Small Concrete Actions Ch. 01

I am a first time author here. I decided to write my first story as a 750 word story.

I finished the first part and felt I had more story to tell, It turned into a four part story with each part having 750 words.

I provided two endings so you can pick your poison.

I am publishing this without an editor looking at it. I know it is a bad idea to do that, but I couldn't find one. I attempted to find an editor using the "find editor" tool, but received no response. Either I did it incorrectly or no one was interested. Rather than wait, I'm letting it go as is.

If you would like to volunteer to be a beta reader or an editor, please contact me through the site.

As a first time author, positive feedback would be greatly appreciated.

***

The sounds coming from my bedroom were unmistakable. My wife Katie was usually quiet and passive in bed, but right now, she was so filled with passion that she was screaming at him to pound her harder. She was on track for a massive orgasm.

It was a cliché. I'd forgotten my lunch-- leftovers of a tomahawk ribeye I'd shared with Katie the night before at Kazinski's Steakhouse. We'd gone there to celebrate my promotion. After years of hard work and determination, I hit pay dirt. I won the fifty million dollar Landen contract away from the competition and delivered the transition project on time and on budget. The folks at Landen were delighted and executed their final sign off last Friday.

For my efforts, the founders of my firm made me a partner. It dectupled my salary. I was given a paid relocation to the headquarters in Parkland, Florida. The commission check would be more than enough to buy our dream house. This was a life-changing break for us. Last night, Katie had cried in joy when she realized that she'd finally be able to quit her mind-numbing accounting job and start having the kids we wanted. Our new life was supposed to begin with a house hunting trip to Florida on Wednesday.

It was not meant to be.

As I contemplated the sounds, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to confront them. I wanted to threaten them. I wanted to run away. I wanted to get drunk to dodge the pain. I wanted to beat them up. I wanted to seek sage advice. All at once.

I was lost.

My grandfather saw combat. He'd warned me that in a crisis situation not to fall victim to analysis paralysis. He said, "Immediately take small concrete actions which will improve your circumstances. Don't waste time weighing options. Do the first positive thing that comes to mind."

I looked in the garage. There was a pickup with a ladder rack parked next to Katie's car. It had the logo of Katie's employer. That confirmed he was BB Arceneaux. He was the football star Katie once drunkenly admitted to lusting after all through high school. He was second string at Georgia until his knee injury. Months ago, she'd mentioned he was hired as her employer's handyman. The way she'd gushed when she told me he'd remembered her had raised my hackles.

I disconnected the garage opener track and latched the dead bolt on the door. It would have to be opened manually now. That wouldn't be quick. I cut the flip valve off of my bike pump hose with hedge clippers. I latched it to the front left valve stem on the pickup. The steady hiss meant the tire would be flat shortly.

My cell was at the office, but I had my pocket voice recorder. I went to the stairs. They had disrobed here. As I crept upstairs I felt a sharp pain in my foot. I stepped on a vape pen sticking out of the pocket of a pair of men's jeans. I smelled marijuana-- still illegal in this state. That gave me an idea.

The bedroom door was open. Katie was groaning as Arceneaux thrust into her, but was no longer talking. She must have had the big orgasm when I was the garage. I activated the recorder and slid it behind the door.

I grabbed some toilet paper from the hall bathroom, wrapped it around the pen, activated it through the paper, and slid it deep into the jeans pocket. I didn't think it would burn, but it should smoke like crazy. I dumped the jeans away from the stairs.

I turned the ringer off on the landline. I pulled the valve off the now flat tire.

Small concrete positive actions.

Arceneaux was groaning his finish when I left.

The fire alarm went off. The alarm service callback wasn't answered. A buck naked Arceneaux was still trying to get his truck out of the garage when the police and firemen arrived. He was arrested for marijuana possession.

The police report was thorough. They'd both lose their jobs. Arceneaux's wife would learn all.

Katie's disconsolate apology was backed up by the recording. Her post-coital "one time fling to get it out of my system" dialog with Arceneaux confirmed she wasn't lying.

Their horrified reaction to the alarm and the smoke made me laugh myself sick. They say laughter is the best medicine.

I left for Parkland alone.