by Vince Taplin
I met his renters, too. A yellow construction vest and a clipboard was all I needed to convince them I was official. I said I was with the Minnesota Department of Energy and the morons invited me inside every time. I keep notes on his schedule, where he was, where he’d been, and where my sweet was to be.
I have moments of doubt, too. Sometimes after I’ve been following him for a few miles, I laugh at myself and let him disappear into traffic. It’s ridiculous. I’m being silly. Never have I had to try this hard. I’m not a stalker after all, just passionate.
I found his eBay account and I bought everything he listed. Everything. Unfortunately, he wasn’t too active on eBay, so it never amounted to much. An old, faded leather jacket. A wristwatch inscribed with the words “Congrats, buddy” on the back. A few silver coins he said he’s had since he was a kid. I read the descriptions over and over. It offered a unique, rare peek into his world. A glimpse into his personal belongings, and his individual style. What is the story behind these items? Why was he selling the jacket? And why is he selling the watch? Oh, the hands they’d touched. The intimacy they’d seen. I felt an odd twinge of jealousy because they’d touched Victor and I hadn’t yet. I shipped the items to a freight forwarder in Denver to avoid being discovered prematurely. He’ll know soon enough. My Vick. My candle. My stick. My rock. Drink up, love.
I took the time to befriend one of his renters. She was often high on drugs so it was easy to gain her trust. A few coffee dates and I solidified our friendship. Stupid girl. It appeared reasonably casual, but it took months for me to design. I wrote a meticulous plan to get the timing right. I calculated the date for perfect grass length and sabotaged her lint trap. Today was the day. He is coming.
I’d scoured the usual shops for the perfect dress, not too sultry, not too modest. A dress screaming femininity and whispering sex. I spent an hour in the shower, wore the best-smelling lotion in my collection, and got my hair and makeup done by Platinum Rosemary Shoppe, a high-end modeling and stylist boutique. I’ve worked out every day for hours. My tan is perfect. Skin supple. I’m ready, oh yes, I am ready!
I sent a text to let her know I was on my way. I checked my reflection in the rearview. Is that a blemish on my ear? Was that there before? Did I get a bug bite? Is it a new mole? A zit? Blood rushes in beats and a light perspiration forms. I whip open my purse, digging frantically for my Tiffany blue mirror. I flip it open and examine the spot. It’s nothing, just a shadow. I blow a heavy breath and put the car into drive.
Today I meet the man of my dreams for the first time again.
Chapter Seven
My knock was answered by a Mr. Needle clone. He was bigger, maybe older, but wore the same suit and sported the same smug mug. He opened the door and revealed a breathtakingly large office with a view of the skyline. Of the endless chairs, only three were taken. Backlit, dark bodies were featureless against the light from the windows. I enter, smile to Mr. Needle two-point-oh, and speak.
“Good afternoon. I have a four p.m. appointment. Am I in the right place?” I said. As I got closer, I could see more details of the two portly fellas surrounding a slimmer figure.
“You are definitely in the right place, Professor Miller,” said the woman, whose features were still coming into light. “We’ve been expecting you with great anticipation.” Her voice strong, and grew more familiar as I approached. A blue, form-fitting blazer hugged her chest.
Is it? It is. No friggen way. It’s her. The weird lady from the grocery store. “I have so many questions.” I’m doing that thing where I talk without thinking. Not good. I finally crossed the long room, positioning myself across from her and the two hefty executives. One looked to be about fifty, salt and pepper hair. The other guy older. And blacker. Skin, not the hair. His hair was grayish, too.
“We’re sorry to catch you off guard, Professor Miller,” she said and stood. The two puffy execs stood, too. “I’m Alexa Livingston.” Her hand was soft. Smooth and sweaty, too. I leaned over the oversized conference table and shook the other hands. Theirs were less sweaty, but more wrinkly, drier, and shyer. “Thank you for coming downtown. I hope it wasn’t any trouble to find.” We all sat.
“No trouble. It's the only Livingston building on the block,” I said.
“We’ve owned this building since I was a girl.”
The pieces were coming together. She is his daughter.
“I’ve lived and worked here my whole life. It’s a great place to call home.”
“I bet it is,” I said and shifted my weight in the leather chair. “I’d like to be blunt, Mrs. Livingston.”
Alexa interrupted with an abrupt, “Miss. Miss, not missus.” She then waved me back into the conversation.
“Miss Livingston. What am I doing here? Is it one of my properties?” I asked. I bet it’s my flag street property. That thing has been a fucking disaster ever since I bought it.” Or is it because of whatever happened at the grocery store?
“No trouble, Professor.”
I interrupted her his time. “Not professor. That was a while ago.” I shrugged. “Please call me Vick.”
“Vick, I like that name. It’s strong.” I couldn’t quite tell if her eyes were naturally seductive or if it was a business tactic. I didn’t mind. She paused, letting stillness flood into the room. “Vick. I… I don’t quite know how to say this.” Oh shit. Here it comes. “I need a favor. And I’m willing to compensate you for your time and assistance.” She shifted in her seat with wringing hands.
“You… you look like someone who was once dear to me.” One of her blimps put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You see… I lost my husband.” She removed a tissue from her purse and wiped the wet from her cheeks. “We were close, he and I. You look…” She took a breath and smiled. “Wow…” A few more tears and choppy breaths — “Remarkable! Just as he did. You two are…” She gazed to the windows, wiping more of the pain from her eye. “Identical. In so many ways. His eyes. His face…” Tears weren’t tiptoeing anymore, they were pouring from her. “His hair…” She wept. The man on the right gently rubbed her shoulder, whispering something to her. She didn’t whisper back to him. “It’s all right. I’m all right. I’m so sorry; (sniffle) you… you are a gift! You (triple sniffle) could be his twin!”
As abrupt as a fart, she got up and left the room. Her sobs echoed down the hallway. Tweedledee lifted a thick leather laptop bag to the table. “I’m sorry about that. She is quite emotional about this matter.” I noticed. I also noticed the skirt swaddling her hips like shrink wrap.
“Can you tell me what this is all about? I’m still not wrapping my head around it.”
“Yes. I can understand your confusion.” He paused, nodding to Tweedledum on his left. “Miss Livingston lost her husband last year. Tragic accident. Just tragic…” He pulled out a stack of paper wrapped in a manila folder like a taco shell. “They had a short, beautiful marriage.” He licked his fingers, flicking through the pages. “They were happy and had a dream life.” He lifted his hands, implying the building and the Livingston wealth. “But there wasn’t enough time to conceive a child.” He removed a packet from the stack, held together by a struggling paperclip, and slid it across the table. He paused, allowing me the time to read the top line:
Sample known—Mr. Victor Miller—Donor Contract | Insemination procedure
Below the title on the third line, a number. Not a small one either, preceded by a dollar sign. “Mr. Miller. She is willing to pay you forty thousand dollars in exchange for your samples, waivers, and total confidentiality.”
I always knew I was a handsome devil.
I flipped through the pages. I wasn’t reading it; I was trying to act busy while the sparks in my brain tried to make a fire. I’ve heard a lot of stories and been involved in a few, but this was a cake topper. “Guys, guys… whoa, hold on here. Alexa Livingston wants me to be her sperm donor?”
“A specimen donor, yes.” The black blimp could speak after all. “Miss Livingston
would prefer this to be a quick, discreet transaction.” He smiled. Great smile, too. Almost made me like him. “We wouldn’t want this to become a public matter, Mr. Miller.”
I suppose the headline “Heiress uses dude’s cum to build clone baby of dead husband” isn’t the press they’re looking for. I opened my mouth, but only warm air came out. I’d never used the word befuddled, or even thought about it before this moment. Flabbergasted. Befuddled. Weirded the fudge out. All things I was considering while I casually perused the contract. “I need to think about it.”
“You have twenty-four hours before the contract expires, Mr. Miller.” Mr. Nice-smile sure wasn’t giving me a lot of time. “We understand you are married. This cannot be discussed with anyone; unfortunately, that includes your wife, Mr. Miller.”
“Hold on. How does this work exactly? Can you run me through this from the top?” I dropped the hefty contract on the table and focused my attention on the dynamic duo.
“I want a child of similar likeness to my late husband, Francis. You are astoundingly similar in every way.” Alexa popped out from behind me. She seated herself to my side, a few chairs down. She slapped a photo of him on the table and slid it to me. I picked it up and cocked my head. She was right, we are alarmingly similar. A mirror. He had a few moles on his cheek and cooler, darker hair, but he could be my twin. I can see she’s a woman of good taste.
Her eyes were still puffy, and I still couldn’t peg her background. I’m sticking with Russianish. Definitely some distant genes from the Eastern Bloc.
She smiled. Quite a charming, dimple-filled smile. “I don’t want anything from you, Vick. No parental responsibility, no visitation, no one would ever know but us.”
“And the Olsen twins over there?” I added.
“And the Olsen twins. Yes.” She slid the contract back to me. “Take tonight. Think it over. You’d be doing me a favor that would not be forgotten.” As she leaned back, she crossed her legs. It would be nice to have the Livingston family owe me a few favors. The cash wouldn’t hurt either.
“Can I assume attorney client privilege doesn’t void the confidentiality clauses?” I asked. It would be purgatory to stay up all night reading this shit.
“Of course.” She leaned over, snatched the nearby paperclip from the table, and pushed it back on the stack. It was holding on by a thread, like the buttons on her blouse.
Another question occurred to me that should have been asked a long time ago. “Miss Livingston, how did you find me after you saw me that day?”
“There it is.” She pointed to Mr. Shit-eating-grin. “We thought you’d never ask. You aren’t that difficult to find, Vick.”
“How?”
“Easy, really. After I left the store, I waited for you. I sat in my car crying for nearly half an hour until you left. I took down your license plate and, voila! Here you are…”
Must be nice to have money. For a normal guy like me it would take a lot of legwork to track down a license plate. I’m guessing it was a phone call and sixty minutes for someone with her resources.
“Please consider my offer, Vick,” she said and stood. “I hope to hear from you. My number is on the top page…” she said and circled it. “And the instructions are here.” She circled that, too. “I can wire the money to any account, or give you a check or cash. It doesn’t matter.” She nodded to Tom and Jerry. They also stood and walked to my side of the table and extended their hands.
“Please do call if you have any questions or reservations.”
I think they’re done with me.
Chapter Eight
Another likeness of Mr. Needle helped me find my way out of the Livingston compound. Nice guy this time. Even validated my parking. My mind was swimming. Too many options, all of them good. One, tell my wife, get a green light or probably a red one. Two, keep it to myself, push the cash into my safe deposit box and trickle it into our budget. Or three, decline the offer, go back to my normal routine and try my damnedest to forget about the offer and Alexa Livingston’s thighs.
First stop, my attorney’s office. Going home wasn’t going to happen, not yet anyway. I drove straight to the law offices of Robert Stik. He was one of those attorneys who had the cheesy commercial with the bad actor and the huge bookshelf. As I put my car into park, I saw him locking the front door.
“Rob! Hang tight. I need to talk to you.” I got out quickly, hoping to catch him before he’d fully committed to closing. The rain had stopped but the sloppiness hadn’t. I splashed through a few puddles.
“I’m closed. It’s almost six!” His button-up was nicely pressed. He wore loafers and brown pants that looked a size too big.
“Fuck you, Rob. You owe me one.” He did. We ran in all the same circles. He worked mostly in real estate, so did I. He drank beer, so did I. His wife’s best friend was my wife’s sister. That helped, too. He huffed, puffed, and unlocked the door. He flicked the lights on and sat behind his desk. I’d never noticed how small it was. Compared to Livingston’s property, this is poverty.
“What is so important?” He checked his watch. I know he doesn’t have anywhere to be so I dropped the contract on his desk.
“This officially qualifies as client privilege.” I slid the stack closer to him. He flipped open the manila folder.
“What is this, Vick? Another tenant lawsuit?”
“Read. Tell me when you get to the fun part.” I plopped into the wooden chair in front of his desk. He wedged a pair of reading glasses on his beak and pulled the page closer.
“Livingston? As in, Livingston the investor, King Livingston?” I’ve got him. He’s hooked. You know you have a solid attorney when they read legal with a grin. He lives for this shit.
“Alexa Livingston, not Elvis. It’s his daughter,” I said.
He peered over his glasses. “Daughter, huh? I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
“Me neither.”
“This is a donor contract. You know that, right?” he said and looked at me over his glasses. “She’s going to pay you for your sperm sample? How the hell did you close this deal?” he asked.
“I had nothing to do with it. They called me.”
He set the contract down and glared. “Alexa Livingston, from the Livingston family, calls you out of the blue, sends you a contract for your swimmers, and says, ‘Oh yeah, and I’ll give you forty large, too’ ?”
Close enough. I filled him in. The likeness to her dead hubby. The phone call and the grocery store stalking. He pulled the contract within reading range again. I told him, “I need to know what I need to know. Am I going to be liable for anything if I decide to go through with it? Any, you know, parental duties, child support, birthday cards? Anything I’d care to know before I plant my seed in the Livingston garden?”
He pulled off his glasses. “You can’t go through with it, Vick. Kraya’d kill you.”
“If she finds out, yeah, she would.”
“Slow down, cowboy. This isn’t a parking ticket you’re hiding. This is forty large and a baby. You need to talk to your wife.”
“I need to talk to my lawyer. The wife part comes later.” I crossed my arms. I hate it when he gets personal, but the benefits outweigh the cons of having a personal friend as an attorney. It helps that he is cheaper than anyone else, too.
He raised his hands in the “don’t shoot” pantomime. “All right, all right. I’m merely saying I think this is something a husband should talk about with his wife.” He was right. But I could think of forty thousand reasons not to talk to her about it. She’d never agree to it. Rightfully so.
“Just read the contract. If anything puts me at risk, I’ll say no.” It was a good feeling to put this on his lap. If he says there are problems, I’m out. If it’s airtight, I might reconsider.
“I can have this to you by next week.” He stood, flicking off the lamp.
“I have twenty-four hours. Wait…” I checked the time. “Twenty-two hours to decide. I’ll need it by morning.” He g
rumbled again. His wife worked nights and their kids were still with Grandma. He had hours to play without anyone even noticing he was home late. “I’ll double your normal rate, too.”
“You mean, pay me my normal rate?”
“Triple. But read fast, asshole.”
He nodded, turned the lamp back on, and got comfortable. It didn’t take long for me to bore myself watching him flip through pages. All I could hear was the terribly loud, ticking grandfather clock he hid in the hall. I can’t imagine how it doesn’t drive him insane. Or maybe it had? I needed to get out of there, pronto.
It didn’t take me long to say my goodbyes and get back on the road. The office was close to home. The drive, painless. After I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, I sat there. I looked at the dark reflection looking back at me from the rearview mirror. Who is the man looking back at me? What will he decide to do?
Even as I slipped the key into the door, I was contemplating. I can’t hide this from her. She’s my wife. My best friend. But, I could do a lot for the family with the extra cash.
I turned the knob and was met with burnt smells, smoke, and the sound of whining fire alarms. Fuck. I’d heard the squeal at the door but I was too lost in thought to pay it notice. “Honey? Kraya? Kiddo!” The smoke was strong. Thick. “Are you here? Kraya! Are you okay?”
Cha9ter Nine
My phone buzzes and I open the text. “Sry for the late notice. :( An old friend stopped over. Mabz tomorrow?”
Who is this friend? A man? I pulled back into my parking spot below the building. Why is this person more important than me? I put a lot of time into this! The echo from my car door is loud in the underground garage. Sorry for the late notice… Sorry for the late notice… I read it over and over, looking from my phone long enough to dodge parked cars and curbs.
Click-Click-Cl-Cl-Cl-Cl-Click! I push the elevator button repeatedly. I know it won’t speed it up, but it feels better. I check my watch, but fail to acknowledge the time, so I check it again. Finally, the doors opened. I leap inside, smashing the close door button with a closed fist. It takes years, years, to get to my floor. Frigging slow elevator. I paid to have these fixed last year, shouldn’t they be faster? This is preposterous. After what felt like another 4 hours, the elevator doors open to my apartment hall. I open the front door, throw my keys on the table, and unlock both locks on the door to room 9. This room has become my home. So many fantasies play within these walls. Once a walk-in closet, now a room dedicated to him. It serves a better purpose now than just another room in my apartment. I watch him from here. Track him and capture the beautiful, nearly imperceptible, idiosyncrasies of his life. I even went back to the NINE Tavern to get a number 9 from one of the walls to hang on the door — a memento of our first meeting.