One Night in Bridgeport

By Mark Paxson

Jack McGee is on his way to having it all -- a promising legal career, marriage to his high school sweetheart, and a happy
normal life -- when his boss sends him to do some legal work in Bridgeport, California. There he meets a gorgeous local
girl, Lea Rogers, and he throws caution to the wind – for one night.

The next morning, Jack panics when he realizes what he's risked and rushes home, content to leave Bridgeport, Lea, and
their steamy night together buried forever. A few days later, Jack loses everything when he is arrested for rape and hauled
back to Bridgeport, a small town full of secrets and intrigue and citizens determined to destroy Jack.

One Night in Bridgeport is an intriguing tale of lust and vengeance, and of one man's desperate attempt to salvage his
life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: King Midget Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986699240

Book preview

ALSO BY MARK PAXSON

––––––––

The Marfa Lights and Other Stories

Shady Acres and Other Stories

Deviation: A Long Short Story

The Irrepairable Past

The Dime

The Basement

Killing Berthold Gambrel

Follow me at:

www.markpaxson.com

www.kingmidgetramblings.wordpress.com

On Twitter: @mkpaxson

On Instagram: @mkpaxson

Slice of Life Stories - an occasionally updated podcast with stories and writing updates available on podcast platforms everywhere.

One Night

In Bridgeport

Mark Paxson

This is a King Midget Press book.

Copyright © 2012, 2023 Mark Paxson

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9866992-4-0

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9866992-5-7

All rights reserved

Published in the United States

––––––––

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Karen Phillips (PhillipsCovers.com)

Back cover photograph by Holly Vierra

DEDICATION

To Crystal, who took my request for help more seriously than anybody else ever has.

––––––––

And all the others who read various drafts of this over the years.

1

June days in Bridgeport, California, begin with a chill that evaporates quickly into a dry, still heat pressing down on the town.  It was just such a morning Lea Rogers woke to in her room at the Bridgeport Inn.  Her body felt as though it was filled with lead.  Besides the pounding, there was an undeniable pressure filling her skull that she had come to know so well from her just completed college days.

Lea needed a glass of cold water to wet her parched mouth, but she lay still for a few minutes, her eyes closed, thinking of the night before.  She had had a great time with Jack.  So great that she had done something she had sworn to herself she wouldn’t do when she decided to return to Bridgeport.

Unlike the guys she had dated and slept with while she was in college, she was attracted to Jack in a very real way.  Most of the guys she had got to know while in Indiana weren’t much more than one-timers, guys she had met at frat parties or when she went out with friends.  They were good for a little fun for a night.  Maybe even a few weeks or months of hooking up.  But she never got serious about any of them.

The night before had been different somehow.  Jack seemed interested in her.  When she talked, he listened.  When he talked about something he enjoyed, like the early morning hours when he could get up, drink a cup of coffee, and read the paper while the rest of the world slept, there was a twinkle in his eyes almost as bright as the candle on the table.  That glimmer and the sly smile he shared with her spread a feeling of warmth through her body.  Lying in bed the following morning, she felt the warmth again.

When they had kissed, the electric charge that went through her body when his lips first touched hers was unlike anything she had ever felt.  The memory of his lips lightly brushing hers sent the heat deeper.  And the way his hands felt on her when he touched her had sent her over the edge.  There came a point where she couldn’t stop and she gave in to how he made her feel as he touched and caressed her.

Although it had only been one night together, she felt something for him.  A connection that went beyond anything she had ever really felt before.  Was it love?  Lea had long ago given up on the idea of love at first sight, but, based on the last twelve hours, Lea was willing to see what might happen.

Lea opened her eyes and turned over to the other side of the bed.  A sliver of sunlight reached through a crack in the drapes and specks of dust danced in its beam.  She was alone in the bed and the spot where Jack had hastily dropped his clothes the night before was empty.  She sat up far too quickly, felt the hammer in her head, and settled back down on the pillow.  Squeezing her eyes shut, Lea considered the emptiness of the room.  No pants.  No shoes.  No Jack.  Unlike the natural progression of a summer day in Bridgeport, the warmth she felt was replaced by a bolt of cold slicing through her. 

Lea carefully slid out of bed and stood in the middle of the room.  Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, Lea muttered, her voice rising with each repeat of the phrase.  Wrapping the blanket around her to ward off the cold that had sunk into her bones, she walked to the window. 

Pulling the drapes open a little, hoping the view of the mountains would help revive her spirits, Lea saw Jack instead, throwing his bag in the back seat of his car.  Before getting in, he looked up at the hotel.  His hair disheveled, his clothes a wrinkled mess, he scanned the windows, stopping ever so slightly on the one Lea stood behind, blocked from his view by the layer of sheers, before pulling the driver’s door open and getting in.  The slam of the door pulled Lea closer to the window and she watched him drive out of the lot towards Main Street, the road out of town.

Well, that little son of a bitch, Lea thought as she returned to the bed and lied down.  Tears began to stream down her cheeks.  Lea rolled over on her side and stared out the window again.  From her spot on the bed, all she could see was the brightening blue sky and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains in the distance.

When Lea was a child, she would look up at the snowcapped peaks and imagine what it would be like to wade through the snow, even during the heat of a long California summer.  When she was troubled, she could always sit on the porch and look at the mountains and find peace in them.  She now looked out the window and whispered, Is it always going to be like this?  There was no answer that brought her the peace she sought.

Instead she began to feel violated.  Cheap.  Dirty.  The memory of his touch on her skin no longer was of a tender caress, but instead she felt his hand on her like sandpaper scraping her skin raw.  Lea jumped out of the bed and went into the shower, turning the water on as hot as she could tolerate and stood under the stream coming out of the showerhead.  For a moment she didn’t move and allowed the heat to purge her skin of his touch.  Not feeling it was enough, she grabbed the soap and began washing feverishly, scouring every inch of her body.  Once, twice, three times.  By the time she was finished and had turned the water off, her skin was a bright pink, but she had scraped the dirt off.  She had washed the stink off.  She had washed every possible trace of Jack off of her body.

He was gone.  So be it.  He was an asshole and she was better for having him disappear now than to learn it later on.  Jack McGee was no better than the guys from college and maybe even worse.  For a few hours she thought he was different and allowed herself to get sucked into a romantic idea for the first time in a long time.  Back home, ready to settle down, she opened herself to him.  Now he was gone, no better or different than the rest.  She would move on and close this incredibly brief chapter of her life.  It wasn’t even a chapter.  It was a word or two in the story of her life.

2

SEVERAL DAYS EARLIER

Jack got out of his car, a ’92 Accord he had bought used five years earlier.  It was cheap, but reliable, and now it was on its last legs, wheezing its way from Sacramento through the Sierra Nevada mountains, and to the top of Monitor Pass.  Jack could almost feel the car gasping for oxygen in the thin mountain air.  Now at the pass, where the green, tree covered slopes gave way to the dry, dusty eastern Sierra Nevadas, both the car and Jack needed a break.

First thing that morning, Jack had left behind hot, smoggy, congested Sacramento for a business trip to Bridgeport, a small town of just over 800 souls, situated along Highway 395, a ribbon of concrete that runs along the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada.  There’s no fast food or Starbucks in Bridgeport.  No convenience store.  In Bridgeport, convenience is being able to buy bait and tackle, a pack of M & M’s, and a case of Budweiser at the corner market on the edge of town.

Jack had looked forward to this trip, knowing that Bridgeport was located in a small, picturesque valley, along the East Walker River, between the snow-topped mountains of the Sierra Nevada to the west and the Bodie Hills to the east.  In a desolate way, with those soaring mountains and the green of the valley, Jack considered the area to be one of the more beautiful areas in its little corner of the world.

He leaned on the hood of his car admiring the scene that confronted him.  Jack fished his cell phone out of his pocket, not expecting to get a signal, but on the phone’s screen it flickered between one and two bars.  He dialed Kelli’s number.

Hey, Honey, Jack said, after Kelli picked up following the second ring.  How hot is it?

It’s almost 100, Jack, Kelli sighed.  What’s up?

I’m standing at the top of Monitor Pass.  It’s so beautiful.  Just before I got to the pass, I drove through a huge meadow lined with aspen groves and there was a breeze that shook the leaves and branches.  It was incredible!

Sounds great, Kelli said.  Why are you telling me this?

I just wanted to share it with you, Jack replied, ignoring the note of annoyance in Kelli’s voice.  From where I’m standing right now, there’s a valley that’s spread out in front of me.  It looks like nobody’s ever touched it.  There’s no road, no buildings.  Just a smooth plain of grass between two mountain ridges.  It’s incredible, Kelli.  I wish you were here to see it.

Jack, I need to get back to my class.  The kids are coming in from the playground.

I’m sorry, Kelli.  I forgot what time it was.  I just wanted to tell you about it.  Next time I come up here, I want you to come with me.  Maybe next weekend.  It’s been a while since we’ve got out of town.

Whatever.  I need to go.

I love you, Kelli.  There wasn’t a reply as the connection was broken.  Jack wasn’t sure if Kelli had just hung up on him or the connection was lost because of the weak signal.

* * *

The night before Kelli told him she didn’t want him to go, but she couldn’t really explain why.

It’s only for a couple of nights.  I’ll be back before you know it.

But, I’ll miss you.  You’ve never been away, Kelli said, pointing out that they’d never spent a night apart since they had moved in together a few years ago.

I’ll miss you, too, Jack responded, trying to reach out and hug Kelli.  Resisting his embrace with a shrug of her shoulders, Kelli turned away from him.  What are you worried about?

I don’t know, she replied, pausing while she searched for an answer.  That something will happen to you.

Nothing’s going to happen to me.  I’m a big boy.  I can take care of myself.  Besides, I’m going to Bridgeport, not South Central Los Angeles.

That something will happen to me, Kelli said, with a note of fear in her voice.

Kelli?  You’ll be fine.  Lock the doors.  This is a safe neighborhood.  You’ve got nothing to worry about.

I guess I just don’t know why you’re going, why you have to make the trip.

Because Paul wants me to, Jack said, referring to the attorney he worked for.

But why do you want to go?  Why you?  You don’t need this job.  I’m afraid.  Maybe you’re going there to meet somebody.

Where did that come from?  You think I’m going to have some rendezvous with another woman?  Is that it?  Jack walked over to Kelli, who had sat down on their sofa.  He sat down next to her and took her hand.  Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?

No.

Then why are you worried?

Maybe it’s the wedding.  We’re only a few months away and maybe you’re having second thoughts.  She paused again and looked at Jack.  I don’t know, she exclaimed.  All I know is you’ve never left me before and it doesn’t feel right.

Everything will be fine, Jack said, reaching to Kelli again in an effort to give her a hug.  This time, she didn’t turn away, but after a perfunctory clinch, she released him and got up.

Good night, Jack.  Kelli walked back to their bedroom and closed the door. 

Jack waited until Kelli would be asleep before venturing into their room.  After getting ready for bed, he slid under the covers and lay awake thinking about the conversation.  There was something wrong, just like Kelli thought, but he couldn’t figure it out.

The next morning, Kelli offered Jack nothing more than a stony silence as she dressed for work.  He remained in bed, not necessarily pretending to sleep, but not willing to get up and deal with her concerns.  Before she left, she leaned over and gave him a good-bye kiss.  Drive safely, she said in a small voice.

I will, Jack replied.  Love you.

Love you, too.

* * *

Now, exhilarated by the drive past Silver Lake, Roundtop Mountain, Caples Lake, and countless other hidden lakes and mountains whose names he didn’t know, Jack felt deflated.  She was still bothered by something she couldn’t explain and that he didn’t understand.  He had nobody to share what he felt as he stood at the peak, looking behind him at the quivering boughs of aspen trees spread out across a vast meadow and turning back to look at the treeless valleys and mountains that made up the eastern edge of California.

Jack got back in the car and began the drive down to the valley floor.  The descent from Monitor Pass to Bridgeport Valley doesn’t take long as the road winds through cattle ranches and small towns.  By the time Jack reached Bridgeport, he was ready to get done what he needed to do.  The attorney he worked for was representing a client looking to buy a piece of property in Bridgeport for a development project.  The landowner was having financial difficulties, but was trying hard not to sell.  Jack needed to drop off the purchase offer and then research other land that might be available in the area.

Once he arrived in Bridgeport, Jack drove out to the property the firm’s client was trying to purchase.  The ranch-style home was set off a ways from the road.  The gravel driveway that stretched from the road to the house was more weeds than rock.  A mailbox, leaning to the left and looking as though a stiff wind might knock it over, stood guard at the entrance to the driveway.  On the mailbox was stenciled The Rogers although the e was missing from the family name.  A weathered barn and outlying structures, and a small herd of cattle, spread out over the expanse of ranch land behind the house.

The Rogers had owned the ranch dating back to the 1860’s.  At one time, the family had owned thousands of acres in the valley, but now they were down to their last few hundred.  They were one of the oldest, most respected families in the area and the fact that they were close to selling the last piece of their property was the subject of gossip.  It was just more evidence to the old guard that the old ways were dying out.  Life in Bridgeport was changing and it wasn’t for the better as far as the locals were concerned.

Jack pulled up in front of the house, retrieved the paperwork from his bag and walked up to the front door.  Ms. Rogers?  Carol Rogers? he called, knocking on the door.  A woman who appeared to be in her mid-60’s opened the door and peered through the flimsy screen door.  At one time, the woman had probably been beautiful, but the years had been hard on her.  Her hair had turned gray and had begun to thin.  She was overweight and could have been referred to as frumpy.  Whatever grace she had as a young woman had disappeared long ago.

Yes, she replied, squinting out at Jack, her hand raised to block the glare from the late afternoon sun.  Who are you?

My name is Jack McGee.  I work with Paul Silva who represents the Landstar Company.  I’m sure you know that they’re interested in purchasing your property.  I have a purchase contract that I want to drop off for you to look at.  Jack held up an envelope to show her.

We’re not interested in selling.  Go away.

Yes, I understand that.  But, if you take a look at the contract, you’ll see that our client has increased its offer.  Can I leave the paperwork for you?

We’re not selling.  Get out of here, Ms. Rogers repeated as she slammed the door.

Jack said loudly, I’m going to leave the contract here.  I’ll be staying in town for another day or two.  You can reach me at the Bridgeport Inn if you have any questions.  There’s a business card in the envelope if you want to contact me after I leave town.  Jack bent down and placed the envelope against the screen door. 

Leaving the Rogers land, Jack drove back into Bridgeport and checked into the Bridgeport Inn.  The inn, originally built by the Leavitt family in 1877 as a family home, was converted to an inn decades ago and has been serving travelers ever since.  It is a small place, by city standards—a two-story Victorian structure with a decent bar and restaurant that takes up much of the first floor, and ten rooms on the second floor.

Jack walked in the front door and stood in front of a small counter that served as both a place to wait to be seated in the restaurant, as well as to check-in for lodging.  The employee at the station nodded to Jack as the door closed behind him and held up his finger to ask him to wait while he completed a call.  After hanging up, the clerk turned to Jack and asked for his name.

Jack McGee.

Scanning down a handwritten list of reservations, the clerk confirmed, We have a room reserved for you for two nights.  Is that correct?

Yes.  I may need to stay for an extra night or two.  Is that okay?

That should be fine.  We’re not too busy this week.  Just let us know when you figure out your plans.  Let me get your keys.  Have you stayed here before?

Nope.  This is the first time I’ve stayed in Bridgeport.

As you can see, we have a restaurant and a full-service bar.  The food here is the best in town.  I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, he said with a smile as he handed Jack his room key.

Thanks.  I’ll be sure to try it.

Enjoy your stay.

That night, after getting a pizza at the Blue Hippo, a restaurant and bar across the street from the inn, Jack called Kelli again.  She didn’t answer.  For the first time, Jack began to worry.  They had caller ID.  She knew it was him calling.  Jack knew she was home.  She wouldn’t be out since she had to work the next morning.  Fifteen minutes later, he tried again.  Still no answer.

3

The Mono County Museum housed artifacts of Bridgeport’s history on the first floor.  On the second, in a room that stretched most of the length of the building, the county’s property records were kept in old leather-bound books lined up along the wall on the floor.  Those books were the first step in Jack’s research into land ownership in the Bridgeport area.

The Landstar Company was interested in buying more than just the Rogers ranch and there were ways to identify other landowners facing financial difficulties who might be willing to sell their property.  It was Jack’s job to try to unearth those landowners.  He started with the historical records in the dusty, windowless second floor of the museum.  The next day he would visit the courthouse and review more current records to try to identify landowners who may have filed bankruptcy or had liens on their property.

There was something unsettling to Jack about what he was doing, something that nagged at his conscience.  But, he didn’t have much of a choice.  Being a law clerk means doing some of the dirty work for the attorney you work for.

After a morning spent amidst the decaying stack of records, Jack took a break for lunch at Bridgeport Burger.  As he ate his meal, the waitress—a middle-aged woman, weary from the years she had spent shuffling her feet across the restaurant’s worn linoleum floor to serve customers—asked him, What brings you to Bridgeport?

I’m doing some research for a company looking to buy land around here . . .

Really? the waitress interrupted him before he could continue.  She turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.  Shortly afterwards, Jack saw her talking to the cook, who turned to glare at Jack.  If looks could kill, Jack would have been face down in the French fries and half-eaten cheeseburger on the plate in front of him.

Jack quickly finished his meal and left the restaurant, unsettled by his encounter with the waitress.  He knew nothing about the town or its history.  He had only passed through Bridgeport on the way to somewhere else before.  Having spent his life in Sacramento, he had no concept of what life would be like in a small town like Bridgeport.  He didn’t realize that everybody knew everything that happened in the town and that most residents would be very protective of their way of life.

When Jack got back to the Bridgeport Inn later that afternoon, he stopped at the front desk.  I’m going to need to stay an extra couple of days.

Yes, the clerk replied.  And your name?

Jack McGee.  In Room 8.

Okay.  I’ll just make a note and everything should be fine.  The clerk thumbed through the room cards and pulled one out.  I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Bridgeport.

Yes, I am.  Thanks, Jack said, turning around from the desk to take the stairs to his room.  As he did so, he walked right into one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Excuse me, Jack mumbled as he backed up and walked around her, caught between a desire to stop and look and the unease of not knowing what else to say to her.

No problem, she replied with a slight smile on her face.  Jack took one last long glance at her over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs to the second floor.

* * *

Whenever Jack was at home by himself, he struggled with dual impulses.  On the one hand, he liked nothing more than to sit around the house, grab the remote, and not move for hours.  On the other hand, he didn’t want to waste the opportunity to do something different, to eat at a new restaurant, to see something he hadn’t seen before, to get out and experience life.  That evening, after a quick shower, his desire to do something, anything, got the best of him.  He didn’t want to spend the night lying in the hotel room watching mindless television.  Instead, he went to the hotel bar, ordered a beer, and started thinking about what he was going to do about dinner.  While he was working on his beer, the woman he had bumped into came into the bar.  Jack couldn’t help but stare.

In his short time in town virtually everybody he had run across was a cowboy, a hiker, or a fisherman.  The men had two-day stubble and the women had little or no make-up.  Everyone wore jeans and cowboy hats.  This woman, on the other hand, was something else altogether.

Long flowing blond hair, slender body, and a beautiful face.  She was wearing a skirt that most women would probably say was too short, but Jack didn’t mind.  The skirt was white, highlighting her long, tan legs.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from those legs as she sat at the bar and chatted with the bartender.  Her red spaghetti strap top let Jack see the smooth skin of her shoulders and back.  Sensuality seemed to ooze from her every pore.  She ordered her own beer and sat poised on her stool.

Jack’s every sense was heightened.  With the utmost control, he tore his eyes from her and returned to his beer, only to glance in the mirror behind the bar and scan over far enough to see her reflection above the bottles of liquor lined up against the mirror.  Without realizing he was doing it, he was slowly destroying the napkin the bartender had given him to place his beer on.  Rip by rip, he was tearing it into a pile of blue shreds.

While he watched, she arched her back as though stretching some tightness out.  As her breasts pushed forward and her top rode up just a little to bare her midriff, Jack’s desire for her increased exponentially.  What had begun as a tickle in the corner of his brain burst forth like an explosion at the center of his consciousness.  He wanted her.

When she neared the end of her beer, he called the bartender over and asked him to pour another beer for her and bill him for it.

Here’s where Jack should have stopped and said to himself, What are you doing?  You’ve never done something like this.  You’re engaged to a great girl.  Why are you buying a beer for a strange girl in a hotel bar?  Don’t do it.  If he had, he would have thought of Kelli and not gone any further.

* * *

They met in high school and had been together since, going to the same college and moving in together halfway through.  Kelli’s job as a teacher supported them while Jack finished law school.  Engaged with plans for a December wedding, everything appeared right in their world.

At least until Jack left for Bridgeport and Kelli expressed her first feelings of insecurity.  Maybe it was just pre-wedding jitters.  Maybe, too, Kelli’s worries revealed something more real—that everything was fine as long as Jack was around, but if he wasn’t, she would worry and become insecure.

Even with these new issues, there was no logical reason for Jack to buy a strange woman a beer.  The problem was that there was something about the girl at the end of the bar that intrigued Jack.  In a visceral way he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, he wanted her.  He had never had a one-night stand, or cheated on Kelli, but the idea of spending a night with another woman, with a mutual physical attraction and need, and no strings attached sex, had always fascinated him.  The thought popped into his head more and more frequently as the wedding approached.

Walking down the street, sitting in a restaurant, or driving down the street, often when he saw an attractive woman, he would allow his mind to wander and he’d speculate what it would be like to have sex with her and then never see her again.  He’d visualize the woman naked next to him.  The look of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the feel of her as he slid into her.  But he had never acted on those thoughts.

Jack was having lunch one day with a female friend and they started talking about how often men and women think about sex.  He told a friend about an article he had read that suggested men think about sex every seven seconds.  His friend thought that might be more often than reality.  That nobody could think about sex that often.  As they discussed it, three women walked by and sat down at a table near theirs.  Jack whispered, Sex, sex, sex, as each woman passed by.

In his more lucid moments, Jack began to wonder if he was obsessed with sex or that there might be something fundamentally wrong with his relationship with Kelli.  If he was really happy with her, why did he keep thinking about other women?  With the recent conversation, Jack had fresh ammunition for any insecurity he may be having about what he and Kelli were doing.  Or was he just a normal red-blooded man, sitting there looking at this woman in the short skirt and the incredible body, buying her a beer and thinking What if?

Maybe the great mood Jack was in from the drive to Bridgeport the day before and