Warning: This is not a BTB story since it is, after all, a Christmas story.

I would like to thank OmegaPet58 for their brilliant editorship of this story. This is the second of my stories which they have molded into a semi-coherent read. Imagine repeatedly throwing a tennis ball at a keyboard, and then sending on that finished product to someone to fashion into something approaching readability. That is the task that OmegaPet58 faces. I am humbled by their ability and patience,

I would also like to thank A.A. Nemo. He was one of the first authors that I read when I found this site and his story That Look of Love, was my introduction to the cheating wives genre. Damn you. His story A Tyler Christmas was my impetus to try my hand at writing. I know it’s been years, but I would like to see another cheating wives story from you.

Third-person POV is sandwiched between@@@’s.

Valentine’s Day

“I signed up the two of us for ‘Paradise’ and myself for ‘Hero,’” Traci said as she sat down across from me.

I took a sip of bourbon and nodded my head. I was still trying to thaw myself out after the two-block walk from Gibson’s to Division Street. The temperature had reached a low of 5 degrees but with the wind chill, it felt like it was -2 degrees outside. I had taken Traci out for a nice romantic Valentine’s Day dinner. When Traci saw where I was taking her for karaoke after dinner, she jumped up and down, clapping with excitement. Traci loved to sing in public.

‘Fucking Chicago winters,’ I thought for about the one-millionth time.

The Dive on Division had just opened a month ago and Thursday nights were karaoke nights. This was our first time visiting the bar on Thursday, although we had dropped by a couple of times since the grand opening. Division Street in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood had long been one of the liveliest streets in Chicago. It had been home to bars and the occasional restaurant, but since the end of the pandemic, it had really blossomed. It was a lively alternative to the Viagra Triangle, the section of the Gold Coast where State Street, Wabash Avenue, and Rush Street converge and stalwarts like Gibson’s Steakhouse and Hugo’s Frog Bar had long reigned supreme.

The Dive on Division location had gone through several iterations, most recently as a Mexican restaurant. The restaurant had lasted a little less than twelve months before becoming the Dive on Division. Our condo on North Michigan Avenue was a block away, so Division Street (as well as the Viagra Triangle) was our go-to spot for drinks or meals. Usually, we had my daughter Emma with us. I wanted to take Traci out for a Valentine’s Day dinner and for purely selfish reasons, surprise her with karaoke. Emma was staying the night with Al and Jean D’Amico, Traci’s parents who owned and lived in a condo on the top floor of our building.

Nick, the owner of the Dive on Division got on the mic to announce that karaoke would begin in fifteen minutes and Traci excused herself to go to the ladies’ room while I pulled up the lyrics to the song she had chosen for us. I knew the song as well as I knew my own name, but who wants to make a fool of themselves on stage?

In the seventies and eighties, my parents had been big fans of a certain genre of rock that blended a certain amount of theater with the music. What drew them to the genre was a songwriter by the name of Jim Steinman. Steinman was not your typical songwriter. As a matter of fact, it was well known that a famous music producer had told Steinman that he didn’t know shit about writing music. That was why it took Steinman and Marvin Aday a/k/a Meatloaf almost three years to sell their concept album “Bat out of Hell.” One of the songs on that album was “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.”

When Traci was looking for a song for us to duet with a couple of years ago, I played her a YouTube video of Meatloaf and Karla Devito singing the song and she loved it. That song became our go-to song for karaoke duets. This soon led to Traci discovering “Holding Out for a Hero,” a song that Steinman had written for Bonnie Tyler for the film Footloose.

A word about my wife: Traci Connery (nee D’Amico) is a knockout. Tall at 5’10” slim, and blonde, with a muscular bubble butt (the results of daily visits to our condo building’s workout room) and a 32E bust. Traci had received an MFA in musical theatre from Northwestern University and degree in hand, made the move to Los Angeles to become a star.

Traci soon discovered that it did not matter how beautiful she was or how well she could sing or act, there were a hundred girls just like her. She did book a couple of commercials and a brief part on an episode of NCIS. When she lost out on the role of “Dead Hooker #2” (not even the primary Dead Hooker!) on an episode of Law & Order, Traci began to rethink her career aspirations.

Her agreement with her parents was that they would support her for two years in her quest for stardom. But after that, she was either on her own or she had to come back to Chicago. After two years, she called it quits. “If I was going to be a waitress, I was going to do it in a place where I could afford to live somewhere other than my car,” she had told me.

Traci started work in the family business and that was where we met.

My name is Coy Connery, and I am the Fixed Operations Director for D’Amico Lincoln-Ford. In other words, the service manager, parts manager, and body shop manager all report to me. It was a position I have held for five years now and is how I met Traci three years ago. She is the only child of Al and Jean D’Amico. There are currently eight D’Amico Automotive Group dealerships scattered throughout the Chicagoland area, with DLF in Lincoln Park being the largest. Traci manages payroll for all the DAG dealerships from D’Amico’s main office at D’Amico Porsche-Jaguar in Chicago’s Gold Coast.

I was a single father of a two-year-old and working the long hours that my position demanded when I first met Traci. I had been engaged to my daughter’s mother, Caroline, when Emma was born. We had been high school sweethearts and had been each other’s first everything; date, kiss, sexual experience, etc. Caroline had been excited about being a mother throughout her pregnancy.

Once our daughter was born, however, Caroline started to distance herself from both of us. She was having trouble bonding with her daughter and resented having to breastfeed her. One day after a long day at DLF, I came home to find our neighbor/landlord, Mrs. Gruenwald, watching Emma. Caroline had left me a note: she couldn’t handle being a mom and did not want anything to do with Emma or me, and not to chase after her. All her belongings had been removed from our apartment.

I reached out to Caroline’s mother, and she asked me to stop by and bring Emma with her. Caroline’s mother picked up Emma and gave her a gentle hug and a kiss on her forehead. She handed Emma to me and told me to leave and never come back. Crying and sobbing heavily, she told me to never return. I realized that she was choosing her daughter over her granddaughter, and I needed to protect Emma.

I took Caroline and her mother at their word, found a top-tier family law attorney, and sued to have her parental rights taken away due to her abandonment of our child. Caroline did not contest the issue and signed away her parental rights in exchange for a written assurance that I would not pursue child support.

Life was not easy, but I managed. We lived in a three-flat that was owned by Mrs. Gruenwald who adored Emma. Mrs. G. seldom saw her kids or grandkids after her husband died so she had adopted my little family. She was heartbroken that Caroline deserted us and tried to make our lives as easy as possible. Our rent was ridiculously low for the Logan’s Square neighborhood, plus Mrs. G. insisted on babysitting Emma while I worked.

Without Mrs. G., I would not have made it. My folks had moved to Texas the previous year and although they offered to help me move down there, I was a Chicago guy. Moving to Texas held little appeal to me.

I was twenty-three years old and had been a service advisor for DLF for a little less than one year when our service manager quit without notice. His departure left us in the lurch and Al frustrated. I met with Al in his office and offered him a deal.

“Promote me to Service Manager for a six-month trial period with no pay raise. If I don’t do at least as good a job as the last service manager, then demote me; no harm, no foul. But, if I did do a good job, then the position would be permanent, and the raise would be retroactive to the date I was promoted.”

The only thing I asked was to keep the deal just between the two of us. If the staff suspected that I was temporary, then they would have zero respect for me. I would be done before I began.

Al often said that shaking my hand on that deal was the smartest decision that he had made since asking Jean to marry him. I was lucky in that Al D’Amico saw something in me.

Once I had proven myself, he gave me a lot of latitude about taking time off for my daughter. In return, I had grown his service business and DLF to the point that we had become large enough to warrant me transitioning from service manager to service director to director of fixed operations.

We were the largest Ford and Lincoln dealership in the Midwest and our service department was the number one rated service department in the country. I had a great staff of service advisers, mechanics, body men (and women), and supervisors working for me. I encouraged union participation and paid above union scale. Al was not thrilled about that part, but the results spoke for themselves. We were a smooth-running machine.

During my drama with Caroline, Traci had been trying to make it in Hollywood. When that petered out and she returned to Chicago, Emma was two years old. Thanks to my DLF salary, we had a comfortable life. Mrs. G. to watched her during the day and (since our service department was closed on the weekends) we had plenty of time for father-daughter bonding time. I loved Emma more than life and her smile and happiness were what I lived for. I was aware before she moved to California that Al had a daughter named Traci, but she never came into our dealership, so I did not interact with her.

The first time she walked into the service department at DLF there was an immediate and shared attraction. I asked Traci out for lunch, and we immediately knew that there could be something between us. On our third date we walked by a bar in Wrigleyville that had a sign on the sidewalk: “Karaoke Tonight.” Traci dragged me inside.

She quickly filled out a couple of slips of paper and turned them in to the bar employee who was managing Karaoke. I grinned at her and also filled out and submitted a slip of paper.

“What are you singing?” Traci asked.

“A song,” I replied with a laugh as Traci rolled her eyes.

When Traci was called to the makeshift stage, she sang the old Cher song, “Believe.” And she knocked it out of the park. I knew that she could sing and had tried to make it in Hollywood, but I had no idea that she was that talented.

When Traci got back to our table, it looked like her nipples were trying to jailbreak from her sweater. She leaned over and gave me a kiss, running her tongue across my lips, and smiled at me.

“Performing in front of a crowd kind of gets my motor running,” she whispered.

I was called to the stage next, and I sang the Chris Isaak classic, “Wicked Game.” Traci and I had never talked about it, but both my parents were good singers. My dad had been the lead singer in a garage band in college and my mother had been in the glee club in high school and college.

I wasn’t the greatest singer in Chicago, but I was pretty good and could sing in a lower register and then immediately hit the high notes that “Wicked Game” required. When I sat down at our table after finishing my song, Traci was breathing hard, and her eyes were dilated. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me out of the bar—not even waiting for her second song.

When the cab dropped us off at my home, she watched impatiently as I fumbled with the keys to unlock my door. Once inside, she jumped into my arms and kissed me and wrapped her legs around me as I shuffled to my bedroom. The scent of her arousal was overwhelming. As I pushed her skirt up over her hips to remove her panties, I could see they were soaked through the small triangle of her thong.

I had been with a couple of girls since Caroline had left me, but nothing compared to making love to Traci. Despite being drenched, her sheath held me snugly. Our first time was frantic and rushed, but satisfying, nonetheless. Her moans turned to howls as she orgasmed. And she orgasmed often and easily. It was unlike any experience of my life. We made love three times before midnight.

When Traci went to sleep, she rolled over so that her head was on my shoulder and her leg was thrown over mine. While she snored, softly, sleep eluded me as my thoughts raced from overstimulation.

I was in love.

We left early the next morning so I could drop Tracy off at her home so she could shower and change. Before leaving, I stopped by Mrs. G.’s first-floor flat to see Emma while Traci waited in the car.

“I almost called the police last night,” Mrs. G. said.

“Why? What happened?” I asked in alarm. I had heard nothing last night.

“It sounded like a couple of alley cats were going at it all night,” she replied with a smirk as I turned red with embarrassment. Mrs. G. had been after me to find a good woman ever since Caroline bolted.

We dated for three months before I introduced her to Emma. She immediately became attached to Traci and for her part, Traci adored Emma. Blonde, blue-eyed, and destined to be a beautiful woman, Emma could have passed for Traci’s daughter. Indeed, most people automatically assumed that Traci was Emma’s mother and Traci never bothered to correct them.

Al D’Amico was thrilled that I wanted to marry Traci. I asked his permission, of course, and he could not give it fast enough. Traci was Al’s only child since Al’s oldest brother had been killed in a carjacking in Cicero several years ago. He had no children, so the future of D’Amico Automotive was Traci’s destiny. With me as her husband, Al knew that his family’s legacy was in good hands.

It was good timing because Mrs. G suffered a stroke from which she never recovered. Her children swooped in to pick over her estate and made it clear to me that they would be doubling my rent. Emma and I moved into Traci’s condo and shortly after, we were married.

Traci and I were in our third year of marriage, and we were talking about giving Emma a sister. We had decided that Traci should have her IUD removed and we would start trying for real. Tonight, Valentine’s Day, was our first night out since coming to that decision.

We were the fourth singers called to the front of the bar for karaoke. The music started, and the lyrics started scrolling, although I knew them as well as I knew my own name.

I remember every little thingAs if it happened only yesterday
Parking by the lake
And there was not another car in sight
And I never had a girl
Looking any better than you did
And all the kids at school
They were wishing they were me that night
And now our bodies are oh so close and tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right
And we’re glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
Glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
C’mon! Hold on tight!
C’mon! Hold on tight!{br}

Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark nightI can see paradise by the dashboard light

Traci had watched the video of Meatloaf and Karla Devito enough that she knew the moves. She knew when to turn her back to me and knew when to stand apart with her arms crossed looking irritated and when to stand back-to-back with me. I sang my parts well; for karaoke my performance was more than passable. Traci rocked it and had the crowd on their feet.

A few singers later it was her turn again. She sang “Holding Out for a Hero”, and she once again brought the crowd to their feet.

After she sat down to take a breather, I left to go to the restroom. When I returned, a stranger was sitting in my chair leaning in towards Traci. Since the table was a two-top, I stood there awkwardly for a second until Traci realized that I had returned. The stranger stood and stuck out his hand.

“Coy, this is Rick Ryker. He has a band and just asked me to join!”

I looked at Ryker and was not exactly impressed with what I saw. Long hair, skin-tight jeans with a wide leather belt. He had leather bands on each wrist and a long scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looked to be in his forties, was tanned, and had blonde hair with some gray scattered throughout. If the look he was going for was “aging rock star gone to seed,” he was pulling it off.

“Hi, Coy. I am glad to meet you! You did an amazing job up there!” His smile seemed friendly, and he expressed genuine enthusiasm for my performance.

“Thanks, but we know who the real star in the family is. What’s this about a band?”

Rick grabbed an empty chair from a four-top after first asking permission (points to him for that) and sat down.

“I’m the founder and lead singer of a local band, The Meltdown. We mostly perform at festivals, corporate events, and weddings. Our typical set list is heavy on AC/DC, Guns ‘n Roses, etcetera. We’ve never quite caught on like we should have, considering our talent, and I want to re-tool the direction of the band. I’ve had some thoughts, but Traci’s performance hit me like a bolt of lightning. I have this idea now about what I want to do with the band, and I think that Traci is the key.”

I sat back and contemplated Rick Ryker.

Winters are brutal in Chicago, and the summers are short but glorious. Various neighborhoods and suburbs begin putting on their festivals in late May. Live music, beer and wine, art, and loads of other crap for sale.

A typical fest will start on Friday and end on Sunday. There will be live music on at least one stage on Friday night, all day on Saturday, and until 6:00 PM or so on Sunday night. Sometimes the bands will repeat throughout the weekend and sometimes they will only play once. Lesser bands will play early in the day and the last band of the day will be either a well-known local band or in some cases, a band that was once famous back in the day but refused to call it quits and so played the festival circuit.

The local bands are made up of either full-time musicians or part-time musicians for whom the bands are strictly a side hustle. Looking at Ryker, you could tell he was the former.

I looked at Traci. “Is this something you’re considering doing?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe. You know I love being on stage and performing. Even this little bit of applause is great for my ego. I’m willing to check out his band and see what they’re about. But that’s it for now.”

Ryker excused himself after leaving a business card with Traci with the name of his band, his email address, and the band’s website address. Shortly afterward, we left as well. It had been an interesting evening.

Back at our condo, the odor of Traci’s arousal wafted through the bedroom. Her thong was soaked through, as I knew it would be. It was a very good Valentine’s Night.

Traci found a few videos of The Meltdown on YouTube: a few single-song videos and an hour-long concert video from last year’s Taste of Wicker Park festival. The issue was that the audience seemed to lean heavily towards high school boys. Festival bands are not there to entertain. They are there to draw crowds willing to spend money on the overpriced food and beer and lure people with disposable income willing to dispose of that income on badly made art and knock-off designer sunglasses. Fifteen-year-old boys are not a festival’s target audience.

Judging by the overhead sunlight in the concert video the band performed at around noon. not a good time. Ryker was probably having trouble getting good bookings for his band. Without the name recognition from being a popular fest band, he would not be able to get better gigs at bars, weddings, or corporate events.

I was not completely on board with Traci singing with Ryker’s band. However, I knew that the applause fed something deep within her. Most people who crave adulation are deeply insecure. Despite Traci’s beauty and talent, she was as insecure as any actor or musician.

She invited Ryker to our home to discuss his plans.

Ryker wanted to go in a different direction with The Meltdown. Instead of AC/DC, he wanted to pivot to a more theatrical show. He was familiar with the songs that Traci and I had performed on karaoke night, but he had never really paid attention to them. When he got home, he read up on Jim Steinman and watched other videos of songs that he had written and produced.

“I was blown away! How could I not be familiar with this guy? And Meatloaf? I always thought he was just some fat white guy from back in the day. Dude, thanks to you and Traci, I see a whole different approach!”

What Ryker wanted to do was mix a few Steinman songs in with a few Broadway tunes.

“I’m thinking I’ll start with the song “Bat Out of Hell” and then go into “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” and then Traci will sing “Somewhere” from West Side Story. I had never even heard of those songs until you showed me something in a whole new light. I’m thinking of a couple of ABBA songs and one or two Fleetwood Mac songs. This would be a show that the chicks would really dig. And that would bring in the guys and the guys are the ones who spend the big bucks at the fests.

“It’s not the kind of music that I thought I’d be playing, but some of these songs are pretty damned good so I can live with it, and performing is performing. So, what do you think, Traci? Are you in?”

Ryker was disappointed that Traci did not jump into the pool with both feet. She explained to him that we would have to discuss it and she would let him know.

After Ryker left, I could tell that she had something she wanted to say.

“I know that we had talked about having my IUD removed and having kids, but performing with the band is something I want to do first.”

“How do you see this working? It would mean hours every week in rehearsal and then you would be gone on weekends. You have job responsibilities with your dad. Plus, it would mean that Emma and I would hardly ever see you.”

Traci cupped my face in her hand. “I will be home every night. I need you like I need air and water. And I could never be away from Emma. I couldn’t love her more if I gave birth to her myself. I will always make time for my family.”

She decided she would work out something with her dad that allowed her to join The Meltdown. Her parents knew how important performing was to her, but they thought that she had got most of it out of her system in her ill-fated Hollywood experience. Her mother, Jean, was skeptical but her dad reluctantly accepted her desire to cut back on her hours at D’Amico Automotive. about the whole thing.

I had a bad feeling about the whole thing and especially Rick Ryker.

But Traci stuck to her word. Seldom rehearsing past 7:00 PM, Traci was always home to give Emma a kiss goodnight. As winter headed towards spring the band gelled, putting together a sixty-minute show and a two-hour show. They recorded and uploaded to YouTube a couple of high-definition videos. Then they sent emails to the various festival organizers in the Chicagoland area.

It did not take long for fests to show interest. There were a few bands that would always be good draws, but there were also plenty of bands that faded away. Hunting for bands that were new and different was a never-ending process for festival organizers.

The band wasn’t yet getting booked for evenings, but their new direction proved to be popular with festival organizers. They were soon booked through June with most performances at either 4:00 PM or 6:00 PM. Not as good as the coveted 8:00 PM slot, but a hell of a lot better than noon.

The Meltdown was scheduled for every Saturday and Sunday. Some weeks they were scheduled for both days at the same festival. But most of the time, they were scheduled at different festivals on successive days. They only had one Friday show in June. Friday nights only allowed for two shows: a 6:00 PM and an 8:00 PM. They were able to book one 6:00 PM show but no 8:00 PM shows. Still, things were looking up for the band.

By the middle of June, word had started to get out about The Meltdown. The teenage boys stayed away in droves but women in their twenties through their forties suddenly had a new favorite festival band.

It was the third weekend in June when Ryker got the call that would take them to the next step. The organizers at Taste of Wrigleyville told him they needed an act for 8:00 PM on Saturday. Curtis Glow and the Sugarcane Gang, a mostly white group doing old-school hip-hop were being forced to cancel due to the unfortunate arrest of Robert Van Dyne, a/k/a Curtis Glow, for insider trading at his full-time job at JP Morgan.

The Meltdown was on fire that night and the Wrigleyville crowds were blown away. It was not just the north siders in attendance. That weekend was the annual subway series between the Sox and the Cubs. The area around Wrigley Field was packed with people from all over Chicagoland, and as far away as Wisconsin and Indiana.

But the really big next step happened after their show. Two of the organizers of Milwaukee’s Summerfest were in attendance, saw The Meltdown’s show, and were impressed enough with the band to offer them a couple of slots at the last series of shows at Summerfest from July 4^th through July 8^th.

Suddenly, Traci was going to get all the adulation and attention she could ever want or need. All it would cost her was her marriage.

Emma and I had gone to the first few Meltdown shows of the festival season, but the fests were no place for a six-year-old. There was no place to sit, so everyone stood. There was very little in the way of family entertainment so most of our time was spent walking from vendor tent to vendor tent. Emma got a free stress ball from a cellular phone provider and a free bottle opener from a water filtration company. From there, it was on to some really bad artwork from people whose parents had obviously lied to them for years about being talented. She was bored, and, frankly, so was I.

As the time for The Meltdown to perform would draw near, we would wander over to obtain spots near the stage to watch Traci perform. It was obvious she was in her element when she was on stage but strange and a bit disconcerting to watch her sing “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” with someone else.

For a couple of years that had been “our” song to the point that she had a set routine that she followed when singing her part. It was uncomfortable watching her stand with her arms crossed in mock irritation with Ryker or stand back-to-back with him singing in duet.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the performance.

Regardless of how I felt, as much as she enjoyed watching her stepmother perform, Emma did not enjoy going to the festivals. After two fests, we stopped going. I explained that it was too much for Emma and while disappointed, Traci understood.

The band continued weekday rehearsals while constantly tweaking its set list and adding new songs.

As The Meltdown continued rising in local popularity, Traci seemed to distance herself from me and Emma. It was subtle at first. At first, Traci would drop to her knees when seeing Emma and give her a big hug. Nowadays, she would squat down and give just a quick hug. Several times, I noticed a sad look on Emma’s face. Traci also seemed less affectionate with me and more guarded with her cell phone.

I am a lot of things, but I am neither naïve nor am I gullible. Traci was probably cheating on me and I knew that if she was, our marriage was over. I did what any concerned husband would do, I hired a private investigator.

Lisa Larson was the family law attorney I met with. She recommended we use her husband Paul to investigate before we started any legal action. Paul had spent several years in US Army Intelligence on what he called both the HUMINT (human intelligence, or traditional spying) and SIGINT (signal intelligence, or electronic intelligence) sides of intelligence gathering. He had gone into business for himself after retiring as a warrant officer (what he called a CW4). He mostly worked on industrial espionage cases, but since his wife specialized in family law, he did occasional jobs for her.

Paul followed Traci from rehearsal to home several times and did not see anything unusual. He had trackers as well as a voice-activated recorder secreted in her car. We arranged for a time to email an attachment to Traci’s cell phone, which I was able to open while she slept. It took a long time to unlock her phone’s facial recognition security, and I was about to give up in frustration when Traci mumbled something in her sleep and groggily opened her eyes for a split second. I was holding her phone at just the right angle for it to unlock. I hoped she did not remember seeing me standing over her when she woke in the morning.