Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  Fat Finger Whitey answered my question. “You’re thinking intercourse. The entire act of intercourse.” He paused as the waiter filled his water glass. He thanked him and waited for him to leave before he continued. “We don’t need the entire act. Just the final moments. Direct insemination at the moment of climax. The rest can…” The waiter returned with bread.

  “Is there anything else I can get you while you’re waiting for your meal?”

  He thanked him and waved him away. “As I was saying, you’re thinking of the entire act. Ninety-nine percent of this can be done privately. The last one percent needs to be done clinically.”

  I’ve never thought of sex as such a cold process. One percent clinically. Guys, it’s still me, sticking my wigwam into Alex and shooting my … you know. I’m torn. The twenty-year-old me is getting hard. This may be the opportunity of a lifetime, a shag of epic proportions. The reasonable husband (and adult) in me tells me everything is wrong about this situation. Everything. No good can come from me fucking her. Sorry, clinically fucking her.

  I finished my drink. Everyone did. More were on the way, thanks to Alex. Even the attorneys ordered booze this round. It was quiet for a few more minutes. Our eyes passing nervously across the table. Everyone silently contemplating.

  Mr. White Lawyer broke the quiet. “Did we mention there is a three hundred thousand dollar contract associated with this procedure?”

  Chapter Forty

  Three. Hundred. Thousand. United States Dollars. Dineros. Smackeroos. Greenbacks. Stacks. Cheddar. Bags. Three hundred thousand new friends that live in my bank account. Morals leaving your body feels a bit like making deals with the devil. Well, more so deals with the devil’s daughter.

  I sat back in the leather chair, eating my recently delivered steak. It was rare, bloody, and delicious. Meat melted in my mouth, oozing a salty pleasure on my tongue. It was difficult to concentrate on anything with the racket in my head. I’d created a pro’s and con’s chalkboard in my brain, mapping both sides of this deal. Big money on one side. Cheating on my wife on the other. The most prominent, circling question: Is it cheating? It’s not for pleasure. It isn’t because we like each other. I don’t even know her.

  Is it so different from donating sperm? Same outcome, different procedure. A wee more personal. Alex hadn’t said a word in a while. She sat in her chair like a tire with a slow leak. She was buzzed, maybe more than just buzzed. Glossed eyes and a cold smile. What goes on in that brain of yours, Alexa?

  They’d showed me the results of an STD panel on the tablet. She is clean. Also, after seeing her half-naked in the hospital gown, I can personally vouch that everything is in order down there.

  The lawyers talked quietly to each other. Alex and I remained quiet.

  “When do you need this to happen? I’m… I’m not sure about any of this.” I finally broke my silence.

  Alex spoke. “One, maybe two days, give or take twenty-four hours. That is my most reliable ovulation window.”

  We sipped our drinks, patted our lips with cloth napkins, and gently pushed pieces of steak into our face holes. The waiter cleared a few plates and dropped a plate of chocolate doo-dads on the table. A pyramid of dessert spheres, drenched in caramel or something rich.

  “This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Alex threw her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry, Vick. We're asking too much of you, aren’t we?” She turned to her attorneys. “I told you this was a bad idea. I should have listened to my gut, not you.” She slammed the rest of her glass of wine. “I think I need to accept that it’s not going to happen for me.” She stood, thanked me for my time, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Alex has a flair for the dramatic, but I didn’t think she would leave. “Well, guys. Thank you for your time. Oh, and thank you for dinner.” I wanted to confirm that they knew who was paying the bill.

  “Mr. Miller…” Cocoa now, taking the lead, “We anticipated a reaction like this. We’ve been working with Miss Livingston for many years.” A stack of paperwork appeared from his leather bag. “It is an emotional subject for her. She tends to…” He glanced to the other attorney, back to me, then adding, “…react hastily.”

  “Contingency plans, Mr. Miller. We always plan for the worst, and hope for the best with Alexa.” The stack fell with a heavy thud on the table. “She is prepared to execute this contract if you are, Mr. Miller.”

  I flipped a few pages. “I’m not sure, guys.” Ice cubes met my lips as I finished the last two fingers of another cocktail. I, too, have consumed a few too many to make sound decisions. “I need some time to think about it.”

  “In the event you said something like that…” He pulled out a printed page from a folder. “We’re willing to adjust the offer to four hundred thousand if you agree in the next twenty-four hours.” He slid the page to me. He wasn’t kidding. There it is, in printed black ink: $400,000 for a decision reached in 24 hours or less.

  “I need some time, gentleman. This isn’t just donating a…” I made air quotes, “Specimen anymore. This is an affair.”

  He chuckled. “It is far from an affair, Mr. Miller. An affair insinuates a relationship. There is no relationship. It is business. You have something we need. Supply and demand dictates the price.” With a smug expression across his cheeks, he said, “You should adjust your thinking, Mr. Miller.”

  “I need to digest this. Thanks for the offer.”

  “Take this with you, Mr. Miller.” He handed me the stack and the offer letter. “Please call me if you have any questions or would like to work through this.” He took a business card out of his suit jacket and handed it to me.

  I pocketed the card, took the offer letter, and slid the heavy contract back across the table. “This time, email the rest to me.”

  Ch4pter 4our2y-two

  Daddy didn’t know about the helicopter requisition. We can afford it, but it wasn’t in the budget. Daddy and his fucking budget. Budget this, and budget that. Fuck your budget, Daddy!

  Boom! Boom!

  “Alexa! I know you’re home…” He is a muffled, screaming voice behind the door.

  Boom!

  I jump. His fists are pounding harder now. “Nick told me about the helicopter. Do you know how expensive that was? Do you have any idea how much it costs to operate that thing? I have insurance, payments, fuel, flight time, storage fees, flight plans, the pilot’s hourly cost, and his fucking insurance!” He sighed. A loud, deep sigh echoed through the door. “You can’t just take it whenever you need it, Alexa. It’s far more expensive than you know. And why are my attorney fees going out of control this quarter? What the hell are you up to, Peanut?”

  His shadow is a shifting ghost in the peephole. He pounded again. I am in no mood for his shit today. He is always blubbering on and on about costs, financial decisions, operating costs, blah blah blah blah, blah fucking blah! Just once, just this one time, he needs to understand I’m using it for a purpose.

  My phone buzzes on a far table. My bare feet along the tile are quiet. He kept pounding. I palm my phone, looking at the screen. He’s calling me from outside the door.

  “I hear you in there, Alexa. I can hear your phone. I know you’re home! C’mon, this is ridiculous. I need to talk with you. You’re my daughter for Pete’s sake! Please, just let me in.”

  I let it ring to voicemail. He kept mumbling behind the door. I couldn’t understand him. Just talking, then pounding, talking and more knocking.

  He waited and I waited. I feather step along the tile once more. Can he hear me walking?

  “Peanut? I just want to talk.” His voice strained. “Is this about Francis?”

  We waited. Neither wanting to speak; both for different reasons.

  “Is this some sort of excitement or distraction? Or something else? It’s been a tough year or two — you know it, and I know it, but you can’t just throw money at these problems. You’re going to have to deal with it someday, honey.”

&
nbsp; He’s being nice. That thing he does once in a while to catch me off guard. I can’t deal with this today. Too much to do. More planning and more preparation. I’m too busy, can’t you see that, Daddy? Do I respond or stay quiet? Do I tell him I’m busy? Or that I was sleeping? Or in the shower?

  “If it is that, and you’re just going through a rough patch…” A cough left his barrel chest. “You need to get control of yourself. I love you, Peanut, always have and always will…”

  Tiptoeing again now, quietly, to look through the peephole. Hello, Daddy — I see you. Just to the right of my view I see him, a big, dark blob leaning against the door. What will he say if I let him in? Will it be like last time? Can he keep to his promises?

  “Peanut?”

  I reached for the knob. The cold metal touched my fingers.

  “Peanut. Let me in. Let me in! Let me in now! You're spending too much money. What the fuck is your problem? Stop carrying on about Francis and do your fucking job!”

  He pounded once more. Hard. Everything shook with his final, angry, slamming fist against the door.”

  “Okay, Peanut. See you in the Rassmusson project meeting next week. In the meantime, stop spending all of our fucking money!”

  His dark figure walked away from the door, pushed the button on the elevator, and waited. My eye strained against the peephole. He turned, pierced me with his glare, got onto the elevator, and closed the door.

  I slumped to the floor, leaning back against the cold door in my apartment. A tear, the only one I let get the best of me, fell to my shirt. Fucking asshole. You’ll see, Daddy. I can show you what real love is. You have no idea. No idea! I can show you why I’ve spent this money. It wasn’t frivolous. It was an investment. The best investment. You’ll be proud of me when I show you, Daddy.

  Chapter Forty-three

  “Gustavson and Haddock, how can I direct your call?”

  “Can you connect me with extension forty-two?”

  “Of course, sir. Please hold.” Saxophones and pianos played in my ear. Soothing, but still crappy hold music.

  “Mr. Miller, I presume?”

  It’s one of the two attorneys, but I’d jumbled up the cards so I wasn’t quite sure which one it was. Didn’t matter. The message was the same. “It is. Caller ID?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. I like to see who’s calling before I pick up. What can I do for you, Mr. Miller? Are you ready for your next appointment?”

  “Actually…” Here it goes. My reluctant, poorly constructed declination. “I can’t do it. I just can’t bring myself to it. Please send Alex my apologies.”

  “You can always call her and apologize yourself, Mr. Miller.”

  “No. No, no. I don’t have the stomach for it. I know how much this means to her.”

  “I understand.” A keyboard could be heard in the background. His? Maybe a nearby assistant in the office? “I have one, final offer ready for you, Mr. Miller, in case you were to decline, which you have.”

  Great. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. The idea of passing up nearly half a million dollars for five minutes of fun was a tough enough pill to swallow. It isn’t the money though. It’s the crime. Regardless of Kraya’s condition, I need to stick to my marriage, take the high ground, and walk the moral line to keep myself on the straight and narrow. I don’t need the money, although it would solve a lot of problems. I have food on the table and a steady income. This would have been gravy. Granted it would have been some delicious, sexy, amazing gravy.

  “In the event you decline the previous offer, I am to extend another twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m going to interrupt you there, Chief. I’ve decided I can’t do it. I don’t care.”

  “Listen, Chief. Miss Livingston doesn’t take ‘no’ very well, so please, let me finish my offer. Miss Livingston is prepared to offer you six hundred thousand and an additional one hundred thousand dollar bonus if she is able to become pregnancy positive after the brief interaction.”

  Seven-friggen-hundred thousand dollars? I think that might make me the highest paid whore in the history of sex. Okay, Vick. Relax here, buddy. You’ve already made your decision. It's a sin, remember? You can always come back later, but you can’t take it back, right?

  These fucking morals are getting expensive.

  I could retire today and hire a full-time property management company to manage my stuff. Have I become that person? In college, I would have taken three bucks to sleep with her. Hell, maybe would have paid. Today though, I keep telling myself I am a different man. I have a kid. Wife. Family.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot accept.” I hung up the phone. Will I remember today as the day I made the biggest mistake of my life? My career? Or will I watch this at the pearly gates and get smiles and golf claps from the audience?

  Chapter Forty-four

  Basement living suits me well. My little guy hangs out with me when I’m home and plays on the floor next to my desk. I’d been sleeping on the futon. Not like the one I had in my twenties either; nowadays they make leather futons with armrests and memory foam and a place for my beer.

  I’d done most of my sleeping down here for a few months now. Kraya slept in the attic guest bedroom. There was a bathroom up there and a bunch of her clothes. I hired a rent-a-nurse chick to pop by to check on her a few times a day. She’s on seven medications. Seven. Some for depression, some anxiety, some blood pressure, some for who the heck knows.

  Our relationship? Strained. I guess strained is a bad word for it — nonexistent maybe? I’ve gotten better though. More patient. I check on her when I have time, and kiss her forehead when she is sleeping or mumbling to herself. The docs call it dissociated mania disorder. Which, according to the internet, means she’s lost her shit.

  I catch myself resenting her for it. Really, it’s not her fault. If she could, she would be on top of her game. She would be that hot gal I fell in love with. I’m getting good at burying my feelings and caring for her again. I love her, or love the woman she was. In the meantime, I’ll care for the dull shell that surrounds my wife. My wonderful, beautiful Kraya. I hope you’re still in there somewhere.

  She likes to take walks. Sometimes, when she is abnormally aware, she will drive to the store and get some flowers. I wholeheartedly disapprove of her leaving the house, but the babysitter isn’t a prison guard. I’ve found various dings and dents along the front and rear of her car. So many in fact, I struggle to see a spot that is still flush.

  It’s date night tonight. The night I help her dress up and wear makeup. An evening where the boy is downstairs and we’re together in the dining room, trying to make amends with the path that’s been presented. Crappy path, but I still need to walk it.

  When I came upstairs, she was already waiting at the table sporting a cute flowered dress with her hair pulled back. She looks good. A ball forms in my stomach when I see her looking this way. She looks normal. Like my old Kray.

  Vanessa must have helped her tonight. Her lipstick isn’t smeared and the shades are blended well. Infinitely better with a woman’s touch than my mash-and-glob makeup techniques.

  I made her favorite: pasta linguini with chicken. Shredded parmesan on the top and fresh, steamed vegetables on the side. I held her hand and prayed. As the words left my lips, I couldn’t help but notice the limp hold of her grip. I push my feelings back into the pit of my chest and whisper the prayer. I need the big man now, like right now, to do something, anything to get me through this. To get her through this.

  Her dainty fingers try to hold the fork, but she struggles. I lean over and poke a piece of chicken with my fork, and feed it to her. Our eyes meet and for a moment, a brief, magical moment, I see her again. The woman I married. “I love you, Kraya. I’m so sorry I’ve been distant.”

  She doesn’t respond. She just chews. Her jawline bounces up and down as she chews the chicken. No response, only a million-mile gaze.

  I tried a few more times to talk. I’m met with tranquil eyes stammering
and tracking me slowly. I ate. Between bites I told her about my day, and the things that had gone on since the last time we had our date night. I talked about the rental houses and that I was thinking about getting her a dog. A puppy was a great idea, I thought. It would give her something to snuggle all day in the attic. She must feel lonely. I can’t fill all of these voids; I need to work.

  At the end of the night I blew out the candles, put her plate in the sink, and carried her to bed. She’d only fallen asleep a few times during one of my stories tonight. Good times. I could tell she’d lost some weight. She was already a petite thing, even a few pounds made a huge difference. I could feel her spine and ribs as I carried her upstairs. I pulled off her dress, slid on some pajamas, and tucked her into bed. She was snoring before I turned off the light.

  I closed her door and sat on the top step. I rubbed the cream-colored carpet and stared up at the ceiling. What is this terrible feeling? Why is my wife so sick? Why is this happening to us? What the fuck? I cursed at the empty stairwell and did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I miss Kraya, my wife.

  I cried.

  Chapter Forty-five

  The bar was empty, as it should be at two-thirty in the afternoon. It was dark in there, only the dull orange hanging bulbs above the bar to light up my drink. Jimmy, the bartender, watched the game at the far end of the bar. I stirred my ice cubes with a slim, red straw and took a drink. Vodka is a beautiful thing.

  My phone buzzed on the bar. The screen so bright I had to squint to see it. Unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Victor Miller?”

  “Yep. What can I do for you?”