February Sucks One More Time 1

FEBRUARY SUCKS - ONE MORE TIME

By

Blackheart93

Author's Note:

This is a story that I could not let go of. So, I took my original alternate ending and gave it an alternate ending. Those that are adamant about BTB will probably like it more than many of the other endings that resulted in reconciliation or acceptance of a cuckold existence.

I will assume all of the readers are familiar with the original story so, rather than reprint the entire story, this one starts from the point where Jim checks out of his hotel after Marc LeValliere has taken Linda out of the club. If you want more background, read the original February Sucks by George Anderson and my original alternate version.

My apologies to those readers who have had more than enough in the way of alternate versions and sequels to this story.

As always, my eternal thanks to BlackRandl for her editorial excellence and suggestions. Some content was added at BlackRandi's suggestion after it was originally edited. So, any punctuation, grammar and spelling errors are mine.

ONWARD...

I checked myself out of the hotel. I told the pleasant young woman behind the desk that my wife would be staying until the morning. Linda and Asshole could figure out how Linda could get her stuff and check out on their own. She probably wouldn't show up by checkout time, anyway.

The desk clerk looked worried as she asked if the accommodations had not been to our liking. I stared at her for a moment, trying to make sense of her question, then realized that couples who rent a mini-suite like that usually don't check out only a few hours after they checked in.

"No, the room was fine. Things have just... changed."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. Her professionally cheery demeanor returned once she knew that her hotel was not at fault. She must have seen this sort of thing before; it didn't seem to worry her much.

Before I left the lobby, I telephoned Mrs. Porter and told her I was coming by in forty-five minutes to pick up Emma and Tommy. She was surprised, of course.

"It's eleven-thirty, Jim," The kids are in bed asleep. Are you certain you don't want to pick them up in the morning?" she asked.

"No," I said curtly. "I'll pick them up tonight. Please have them ready to get in the car."

"Don't worry, Mr. Carlisle. I will have them ready to go."

Having something to do distracted me somewhat from my problems, but then I had a chance to dwell on them again during my drive to Mrs. Porter's home. I had four distinct emotions twisted around in my gut: Anger bordering on rage, humiliation, deep hurt and a sense of great loss.

I was distracted again from my problems when I picked up the kids. They were both very groggy. Mrs. Porter had them wrapped in their warm bathrobes while still in their pajamas. They asked sleepily where they were going and where was Mommy. They didn't wait for an answer before they were asleep in the back seat. I left Mrs. Porter with a sizable tip in addition to her full overnight baby-sitting fee, and got in my car.

"At least I have them," I thought to myself.

On the drive home, I contemplated, for the first time, how I was going to handle seeing Linda in the morning, knowing that the Asshole had fucked her all night long. I was half afraid that I would slap her black and blue the minute she walked through the door. I wondered whether or not I would end up crying in front of her. How could I possibly go on knowing that she had made a cuckold out of me, even an unwilling one.

These jumbled thoughts and feelings stirred in the back of my head as I carried, first Emma, and then Tommy, from the car and put them on our large sofa in the darkened family room. They woke slightly and then went immediately back to sleep. I decided not to move them, but rather let them sleep there until morning. I retrieved my bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum (100 proof) from the bar and sat down in the dark between my children. I began to think about tomorrow morning, the future and my alternatives.

Dee and Linda, as well as the rest of my former friends, apparently, expected me to accept this picadillo in our marriage and go on as if nothing had changed. I guess the thought of fucking the Asshole, for Linda in actuality, and for Dee and the other ladies vicariously, had made them all delusional. Still, I didn't know how I was going to deal with Linda face-to-face.

It seemed to me that only obvious choices I have are to (1) accept the humiliating role of being a cuckold for the rest of my marriage for the sake of the children or (2) salvage my pride by divorcing Linda, becoming a single dad and having only limited access to my children.

I tried not to feel sorry for myself, but at times, I wept quietly. Emma woke up a one point and asked me why I was sad. "Is it because Mommy isn't here?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "It's because Mommy is someplace else."

Emma hugged me, curled up with my arm around her and fell asleep again.

It was early morning and I was still sitting between my sleeping children when I thought of something that might help--a person that might help. Her name was Thalya Starling. She was a family law attorney and she was a friend, although I had not seen her in almost a year. We were in college together and dated for a while when we were freshmen and sophomores. As her studies took her deeper into law, she had less time for romance and socializing. You could say she broke up with me but she did it in a nice way. We remained close friends until we graduated. Thalya continued her law studies at another, more prestigious university, and I went on to earn my MBA.

Initially, Thalya joined her father's law firm. After he retired, she took it over. During the next few years, she earned a distinguished reputation as a family law practitioner and a litigator. She had even dabbled in what she called "light criminal law".

Thalya was the only person I could think of who might be of some help to me in my current situation. Her seldom-used phone number was in my list of contacts. It was exactly 8AM when I called her.

The phone was answered on the second ring. Before I could say anything, I heard Thalya's voice say, "Jim Carlisle, as I live and breathe."

"Yes, it's me," I responded. "I hope I'm not disturbing you at this hour of the morning."

"Not at all. I was just finishing my second cup of coffee, and I was on the way out the door for a five-mile run."

"You never did neglect yourself physically," I said. "I imagine you're just as hot as I always thought you were."

You wouldn't think so if you ever saw me in court. I wear a full-length, black pencil skirt and matching jacket, my blouse is loose and not form fitting, and I wear flat-heeled shoes. Further, my hair is pulled back into a tight bun and I use very little make-up. I find that the people I deal with professionally take me much more seriously that way than they would otherwise.

"How are you doing, Jim?" she asked as a routine inquiry from a friend that she had not seen for almost a year--the last time being when I reviewed my will and trust.

I hesitated to answer, which probably gave her the perception that my life was not as happy as it was supposed to be. Finally, I said, "I've been better."

She went right to the point as was her style as a trained lawyer. "Why are you calling, Jim? I have the feeling it is not just to say hello and catch up on old times."

"You're right, Thalya. I have been hit with some heavy-duty problems and I need to talk with someone, a friend, who might be able to help me. I'm not handling things very well right now and don't know what to do about what has happened."

Again, the perceptive lawyer showed her insight into human nature. "Has this anything to do with Linda and your marriage?"

"Yes," I answered sadly. "It has everything to do with Linda."

"I'm so, so sorry to hear that, Jim. Let me get one of my yellow legal pads so I can make some notes and then tell me everything that's bothering you."

Over the next thirty minutes, I related everything that happened since Friday evening. I tried to keep from crying, but at times I had to stop and then start again.

"Jesus Christ!" Thalya said when I had finished. "I can't begin to imagine the emotional trauma you are dealing with."

"What can I do, Thalya? I asked forlornly. "I can see only two ways out of this and both of them are bad. In fact, either alternative does not seem viable. If I divorce her, I'll lose my kids. If I stay with her, I'll have to live with an unfaithful wife as a knowing cuckold. Neither of the options are acceptable to me.

"Linda will be home in a few hours and I would like to have a solution of some sort that I can live with."

"Okay, Jim," she paused for a long moment. "I'm going to ask you a series of questions that should help me form a possible point of departure for you. I recognize the fact that you're hurt, you're angry and you have been humiliated. I sense, too, that you don't want to be around her and you intend to go somewhere as soon as your initial confrontation is over. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. If it wasn't for the kids, I would have left already... for where, I don't know, but I wouldn't be here when she returned."

"Before we go any further, I have to be assured that you don't intend to hurt her. I'm certain you would like to slap her silly, but whatever you do, don't touch her in any way. Is that understood?"

"I promise, Thalya, I won't touch her physically in any way."

"Next, you cannot let any confrontation you have with her degenerate into a shouting match with angry accusations and recriminations that cannot be rescinded. You have to keep your conversation civil. Avoid swear words. Try to take the high road. Be as courteous and polite as possible. Do you understand?"

"I will do my best, Thalya. I promise"

"Next, I want you to record your conversation with Linda if you can. It would be best if Linda did not know she was being recorded, otherwise she will be circumspect with what she says. Since the recording will be in your own house, it will be legal."

"I have an old digital Pearl Recorder in my desk. It's very compact, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. I'll put some fresh batteries in it and hide it under a newspaper on the dining room table. As I recall, it has an optional voice-activated feature."

"That's perfect," she replied.

I was starting to feel better already, even though no course of action had been decided. It was just comforting to know someone was there for me.

Thalya spent twenty minutes or so asking me questions about my finances, my lifestyle, my job, my extracurricular activities, long-range goals and the plans I had for the future.

After a long, quiet interlude, Thalya told me that there was no way she could come up with an instant plan that would solve all my problems, or any of them, for that matter. She went on to say that she had handled hundreds of divorce cases and they could be divided into groups. She said that there are dozens of reasons for divorce, but most of them center around infidelity and money, with custody of minor children always a consideration.

She went on to say that she would be bold enough to recommend an initial response to Linda's adultery that would give me control of the situation while providing me with the separation I wanted in time and distance. She emphasized that nothing in her recommendation was permanent, and alterations and changes could be made over time. She even stressed that changes would probably be made as the situation changed in character, and particularly as tempers and emotions cooled over time.

I listened carefully to everything Thalya had to say. What I liked about her immediate solution to the problem was that it was a plan. It was something that put me in control of my immediate future. However, as she pointed out, there were drawbacks. The big one was that I would initially become separated from the daily lives of my children.

Thalya sensed that this was something that would be extremely difficult for me. She concluded with, "Jim, if it eventually comes to that, there are worse things than being a single dad. One of them is being in a loveless marriage. Children will suffer far more if they have to endure a set of parents that could not get along with each other."

Thalya concluded the telephone conversation by saying that we had an appointment in her office on Monday morning at 10AM. Further, she went on to point out that I was an emotional wreck and needed professional help fast. She said that in her line of work, many of her clients often needed psychological help and she had a number of psychologists she could recommend to me. She said she would send me a recommendation and expected me to make an appointment within a few days.

With everything said, Thalya altered her point of view and changed from the lawyer back into my friend. "Jim, I want you to know that I am your friend in this matter. Let me know what I can do for you as a friend, as a close friend. When we dated in college, I always regarded you as my white knight. You never pressured me for sex, even though I knew you wanted me. You supported me when I devoted myself to my law studies. There's not much I wouldn't do to help you through this."

"Thank you, Thalya," I said. "You can't imagine how much you've helped already."

Based on Thalya's advice, I called a friend of mine, Gene Simpson, who was the managing broker of a local real estate office. Without going into detail about my marital problems, I told him that was moving out of the house immediately and intended to make reservations at a near-by Marriott Suites Hotel until I could find a permanent place of my own. I described the type of living arrangements I wanted, along with the requirements of distance from my present home. Gene said he would get back to me directly.

My kids were still asleep on the sofa when I finished my conversation with Thalya. I took advantage of the time I had to pack my car. It actually didn't take that much time: clothes for work, casual pants and shirts, underwear, socks and t-shirts, shoes, toiletries, etc. Also, I disconnected my computer and the peripherals and packed them in the car as well.

The kids were going to wake up soon so I started breakfast--pancakes with embedded apple slices, bacon and fried potatoes. I wasn't hungry, but I did make a big pot of coffee for myself.

I sat at the kitchen table for an hour or more, drinking coffee and trying to decide how I was going to deal with Linda when she returned home. I could foresee loud arguments, recriminations and even physical abuse if things got out of control. I didn't want that. I didn't want my kids exposed to that. I had promised Thalya that I would avoid that at any cost.

Neither did I want to hear her excuses for doing what she did.

I decided to say very little between the time Linda arrived home and the time I left--only outlining what the immediate future would bring. She might look at it as the silent or near-silent treatment, but it was the best way to avoid prolonged conflict. When I got my head on straight, I would return to deal with Linda and my marriage in greater detail.

As I was putting my dishes into the sink, my eyes fell on our refrigerator door. Tommy's crayon picture of his family was done in the typical style of a four-year-old. He'd taken the trouble to get everyone's hair and eye color right, though, even his sister's, and there was no mistaking the happiness and love felt by the artist. What would it do to him if I let his mother and the Asshole rip his family in half? What would happen to my girl Emma?

I knew that Emma and Tommy were nowhere in Linda's thoughts at that moment. I wasn't either. She deserved to lose us all, but to give her what she deserved, I would have to ruin the world of my two young innocents. I could never do that. If I couldn't, then what? I had no idea.

A little after 10AM, Gene called me. "You must live right or something, Jim. I think I have just what you are looking for. There are several townhomes available at The Gardens, a gated community about a mile and a half from you. One of them is an end unit with three-bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths and a two-car garage. It's habitable, but it's in bad shape because of a fire. Similar townhomes in that complex go for four-hundred-thousand dollars or so. A renovator offered the owner three-hundred-thousand. That included the repair costs and his profit of fifty-thousand dollars when he sold it. If you can make a cash offer for three-hundred and thirty-thousand or so, I'm certain you could get it."

"That sounds good to me, Gene. Let me review my finances and see what I can swing. Will you be available to show it to me this afternoon?"

"I can do that. Realtors work seven days a week. Call me when you have a few minutes and I'll meet you there for a showing."

I did a quick review of my financial resources in my mind. Half of our investments would amount to one-hundred and seventy-five-thousand dollars. My IRA was worth another one-hundred and seventy-five-thousand. That was enough to swing the deal and have a little leftover for renovations. However, I would be facing a stiff penalty from the IRS for cashing in my IRA before I was seventy-two years old. Also, the profit on all the stocks in my Fidelity accounts would generate a lot of taxable income. I could try to get a home equity loan soon after I bought the townhouse and pay off the tax burden next April. I couldn't calculate all the costs associated with a change of address, but I thought I had enough going for me that I became even more comfortable with my financial future.

It was about 1PM when I heard a sports car with a loud engine pull into the driveway. The kids had lazily been watching

Frozen

all morning and were still in their pajamas.

"Mommy's home!" shouted Emma.

The kids started for the front door, and I was barely able to intercept them before we all made it to the porch. We stood in the shade of the porch and marveled at the cherry-red Ferrari convertible in the driveway. The Asshole exited his side of the car dressed in slacks, a pullover sports shirt and sandals. He crossed to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Linda, who waited for him to show this gentlemanly courtesy. Once she stood up, the Asshole embraced her and she put her arms around his neck. They kissed passionately.

Emma pulled away from me immediately and ran down the porch steps and over to her mom. "You shouldn't be kissing that man, Mommy!" she yelled. She grabbed Linda's dress and started pulling her away from the Asshole.

Linda suddenly realized that she was surrounded by her children. "What are you doing home?" she exclaimed.

She quickly disentangled herself from the Asshole, and as she did, Tommy started pushing the Asshole away from his mom. "Go away. Go away," he said in a voice that seemed so commanding for a four-year-old child.

Linda gathered her children around her and turned to the Asshole. "It was wonderful, but you had better leave now."

As the Asshole turned to get back in his car and as Linda started toward the house, they both saw me standing on the porch with my arms crossed and an angry expression on my face.

The Asshole couldn't help but smirk at me as he pulled out of my driveway. He peeled rubber in the street, and as he did so, he held up his hand with his index finger extended.

Before entering the house, Linda stopped and in an angry voice, as if it was my fault, she said, "You shouldn't have let them see that."

There were a hundred things I could have said to Linda at that time, but I knew it would just start to lead to an argument and recriminations, all of which I wanted to avoid for the sake of the children. So, I reminded myself of my plan to say very little before I left."