Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  Are there more bags in the trash? What about last week’s pickup?

  Chapt36 Thirty-6ix

  “Good morning, Vick."

  “Alex, good morning. What can I do for you?” Vick says.

  I see him on the cameras getting up and leaving Kraya at the table. He is sneaking away for me. He is keeping our secret safe. “We should talk.”

  “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” I hear myself laugh. I can’t believe I let that slip out! Remain professional at all costs. “We are, yes. But we need to discuss some business. Privately.”

  Stop fidgeting.

  I put him on speakerphone. I can feel the depth of his voice in high definition, belting through six or seven speakers throughout the room. He’s sitting here with me in room 9 talking to me.

  He is talking again, the deep vibrations in his voice rumble. He’s telling me that he is free next week. No, Vick. You need to stay the course. Stick with my plan.

  Lips part as I slide his vanilla bottle inside my body. Slow your breathing and control yourself. I tell him the party is tomorrow at 6 p.m. sharp. He needs to pick me up at 5:30 in something formal, something special, something… sharp! He is talking again. I immediately imagine him dressed to the nines, smiling with those perfectly imperfect teeth. His stubble, just long enough to burn as it runs across my skin. My fingers trace my clit. I can see him on the phone in my camera screens.

  My back arches on the rubber bed sheets. I switch the camera angle and watch him talking into the phone. On a different monitor I see his wife, eating dinner in the opposing room, eyes glossed, oblivious, drugged out of her gourd. Good girl, Kraya. Stay stupid, peasant. He is still rumbling into the phone. Saying something. I can’t focus with these waves of pleasure. Focus. Stop fidgeting! You need to respond to him.

  I feel myself clench around the vanilla bottle, its rough edges catching the edge of the tender pillows inside me. It’s wet. Pulsating. He is still talking. We’re still on the phone and still connected! I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to hold you. Your body, your smile. Your breath on my chest. I mute the line. Eruptions are climbing my nerves. I mumble something, enough to answer him. He agrees to pick me up. His words are a deep, rumbling cadence over all the speakers now. I rub harder and trace rhythmic, throbbing circles on my lady lips. He’s coming to pick me up for the party. He’s coming! A guttural yelp escapes my lungs. My hands are shaking, clawing at the sheets. I stare at him on the screen with wide eyes — eyes that haven’t blinked. I hear a yell, a pleasured, awkward scream in room 9. A mess of wet and cum and blood and slippery pleasure drips onto the bed. I collapse, writhing in tempo with the slowing electricity in my core.

  Click. Vick hangs up.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I bought eight houses with the company Nick and I created. We named it PMI, short for Preston Miller Incorporated. We thought it was clever. I’d previously insisted on Sherlock Homes, LLC, but he wasn’t a fan.

  I hired a young Asian buck to manage the properties. I paid him forty-five thousand per year and paid myself the other twenty-five thousand to manage him. It was a decent business and it helped that Nick had deep pockets. This was just a hobby for him, a fun ruse to see if we could turn a profit. Must be rough.

  I bought smart. The houses had already appreciated in value after a few repairs. I installed new carpet and slapped on a few coats of paint, new doorknobs, and I installed crisp white crown molding. In equity alone we’d made about seventy grand in the first few weeks. Nick was happy. He approached me with another million, but I was losing too much sleep already.

  Kraya and I were doing well, especially since I never see her. She spends a lot of time at her therapist’s office. They’re filling her with antidepressants and gibberish. A lot of good either of those was doing. We barely speak. Rather, she barely speaks. Lifeless eyes and unkempt hair are her only friends now.

  Vanessa, our awesome babysitter, was doing a fine job with Junior. I was amazed at how close the two had become. Kraya could barely look at him. She was more concerned with her afternoon naps than feeding him lunch or watching him color. I’ve considered divorce, of course I have, but I’d feel too guilty to go through with it. She may need me more right now than ever, and I need to continue to be here for her, even if that means to keep the tan line behind my ring.

  This time it happened on a Tuesday, when I least expected it. I was in the throne room at one of the properties going number two, reading the back of a paint can with my pants around my ankles. I was startled by the vibration. I leaned down, digging into loose, paint-splattered jeans to find my phone.

  The name on the screen meant a lot of things. Probably another payday. Likely another secret from Kraya, and another shot at seeing Alex with her clothes off. I’m comfortable with a few of those. I answered.

  “Hi, Vick. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  “It’s fine, what can I do for you, Alex?” Well, I have my pants around my ankles because I’m taking a poo, I’m covered in paint, and I have “Every Breath You Take” by The Police blasting on the stereo in an adjacent room. So, nah — not a bad time.

  “It’s funny, Professor. Isn’t it? The routine we’ve found ourselves in?”

  She’d cut through the pleasantries. Unusual, even for Alex. “Yeah…” I’m too curious to hear the rest of the conversation to even try to interpret the oddities that surround this crazy relationship. “Sure it is. It’s a good routine, Alex. Helps us both.”

  “Do you need another specimen?” She must, right? Why else would she be calling me? She doesn’t check in, call to chat about the melting snow, or ask about my new businesses. No, she only calls when she needs something. That’s our arrangement.

  She sighed. A desperate sigh you hear only in defeat. It was obvious she wasn’t getting anywhere with the pregnancy. It must be frustrating, especially with the investment she’s put into this thing. “Yes. I do.” A brief pause on the line. “Do you have a bad connection, Vick? I hear an echo?”

  “We must. I’ll call you right back.” The bathroom was an echo chamber. Classy, dude. Real classy. Why didn’t ya just flush, too, while you’re at it? Let her hear the whole shebang.

  I hiked up my pants and tightened my belt. I barely pooped. At almost forty, it’s like Groundhog Day — I never know if he’ll retreat or come out for a swim. I turned down the music, pulled out a pad and a pen, then called her back. First ring, she answered.

  “Vick?”

  “It’s not Ghostbusters.”

  Not a laugh. Not a chuckle. Nothing.

  “Vick. We need to talk. Are you free tonight?”

  Tonight? It sounded important. Maybe I can have the sitter stay late? I’m going to assume there is money coming my way, so I can foot the bill for more hours, right? Though I do have a hot date with my laptop at seven, then maybe a movie at eight. Cocktails alone in my living room at ten. The usual.

  “I’m free tonight, Alex.”

  “Good. Meet me at Rosenflats at six. Does that work for you, Professor?”

  There she goes with that professor garbage again. “The steakhouse? And six-thirty? I’d like to help put the kiddo down for the night.” What I lack in understanding and patience, I make up for in good parenting — that’s what I tell myself anyway. Being a workaholic doesn’t always lend itself well to being a good parent. It’s these little white lies we tell ourselves to make the world keep turning.

  “Yes, the steakhouse on seventh. Six-thirty is fine. See you there.”

  “Sounds good. Can you tell me anything about this so I’m not wondering all afternoon?”

  “Nope. You’ll have to wait to be excited to see me.”

  Am I? Am I excited to see her? Or is it that I am excited to learn more about a proposal? She wants something, and every time she wants something I get to buy another house. She is making my life easier with every meeting. All for some handsome DNA. “I am excited to see you and learn more.” I can say that, right? She won’t ge
t the wrong idea? The last thing I need is for her to start thinking I like her and it ruins this business arrangement.

  “Great. Thanks, Vick. I’m looking forward to it, too.”

  The rest of the day flew by. I finished painting and moved my blue tarps to the next room. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and spent extra time getting the paint from under my fingernails. What is her offer? What’s next? I’m guessing it is another close encounter with the muff kind. Maybe two rooms, one cup again? Another payday would be timed well — I’m stretched thin this month. My “oh shit fund” is low and the college fund could use a few extra digits. Every extra penny has been invested (or gambled?) into these properties.

  I pulled down a few strips of blue painting tape from the freshly colored wall before I left. Blue tape is the worst if you leave it overnight. The house was looking nice, much better than a few weeks ago. I turned off the tunes and the floodlights, grabbed my keys from a bowl I kept on the vacant counter, and pushed the garage door clicker. The garage door is loud and crackles as it winds up. It opened a few feet before it crapped out and stalled. Awesome — just awesome.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The steakhouse is dark. One of those exclusive, snooty, delicious places you visit when you propose to someone or celebrate a new job. Dimmed, hanging lights and dark wood tables are littered throughout. It’s bustling with couples sharing wine and coworkers having dinner after work. Most of the waitstaff wore suits while the hostess and waitresses wore almost nothing. I could tell it was expensive from the names of the steaks on the menu out front. When your food is named after something French, or contains more than four words, it’s going to cost you.

  Seated in a small, private room on the far end of the restaurant was Alex. Well, not just Alex. The Tweedle brothers from our first meeting were also in attendance. Why does she have attorneys with her? Is this good? Just procedure?

  Alex hushed when I rounded the corner. Everyone stood and extended polite hands. I shook them all and took a seat. Fine leather met my rump. “Nice to see you, Alex…” It was nice because she looked nice. Does this broad ever not look nice? “You too, fellas.” They nodded and we all sat down.

  “Thanks for coming, Victor.” The black one addressed me first.

  Followed promptly by the white one: “We do appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

  Both of the big boys had those lawyerly, all-knowing, polite smiles you get from someone who knows a secret, but can’t tell you. I bet they are about to tell me.

  “Good to see you, Vick,” Alex said.

  “This is infinitely better than a boardroom,” I said. I wondered if we were going to eat, or just talk over drinks. Either way, I needed a drink now more than ever. I tried to flag down a passing waitress, but she pretended not to see my raised hand.

  “It’s been some time since we’ve seen you, Victor. We’ve heard great things about your business ventures. How are things for you?” the black one said in an attempt to make casual talk. This guy wants to eat first before diving into business, guaranteed.

  “Good. Things are good. Alex here has been throwing me a lot of opportunities.” She smiled and sipped her wine. Red, of course.

  “You’re a natural, Vick. I’m only making a few introductions. Everything else is skill.” She is back to flattery. Yep. She wants something.

  The waiter, a mid-thirties hipster with a beard and a handlebar mustache approached the table. “How is everyone doing today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Can I start you off with a drink, Miss? Are we ready to order?”

  Finally! Yes! Oh hell yes! Everyone else already has their drinks. The salt and pepper brothers over there are drinking water, or vodka disguised as water? “Yes. A Manhattan, please.” I needed something strong. Something that was sophisticated, but trashy enough to get me a good buzz.

  “Make that a Greenpoint Manhattan,” Alex piped in, boldly making adjustments to my order — “…and tenderloins all around.” A step further now, she’d ordered our food, too. Power play much, Alex?

  “And for salads?” The waiter looked around to all of us. We were big enough boys to order our greens, I hope.

  Big ebony and thick ivory ordered a Caesars. As did I. Alex ordered a virgin salad, whatever the hell that is. Dollars to donuts it has something to do with calories. Eat healthy and then binge on steak. Great diet, Alex.

  He didn’t write anything down, not even how we liked our steaks. Some rare. Some medium. Some medium-rare. This guy had it all upstairs. My drink order, too, which was A-number-one on my list of priorities. He didn’t let me down. In less than a minute he was back with my cocktail. There is a God.

  Bitter, potent alcohol hit my tongue, an oasis in this sea of lawyers. Half of the drink was gone before I set the glass down. Too much? Not a chance. Alex was watching though, I could feel it. I think I may have even caught a smile. She must know this is nerve wracking. She’s gotta be nervous too, right? Who knows how many glasses of Merlot she pounded before I showed up.

  “I’ll humor you, Vick. We can skip the casual chitchat and get right to it,” Alex said.

  I slurped. Here we go. This is what I’ve been waiting for. How many cups do you need and how many pesos do I get for it, hun? Bring on the bacon.

  Alex motioned for one of the attorneys to speak. He pulled out a tablet and slid it to my side of the table. No paperwork this time. Not yet anyway. I read the screen as he talked. “Alexa’s doctors have diagnosed your…” Lowering his voice, “…semen, as abbreviated-oxygenation deficient.”

  Of course, none of that made any sense. Well, the semen part I caught, but the rest sounded like Portuguese. The tablet offered more insight into the diagnosis.

  Patient: Victor Miller

  Diagnosis: Seminal Abbreviated-Oxygenation Deficiency Syndrome

  Description: Patient Miller’s semen is absent of oxygenation-conflicting enzymes. Patient’s semen dies in .3 seconds when exposed to oxygen, or other common gasses.

  Well, that sure makes it difficult to get someone knocked up if my boys die as soon as they’re ejected. I set the tablet down on my cloth napkin. “So, you’re telling me my semen isn’t good anymore?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Miller.” The attorney quietly continued, “It doesn’t mean your semen is void. It means your semen is non-operational if exposed to open elements.”

  Alex slammed the rest of her wine. She’s barely making eye contact now. I could tell she was getting uncomfortable. “Vick, it means we need to try a different way.” She spoke quietly, too.

  I can do that. Yeah, I can do that! Thank goodness. I was worried for a second that the cash river had run dry. Kaput. But no! Bring on the dollars, girl. “Okay. That’s okay. We’ll just try it again.” But how? I need to keep my little guys away from air. “I can put them in a condom. That will work, right?” I’m not letting my payday die along with my paratroopers.

  The attorneys and Alex were startled by my volume. A few tables looked in my direction. Dangit. I forgot I am in polite company. I lower my voice and they all lean in closely. “That will work, right? They aren’t exposed to air that way.”

  “No…” the plump Caucasian one waved a fat finger. “No, that won’t work, Victor. We thought of that. The doctors say the reaction to latex will invalidate the livelihood of the specimen.”

  That’s a hell of a way to say, rubbers will kill it, too, Mr. Proper Pants. “Okay… plastic container? Catheter?” Oh man. Did I just say that? The last thing I want to do is have a tube shoved up my pecker. Then again for another hundred G’s, I’ll shove it up there myself.

  “Again, we thought of that, Mr. Miller. There is no way to completely rid the tubes of oxygen before inserting it into your…” Even quieter now, “…your penis.”

  I picked up the tablet and kept reading. There must be another way.

  To successfully utilize Donor’s (Miller’s) specimens, direct, or zero-oxygenation insemination is required for optimal results.r />
  Dr. Gregory Giordonni, MD

  Direct insemination? No comprende. Then, as Alex began to speak, it became clear. It hits me like a train full of bricks. I understand why we’re out to dinner. I understand why the Olsen twins are here. I knew what she was going to say before she finished her sentence.

  “Vick. There is one way this will work.” Alex closed her eyes, either of embarrassment or strain. “Penetration. Direct insemination is the only way.” She flagged down the waiter for another drink.

  I second that.

  We waited for our drinks. My attention bounced from the two suits to Alex, back to my empty drink, then back around again. They were waiting for me now. They waited for me to say something, anything that could clue them in to my feelings about this. They weren’t alone. I, too, was waiting to see how I felt about this.

  It was as confusing as dèjá vu. Maybe there is something I’m missing here. I need to confirm. “Sex? Are you telling me the only way this will work is sex? That is what direct insemination means, right?”

  Big White spoke first: “We prefer to call it clinical intercourse.”

  Our drinks arrived. Alex and I bounced glances to one another while we slurped our booze. Aggressive sips. Nervous gulping is probably the best way to describe it. I probably couldn’t have drunk it faster with a funnel.

  “It wouldn’t be what you’re thinking, Mr. Miller.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  My glass echoed loudly as I set it down on the table. “Well, then… what am I thinking?”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  My first thought, confusion. That shit’s gone now. I understand perfectly what they’re looking for. Second, reality. The bottom line? Doctors, attorneys, and Alex all want me to have sex with her instead of letting my boys loose in a cup. Sex. Like, penis in vagina sex. I felt a twitch in my pants. Not now, boy, hush.

  Alex sat across the table, peering into her wine with a calm vulnerability. She is a woman in need of something — something precious and personal and intimate. I could hear the crowd around me, forks clacking against plates and humming conversations.