. taking it off for you.

  close enough you could feel my breath on the back of your neck.

  lips working their way down your spine.

  hands massaging the red marks out of your skin, where the straps dug in all day.

  Lina takes her time responding again. It only serves to stoke the fires of my anticipation. I picture her reading my texts, flushed and eager, breathing hard. Nervous, maybe, but excited; I think—

  You’d keep me so warm. Wouldn’t notice the chill with your arms around me....

  Press your body to mine. Skin to skin.

  “Oh, very romantic....” But I think she could be bolder. Tell me what you want me to do. Where you want me to touch you.

  You are a cruel master. ;-)

  Now, that gives me a shiver. More than a shiver. My cock’s straining almost uncomfortably against my pants. I palm it idly, luxuriating in the delicious friction of fabric on flesh.

  I’d guide your hands to where I wanted them to go.

  One in my hair, pulling my head back against your shoulder.

  Exposing my neck, for you to kiss and lick and nibble.

  The other...

  ...

  ...on my thigh. Moving upward.

  I could be merciful. I could take it from here. But the way my cock swells when she hesitates over where she wants that second hand...I’m dying to hear her say a dirty word. The sound of that sweet, low voice murmuring cunt or fuck—I think I could shoot just from that. I goad her on: oh, yeah? how far upward?

  Mmm...just an inch...then another...and another...

  ..till you end up....

  Come on—almost there! Where?

  I unzip my pants and grip my cock. I can’t remember ever being so hot from mere anticipation. your cruel master d
emands it, I add, when almost a minute’s ticked by. tell me where.

  Well, when you put it like that....

  I want you to finger my slit.

  Just the outside.

  Tease me with the lightest of touches. Trace every contour of my inner lips.

  Do it till I’m begging you to touch me where I need it the most.

  I have to grip my cock at the base and hunch forward to keep this from ending too soon. The thought of Lina completely undone, begging for my touch.... Let me hear you beg.

  Please, cruel master, touch my clit.

  Oh, God.

  A wicked idea occurs to me.

  Could I, though?

  I’m trembling with something between arousal and the thrill of danger. Takes me a few attempts to formulate a legible reply: no. let me HEAR you.

  I tip my head back against the back of the couch, breathing hard, keeping the strokes of my right hand slow and lazy. Don’t want to come before...before....

  I almost jump when my phone actually rings. Didn’t think she’d really do it. I pick up and hold it to my ear without a word. Not sure my voice can be trusted to be firm and commanding as I’d want it to be, right now.

  For a long moment, there’s silence, and then a single word, whispered in my ear: “Please....”

  Waves of intense pleasure surge through me, one after another, taking me right to the edge, but not over. “Say it again,” I growl, relieved when it comes out a low rumble, not the broken plea I was dreading.

  She does, and I’m pleased to hear her breathing’s as shallow and ragged as mine.

  “Want to make you scream with just the tips of my fingers,” I say. Feels like I’ve pushed her about as far as I can... Time to do my part. “Wouldn’t even fuck you, just—“ The words catch in my throat, as I swear I hear a muffled whimper on her end. “—just worship every contour of your naked body with my mouth, while my fingers dance around your clit. And I wouldn’t stop...wouldn’t stop at your first orgasm. I’d—“ Shit; too close. Can’t concentrate. Hang tight a little longer; don’t.... “I’d keep going till you were...till you were writhing in my arms, forgetting every word except my name—“

  “Nick....”