Coincidences Pt 01

Part One of Two

An Inkling

"What in the hell do you mean we're out of gas?" It was more a shriek than a question, as a panicked Paula spun her head left and right to look for something, or someone. The move whipped her jet black hair one way, then the other. She instinctively reached up to make sure it was still on straight.

The scream just added to Bart's confusion as his silver BMW coupe sputtered to a stop at the curb of a busy boulevard lined by some of the city's most notorious motels. The gauge was pegged at "E." Paula was angry, but Bart was mostly bewildered. He was certain there had been a quarter tank, at least, when they parked two hours earlier, just five blocks back.

A man who drives a new silver Beemer can afford better than a $20-an-hour love nest out along "The Strip." So for all three of their weekly trysts so far, Bart took Paula out past these re-purposed former Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, to where the thoroughfare turns nice and sweeps up a small rise.

Behind a bolted door at the upscale Summit Inn, they were no longer Bart, an unmarried team leader at a downtown accounting firm, and Paula, the very-married administrative assistant on his crew. They became two 30-something teenagers, fucking their brains out for fun.

It was a minor concern that their jobs could be in jeopardy - especially Bart's, since he was her supervisor. But they figured they weren't the only illicitly coupled employees. Besides, they were very discreet. At least, they were until breaking down in a noticeable car on one of the busiest byways in the city.

Bart saw Paula nervously scanning the street. But he did not know exactly why. They were nowhere near their office, nor the part of town where he presumed that she lived. The chance of someone recognizing them was remote, even if they had to wait a while for the AAA truck.

Both silently absorbed the old song still playing on the stalled car's radio, a tune warning that "The night has a thousand eyes." Bart was hardly worried. This is a sprawling city of 500,000 people, after all, and the couple were together in the respectability of daylight. Paula's gut knotted as she considered something that she deliberately had failed to tell Bart. For her, this city has 2,400 eyes. And at least 600 of them were on duty at that moment.

Strange behavior

"What had you so frightened?" Bart, still perplexed about last week's out-of-gas episode, was even more vexed about Paula's lingering nervous behavior.

"I told you, that's for me to worry about," she replied, dismissively, glancing out the window of Room 422 while tugging the edge of a drape to shield her bare breasts.

This was week four. They always met on Wednesday afternoons, when co-workers would not miss them. That was the time they were supposed to be in the field, checking on several clients' needs, not shacked up to satisfy their own. It was always at the Summit Inn, which felt isolated and safe. Bart swore that she was the first he ever took there, In fact, he promised that she was the first lover ever from work, and he insisted that she also was the first who was married.

"You think your husband wouldn't recognize you in that black wig?"

Paula dropped the drape, climbed astraddle him on the bed, gave her bright blonde hair a toss and drilled his eyes. "I told you that we never, ever discuss my husband." She punctuated the warning by pulling her bare hips back, teasingly putting her crotch beyond the reach of Bart's cock.

"I'm not afraid, whoever he is," Bart continued. "If he's not man enough to satisfy you, he's not man enough scare me."

"We. Never. Ever. Talk. About. Him." she declared again, angrily emphasizing each word while abruptly retrieving her business-appropriate dress off the carpet. "We're done for today."

So this session ended short, in a frustrating tie at just one oral each. Bart agreed to go, figuring it was prudent to sacrifice this week to her ire in the name of preserving other weeks to come. Wig in place, Paula cautiously led the way to the BMW.

This time, it was Bart's turn to shriek. "What the fuck!" Mindful of the previous week's fuel disaster, he had double-checked the gas gauge before parking behind the Summit; he had a half tank then. But now, somehow, it showed full. Had Paula's curvy charms simply addled his brain two weeks in a row? "A weird coincidence" is what he called it.

Paula's mind spun. This didn't seem particularly ominous. Yet she could imagine the words her husband often brought home from work: "There is no such thing as a coincidence."

A husband called Bic

With her guard now up a little, she retrieved her own car and returned to her office for a sort of precautionary pit stop. She threw away her telltale damp panties in favor of a spare pair from the bottom of a desk drawer, and rinsed herself thoroughly underneath. After a quick brush of her teeth, and a scan in the mirror for hickeys, it was back home to Bic.

That was not an ordinary moniker, nor for that matter her husband's real name. He didn't much like it. Bic had earned it in a gruesome episode that conferred enduring local fame. He had been an ordinary off-duty cop, waiting in a bank line to deposit a check, when two psychopaths with pistols took over the place for money and more. They were dragging the prettiest teller toward the door when the officer, known until that moment as Harold, sprang forward, wielding only a ballpoint pen.

A few furious seconds later, the hostage was safe and the surprised robber who had been holding her was writhing in agony, having sacrificed his right eye in a failed attempt to keep his pistol. Harold's first official act as Bic was to use that gun to trade shots with the other bandit, who fell dead outside the loan department. Bic almost died too, bleeding heavily from a wound in his side. Now, 10 years later, he sometimes still made headlines - as a star detective on the homicide squad.

He can read people, Paula knew, but not always her. In their eight years of marriage, she enjoyed success in keeping a few benign secrets. That emboldened her to think she could fool Bic with her first malignant one, too.

Bic was not the brute that the bank publicity might have suggested. The few people he let close would call him mild. Thoughtful. Uncommonly patient. Even philosophical. If catching bad guys was his first objective, fixing them was his second, when feasible. He figured a compassionate nudge or two could be as effective as harsh punishment to put a petty offender back on track.

He was especially impressed with the few miscreants of his acquaintance - usually among his informants - who somehow managed to rehabilitate their own ways before reaching a point of no return.

When Paula arrived home about 5:30, Bic was baking pork chops. He didn't always cook, and wasn't always home so early. But he had been on call overnight Tuesday and was summoned at 2 a.m. In their kitchen, Paula rubbed his shoulders and asked for details. The reply was spare, as always: Young man. Cheating wife. Suicide. Carbon monoxide.

Paula felt a guilty jolt of adrenalin. Suicides didn't usually make the news, so she would have no way to test whether Bic was telling the truth, or perhaps just baiting her. But, no. If he really suspected her of straying, surely the made-up story would have at least had the guy killing the wife and her lover.

While the gas tank episodes bothered her, the explanation was simple and harmless: Bart could be a bit of an airhead. Most comforting was that Bic's affection for her had not diminished a bit. His greeting kiss was still full and warm. The boob squeeze was still playful. The smile was genuine, and the chops in the oven were her favorite dish.

She realized that her affection for Bic had not changed either. She felt a thrill in that kiss and that tweak. She loved that he knew just what pleased her, in the oven or in the bed. She paused to contemplate not the gravity of her infidelity but its strange lack of weight. Bic provided everything she wanted. And, she thought before flirtations with Bart got out of control, Bic also provided everything she needed.

The cheater's rationalization

Paula recognized all along that she had foolishly allowed herself to be swept away by nothing more than the lustful affirmation of a horny guy. Not a better guy. Not even as good. But fresh. Until Bart flattered her into that bed at the Summit Inn, she always figured that intimate experiences with a half dozen past boyfriends had sufficiently satisfied her curiosity to keep her forever faithful to Bic.

She did not intend to start the affair; Paula was certain of that. But she also was certain that she was not ready to end it. Not yet. She would never leave Bic for anyone, let alone Bart. But for now there was still a special rush in Bart's arms, and an easy orgasm on his sheets. To the extent that she had any plan at all, she expected that the excitement would fade and she would happily return forever to monogamy - and finally start a family.

In a twisted way, she even saw herself as considerate of Bic. She never resisted his sexual advances, which despite the detective's long and irregular duty hours averaged about about two or three times a week. She insisted that Bart use condoms. And, most importantly in her rationalization: she would never do anything with Bart that she did not do regularly with Bic. But that left open so many variations of oral, anal and straight intercourse that she had never needed to tell Bart no.

Her biggest concession to Bic was making sure he never found out. Hence the black wig, which at any distance made her look like someone else altogether. She kept a coat and sunglasses at work that she had never let her husband see, She wore no special lingerie for Bart. She insisted that he never wear any fragrance, nor leave any marks. They would depart the office separately on Wednesday afternoons and she would stash her car in a busy Walmart parking lot a mile away before they continued together in the BMW.

Paula's greatest fear was that Bart might be stopped for a traffic violation with her riding in the car. Or be involved in a collision. Or run out of gas and block traffic. Not every cop knew Bic, and relatively few knew her. But if one who did ever spotted her wearing an obvious wig in a strange man's car, well, she simply could not allow that to happen.

Bart did not know whose wife he was bedding. He might have recognized the nickname Bic, or perhaps not. Paula refused to tell him, figuring it would betray her husband's dignity, and maybe even scare Bart away. He had made casual inquiries about it at the office, and was surprised at how little anyone there knew of her home life. Paula had followed Bic's suggestion that for her safety she should use her maiden name professionally, and tell only a couple of her closest girlfriends at work about her spouse.

Was she actress enough, Paula wondered, to watch for suspicions on Bic's part without actually generating some? She decided there was no cause for special vigilance; surely she would sense any early signs. But lies always stir at least a little paranoia in otherwise honest people. Was it significant that Bic had increased the frequency of their romance in recent weeks? Or that he often enticed her on Tuesday and Thursday nights, but it seemed like never after she returned home on Wednesdays?

Paula did not spend much time thinking about what her husband would do if he found out. She was too careful and too clever to be caught. Oddly for a cop, he did not seem to have a particularly suspicious nature at home. And, oddly for the husband of a beautiful woman, he did not seem particularly jealous. He trusted her completely. Nothing aggravated her guilt more than knowing that.

In the very worst case, she figured, she could hold onto Bic with a flood of apologies and affection. She knew he loved her too much to hurt her. Too much to leave her. She could explain away her only indiscretion - well, a series of indiscretions, but with just one man. Bic would be hurt but understanding. Since Bart meant only shallow pleasure, Paula knew she could promise to abandon the affair and really mean it.

Happy anniversary

A glance at her calender made Paula gasp. Next Wednesday would fall on the 24th of the month. It was her wedding anniversary. Bic would expect loving that night. Besides, she was not hard core enough to disrespect the magic date by cheating. Wait. No. Never mind. She misread it. The 24th was Thursday, not Wednesday. OK then, let the show go on.

The passion had not yet peaked in Room 218. Bart was pounding Paula from behind when both were startled by a firm rap on the door. "Room service," a male voice declared. Bart peered warily out the peephole to see a boyish bellman standing behind a cart

that was covered by a white tablecloth and topped with a large bottle in an ice bucket. The guy knocked again.

Better to answer the door than invite undue attention, the couple decided. Paula hid her nudity under a sheet and Bart found pants and a T-shirt before unlocking. "I have your anniversary champagne and cheese tray," the kid announced, pausing to take in the unmade bed and musky air.

"We didn't order that!" Bart declared. Oblivious to this being Paula's anniversary eve, he didn't know how truly strange the scene was. Paula realized it, of course, and gave a low gasp. The moment seemed frozen for a couple of beats before the intruder looked down and mumbled, "Shit." With a shrug and the upturned hands of exasperation, he waved a card labeled "Room 318," then departed.

Paula's heart pounded. "Let's go!" she declared, not caring that Bart's unmet need remained quite evident through his slacks.

At home, her eyes teared up in relief when a relaxed, smiling husband embraced her lovingly at the door. She noticed him noticing her tears, and offered an explanation: "I'm just so excited about our anniversary tomorrow."

He suggested they get a nice hotel room to celebrate the next night. How about the Regency West, with it's four-star rating? She tried not to react. It was next door to the Summit Inn. Paula desperately searched Bic's eyes to see if he might be searching hers. But nothing.

Mounting coincidences

Paula felt as if her gut was unraveling. Peculiar things kept happening around her, but they made no sense. They certainly did not mean that Bic was on to her. In fact, his demeanor suggested quite the opposite. "There are no coincidences," she kept thinking to herself. But could she even call these coincidences?

For Bart, the unraveling was more in his head. What in the hell was wrong with her? Life is full of meaningless little twists, after all, yet she took each of them so seriously. It was ruining his fun.

Thursday night's marital anniversary passion with Bic at the Regency West was possibly unmatched since the couple's honeymoon. There was nothing held back by either. Nothing she ever gave Bart was not replicated with Bic in the hotel bed - and sofa and counter top and shower - in this one night of celebration.

As she lay beside Bic, panting, Paula could not reconcile her internal conflict. She had never loved Bic more. Yet she didn't feel finished with Bart. There was no understanding it. She found peace in imagining a return to the Regency West with Bic on the same night next year - when Bart would be just a faded memory, the risk of discovery would be gone and her conscience would be healed.

Six days later, she lay panting in that other hotel again with that other man. They it made a full set this time. She sucked him, he licked her, they did it simultaneously. She rode him and he rode her. No interruptions.

They were strolling back to the parking lot, hand-in-hand, when Paula's knees started to buckle. Snugged in close to the passenger side of Bart's BMW was a very plain, deep gray Ford Fusion. Cheap wheels. Basic seats. Just like the detective bureau sedan that sat in her driveway every night. It had no visible emergency lights nor apparent police radio antenna. But neither did Bic's

She instinctively scanned the lot, and then examined the Fusion, looking for clues. There was nothing to indicate it was Bic's car; nothing to indicate it wasn't. Bart recognized that she was distracted again, with no clue as to why. Nor did he understand why she sighed with such relief as he backed away from his spot. The Fusion, she noticed, did not have home-state plates. If anything, Paula seemed uncommonly relaxed on the drive back to her car. The Fusion scare provided reassurance that her imagination had been running away with her. But the comfort was short-lived.

Arriving home at he usual time, she spotted Bic's indistinguishable gray Fusion in the driveway - but with out-of-state, Louisiana license plates. She was certain the car at the Summit Inn had California tags. But what was she to make of the fact that both have black numbers and letters on a white background, with the states' names written in stylized red?

Paula was never more nervous going through her own front door. Then came the smell, Pork shops, again. A sweet embrace. A loving kiss. Mundane chatter over their dinner. She mustered the courage to ask Bic about the license change. He explained that he and his partner had been on surveillance, and that the department kept plates from several states for such assignments. OK, she thought. Maybe it really had been an unmarked police car at the Summit. But it wasn't Bic's. The plate colors were, well, a coincidence.

Courtney P. Gladholder

The brain is the principal sex organ, of course, and Paula's was muddled. A part of her wanted to dump Bart right away. A part of her wanted to move the romance to some other hotel. A part of her just wanted him inside her any way she could get it. She decided to keep the next Wednesday date. Maybe it would be the last. Maybe not. She continued to be comforted by the lack of signals from her husband. That is, unless she actually had been getting signals from her husband. Muddled was the right word.

It didn't help that the illicit lovers' passion cycles were especially in sync this week. Their usual blissful two hours stretched beyond an exquisite three. On the way home, running late, she called Bic's cell. He didn't answer. She knew that if he was busy, he couldn't. Nothing unusual.

The driveway was empty. The kitchen too. No pork chops tonight. Nothing was out of place except a newspaper clipping sitting on the kitchen counter. Dated four years before, its headline read: "Deputy Police Chief Survives Shooting." Why, she wondered, would Bic have left it there?

Paula well remembered the incident. Courtney P. Gladholder, who had been promoted beyond patrol duties a decade before, spotted a wanted car and reverted into street-cop mode. An exchange of shots left him with a torn femoral artery. Had Bic not been close and used his belt as a tourniquet, the story said, Gladholder would have bled to death on the street.

The article's accompanying picture of Gladholder looked oddly familiar. She vaguely recalled him from the ceremony where he and Bic received commendations. But it felt as if she had seen him more recently. Probably not at any police function. With nerve damage to his leg, Gladholder had retired from the force.

Giving the clipping little thought, Paula ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. It, too, seemed normal, but the master closet was not. She saw a six-foot gap on the rod where Bic's clothes should hang.

Feeling the floor falling from under her feet, Paula called Bic's cell again and convulsed when she heard its ringer just a few feet away. It was plugged into a charger on a table along his side of the bed. Or what used to be his side of the bed.

Peeking from beneath the phone was a business card that helped answer her weeks of mysteries. At a distance, she recognized in horror the familiar logo of the Summit Inn. Looking closer, she focused on the name: "Courtney P. Gladholder, Manager."