Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  “I didn’t know you were a gentleman, too, Vick. We should do this more often,” she said and winked with a jovial smile.

  Woman, please. Are you flirting with me? Or are you joking because we are only here because you need something from me? Is this the way you are with everyone?

  Whatever. I’m just going to keep doing my thing — meeting, greeting, and schmoozing. Hopefully, I’ll score some great contacts from this thing. My “date” isn’t bad to look at, but she is just eye candy and a pocketbook.

  The driveway was brick, surrounded by snow-covered shrubs, real red brick, not those stamped concrete fakers. Preston’s house is massive. A house that makes you wonder what his mortgage payment must be. Ten thousand? Eight K? Twenty? That roofline, too, incredible! Windows and jutting eaves on every surface. The snow-covered roof must cost a fortune to re-shingle.

  A few ogres stood next to the mansion entrance. Earpieces, parkas, and peeking guns at their waists. I took a stab that they weren’t the cooks.

  Alexa and her high heels navigated the bricks with unsteadiness solved by gripping my hand. It was the most attention I’d received in longer than I can remember.

  I felt a bit dirty, like I was cheating. Had anyone ever gotten a divorce for holding another woman’s hand? Doubtful. But that’s a pretty shitty measure of right and wrong. Didn’t matter anyhow. She released her grip once we reached flat land. Nothing to it. No need to overanalyze.

  Alexa showed the burly security guards her invitation, a chocolate factory golden ticket looking thing. He lifted his sunglasses to inspect it. Creases along his brow told me he’d seen plenty. Those wrinkles aren’t made by sipping lattes by the water cooler; he’d been places and taken some punches. I’ll stay out of his way.

  The inside of the home was nothing as I’d imagined. I had images of contemporary steel beams and vast glass railings, a house so modern it looked dangerous. But this was nothing like that. Nick Preston had a taste for the north woods. The cabin life. And he didn’t mind paying for it.

  The vaulted ceilings extended three of four stories. Everything was wood — knotty, glossy pine like you’d see in a lake home. It’s done well though, not like the cabin you visited when you were seven. This place has every feature of a mansion, mixed with the comfort of a woodland retreat. The entrance boasted lavish, marble tables for gifts and a butler to take your coat. Shit. I didn’t even consider a gift. Next time. Next time? Ha! I like that.

  The butler, a tan, mid-sixties gentleman by the name of Dirk took Alex’s white fur from her shoulders. She mouthed a pleasant thank-you.

  “What do you think, Vick?”

  “It’s nice. I’ve always wanted to come to Preston’s Christmas party.” We walked into the main hall. We’d passed a grand staircase and another set of side rooms, all adorned with cocktail dresses, tuxedos, and rich pricks.

  “I’m glad you could come on such short notice, Professor.” She held up a manicured hand to her lips. “Oops, not professor. Vick.” A polite smile grew. “It is a good opportunity for you to meet more people in the industry. I like helping you, Vick.”

  A few women passed, drinking eggnog and gossiping. You know you’re mingling with an eccentric crowd when you overhear the words nanny and cashmere in the same sentence.

  “Thank you. I appreciate the invitation. It’s an amazing opportunity.” I notice the Christmas music isn’t being played over the stereo. A skeletonized woman in an adjacent room is playing the piano while “Jingle Bells” is being sung by a group of drunken businessmen, crowded happily around her piano.

  “I can’t get over it. I’m not sure if I ever will! It’s amazing. You’re a dead ringer for my Francis. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were him.” She cocked her head, eyeing me like a T-bone. “It feels good to be with him again, and to have him as a date to a party. You’re quite amazing, Vick. Thank you for helping me.”

  “Champagne?” a Hispanic waitress interrupted.

  Thank God she showed up. I didn’t want Alex sliding into another crying session. I make it a habit not to make my dates cry until at least the third date. And I could really use the booze. “Yes, please, I’ll take one.” But she isn’t a date, dude, remember, this is business.

  She passed me a napkin-crusted champagne glass, bubbling with golden courage. I sipped it and looked at Alex. She’d made eye contact with a portly gentleman in an ill-fitting suit. He parted the crowd and approached with a kind wave. “Alexa Livingston! My goodness! It’s been ages! How is your father?” Awkward fella. His jacket had cocktail sauce down the face and his comb-over was a mess. He had a jovial, rosy-cheeked smile and a deep laugh that complemented him well.

  She hugged him. “Father is good! Thank you. Marie? Tell me she is well now?” She sipped from her champagne flute.

  “My, what a good memory!” He turned to me, nudging me with an elbow “Better not do anything wrong, she’ll remember forever!”

  Does he think we are together? Does everyone else think it, too?

  “Marie is fine. Nothing the docs couldn’t fix. She got out about six weeks ago. You can’t stop her. She’s already back in Italy doing what she does best!”

  They both laughed. I hate these situations. I want to laugh, too, but I have no idea what they’re talking about. Alex touched my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce you. Victor, this is Lawrence. Lawrence Carmichael.”

  He stretched a full set of sausage fingers in my direction.

  “Nice to meet you, Lawrence.” I shifted my champagne from my right hand to my left and shook his hand. His hands aren’t strong, but not weak either. I could tell he’d shaken a lot of hands through the years. A smile accompanied the handshake with polite vigor.

  He cupped his other hand on mine, moving closer to me with personal flair. “Nice to meetcha, Victor. Don’t let this one get you in too much trouble!” He turned and winked at Alexa.

  She nudged his arm. “He’s the one who will get you in trouble.” They both laughed and Sausage Fingers released his grip.

  I wonder if that is a cliché. Do they know each other well? Do they really enjoy one another? I’ve heard some variation of this exact conversation a thousand times in polite company. It’s a dance. A dance that plays out in a series of trained steps. Always the same, different dance partners. Always light-hearted, good-natured banter that ends with a quip. As unauthentic as it comes, yet everyone continues.

  “It’s good to see you, Lawrence. I’m sorry, but I need to introduce Victor to a few other people.” They exchanged a few more good to see you’s and Alex washed him away. “Vick…” She pointed. “There he is. Nick Preston.” A fit, older man with blond, windswept hair and an untied tie stood next to the bar. I assume the flirtatious twenty-something girl with the boob job and the short dress is his wife. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Ch4pter 2wenty-4our

  Is he watching me? Does he have cameras in my apartment, too? Does he watch me watch him, wondering when the day will come that he finally reveals himself? I’ll find out someday. Today though, I need to focus. I need to stay on task. Stick with the plan.

  I’m slipping her stronger drugs. Higher highs and lower lows. It’s become quite a fun show to watch. Beauty and the peasant. I should trademark that — a cartoon about a beautiful man who marries a demented, slutty peasant who slipped in under my nose to marry him. Cunt. Cunt!

  He is here now. I see his car in the parking lot security cameras. He carries himself with such dignity. Is there anything he can’t do well?

  I’m getting nervous. Is my dress too short? Too long? Am I beautiful enough to catch his attention for even a moment? Have I been trying hard enough? Okay, okay, slow down. Let’s go through this. Did you work out today? Check. Lotion three times an hour? Check. I even bought a four thousand dollar bottle of Mag’ Metera, a French lotion. All the girls at the tennis club rave about it. Makeup? Check. But is it the right shade? Do my lips look too glossy? Too pink?


  My phone buzzes. It’s Daddy. “Where are we on the Nurbaker estate?”

  Too much stress. Are you kidding? Vick is walking into the building right now. Daddy, not now! Is my makeup right? “Fuck!” My scream echoes in the empty apartment. I slam my fist into the table, knocking over containers of lip gloss, eyeliner, and perfume. A lipstick case rolls from the makeup table to the floor.

  Stick with the plan. Trust me. Trust the plan. I nod to myself. “Yes. I can do this.” I stand and go to the front door, open it, walk out, and push the elevator call button.

  My elevator arrives immediately. I’m fidgeting. Am I ready? Are my heels the right height? Lips? Skin? Is the contract ready? “Stop. Just stop!” My voice echoes in the small elevator. The numbers descend on the small screen. Floor 15. Then 12. Soon 5 and then a ding. My heart, oh my poor heart. Can it take this stress?

  I need to hurry now. As I wind through the building I can hear him. The voice of a god, gracing us with his presence in my own building. I round the corner to the lobby.

  “I have an appointment with…”

  He looks… just wow! So handsome and genuine, truly a sight to behold. He was speaking to the receptionist. She better not flirt. You better not flirt, bitch, I swear. I swear I will fire you faster than you can say Livingston!

  “Me.”

  I found my confidence. Here I am, Vick. I’ve worked hard for this. I know why you’re here. I’m controlling everything today, Vick. I’m bringing you here to finally realize who you love. Me. Me. Me. I know you, Vick. I know you…

  The receptionists didn’t look at me. Good. Peasants shouldn’t look at him either. I must retire to my quarters with Vick. Ah, that sounds lovely.

  “C’mon, Vick.” I waved for him to follow. I can’t believe my Vick is following me. He is so close I can feel him. What, 2 feet away? This is incredible. Surreal. Is he looking at my hair? I think I straightened the back. Right? Did I straighten it? Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s a rat’s nest, I know it. It’s terrible. He is back there thinking about how dreadful my hair is.

  Stop. Stop! He is here for you, Alex. To see you. He knows the plan. He is in on the plan. Relax. He is here to make beautiful things happen. My shoulders drop. I’m right, I need to relax; he is here for me. I turn and smile to Vick. He smiles back.

  I pressed the call button for the elevator. He stands with the confidence of a prizefighter. I could smell him. Not his cologne, his skin. That natural scent he is releasing. Vick! We’re here! Let’s profess our love and stop this silly game! No. No! The plan is the only way. The way we both need to take to make sure our relationship is natural and long and real and beautiful. Our relationship will be stronger than ever. Take the water, Vick.

  I press the code on the elevator, 1130. The time he was born. He acts like he didn’t see the passcode, but he did and he knows exactly what it is. This is getting fun now, the hoops we must leap through to be together. The path we must walk.

  “We’ll need to stop at my apartment first. My lawyers drafted a new copy and should have it finished and waiting.” I hear myself talking again like I’m on autopilot. Thank God for the plan. I’ve recited this two hundred times in the mirror. Practice makes perfect.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Nice to meet you, Vincent.” Nick Preston threw a handful of cashews into his mouth and shook my hand.

  “Victor. Not Vincent.” I squeezed his hand.

  “Ah, I’m sorry.” He shook his head, smacking his forehead with an open palm. “Victor. Nice to meet you. Miss Livingston tells me you’re quite a commercial real estate investor.”

  “Residential. I’m not sure I would qualify as…”

  Alexa swatted playfully at my belly. “Stop being modest, Vick,” she said and invaded my space. Nick’s, too. She leaned between us, touching both of our shoulders, “He has plenty of properties around town. We’ve used his expertise many times. Isn’t that right, Vick?”

  Her eyes pierced me as if to say don’t fuck this up, kid. I’d never been asked anything by Livingston Properties. Except, of course, to drop my kids off in a Dixie cup. She wants me to lie and gain credibility with Nick Preston by slipping him a white untruth.

  In life, when someone is presented with a surefire opportunity to get ahead, but it requires a bit of dishonesty, I lean on one simple rule: Twist the truth and flatter. Always together, separate when you’re caught.

  “Yeah, we’ve dabbled, but nothing compared to your successes, Mr. Preston.” I grab a handful of cashews, lob them into my mouth, and swig the remainder of my champagne when I’m done chewing.

  “Good, good. I have a few friends in the same business. I’ll have them reach out.” He smiled and nodded approvingly. “Always opportunities, never enough good people to help seize them." His wife (or girlfriend?) slid her hand around his neck, kissing his cheek. “Ah. Bell. Just in time to meet Victor and Alexa Livingston.” Bell — cute name, but is it a nickname or her real name? Errr, stripper name? Was she a dancer he’d plucked out and groomed for high society?

  “Hi, Victor. Nice to meet you.” She feigned a curtsy. “Handsome man you have there, Alexa.”

  Definitely a stripper. Or a college kid with great stems.

  “Can you check the water in the hot tub, Bell?” She left and I watched. A magical ass on that one. Matter of fact, most of the women around there were pretty decent. Alexa and “Bell” were (by far) the frontrunners, but there were some great pieces of tail wandering about. Aside, of course, from the rich old cougars preying on the bartenders and nephews of the barons. I grabbed another much-needed drink from the top of the champagne pyramid.

  Nick lowered his voice. “Excuse my wife. She’s young. Great gal, but doesn’t have much of a filter.” I sipped my champagne, then chugged. He mentioned a few more hushed comments about her. Something about a pre-nup and her new horses. I am far more concerned with my need for alcohol than his issues with li’l Mrs. Sunshine.

  “He is handsome though. She has a point.” Alexa pinched my cheek like I was a four-year-old. Sometimes I feel like a tool. A mirror of a husband she once knew, important only for my DNA. Other times I think — whatever the fuck ever — as long as she keeps making it rain.

  A laughing duo of oligarchs chimed in from out of nowhere. “He does look familiar, doesn’t he?” the mustached one said with a grin.

  “Cousin Nathaniel, perhaps?” the thinner one asked.

  “No, no. Someone else.” Mustachio eyed me, trying to peg the resemblance.

  Alexa covered her mouth with an open palm. She excused herself and walked away swiftly, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Was is something we said?”

  Chapter 2wenty-6ix

  “Oh, yeah. No problem,” Vick said and looked at his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls.

  He wants to come into my apartment. He is hoping you’d invite him in. Good boy, Vick.

  “Good. Thank you.” I pause, pulling my skirt to a lower length. Stop fidgeting. “Nice day out there.” It’s not a nice day. It’s cold. Freezing. What are you thinking?

  “Could be better, could be worse.”

  I’d pay him a million dollars right now, to get a glimpse into his mind. To suck the thoughts out of his head and print them on a sign.

  “Long drive to the office, ah?” he said and laughed. “You’re apartment is one floor up — that’s wild.”

  “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.” It is lonely. Lonely without you, Vick. I want you here, with me, in my apartment forever — you will love it here. Soon you’ll be living with me and you’ll be happy here. Please take the water.

  We exit the elevator and walked to my front door. I enter the time of his birth again, a subtle reminder I know everything about him.

  He entered, embracing the sights of his future home. He looks at the closed door to room 9 and watched it for a moment. Does he know about this room?
Does he know I dedicate this shrine to him? Certainly he does if he is watching me. If not, I’ll tell him on our honeymoon. It will be my wedding gift to him, my collection of his collection. His life in videos, clothing, smells, and touches.

  I open my mouth to say, Take off your pants, honey. I want to feel you inside me. I want your body in mine. Your hands in mine. Mine. You’re mine. I want you to feel good here. With me. But I don’t say it. I need to stick with the plan — you’ve rehearsed this. Speak with confidence. Speak with intent.

  “This is it! Cozy, but I love it.”

  We continue the tour, traveling through a few rooms and into my office. I’m proud of my photoshopping skills. I caught him looking at pictures of his alter ego on the walls. He smirked at a few of the pictures.

  “Shit, it’s not here yet.” I pull open an email to Gordon but check over my shoulder first. He can’t see the screen, so I write, “Gordon, please send me the contract now. I’m ready for it.” I’d told him earlier not to send it to me until I sent him an email. He did exactly as told. Good Gordon. Good boy.

  “I pay them enough, you’d think they could send things on time.” Can he tell I’m not really annoyed? This was tough when I rehearsed it, feigning madness in my bedroom acting class. “I’m sorry, it’ll be a few more minutes. Can I show you around while we wait?” I watched him. Did his eye twitch? Is he okay? Does he even want to see the rest of the place? Can I show you room 9, please?

  He shrugged and we began the tour. Take the water.

  We started in the kitchen. Here it is, step 148. “Vick…” I open the refrigerator. The fourth water bottle from the left is his; prepared specially for him in the late hours of the night. The practice of putting small amounts of ecstasy in someone’s system without their knowledge is called micro dosing. It increases the activity in their pleasure centers and makes them happier. If you dose someone every time you see them, they start to associate you with pleasure. Sex. Love. Peace. Everything I feel when I see him. Pavlov would be proud of me.