The Procedure

THE PROCEDURE

Copyright © 2015 by Tabatha Vargo and Melissa Andrea

All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manor whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Procedure/ Tabatha Vargo/ Melissa Andrea

Cover Art by Romantic Book Affairs

Editing Services Provided by Cynthia Shepp

Formatting provided by
Inkstain Interior Book Designing

ISBN-10:0692373756 

ISBN-13:978-0-692-37375-0

IT HURT.

Heartbreak.

It was like a hollow-point bullet to the chest. The minute I stepped into our bedroom and saw him there with her, the pain struck me deep in my heart and exploded. My insides burned from the explosion, and I felt as if I were bleeding internally.

I’d known for a while that Michael was cheating on me. I’d seen the gossip papers and I’d heard the talk, but seeing it firsthand was a whole different ballgame. It was the truth, staring me in the face and laughing. Everything I’d heard about the last few years and denied came rushing over me.

Her head was hanging over the side of our bed. Strawberry-blonde hair dragged across the newly installed hardwood flooring—flooring I’d taken a week to pick out. Her perky breasts sat up strong, barely bouncing to the rhythmic pounding Michael was giving her.

She was young, much younger than I was, and her chest was perfection. Obviously, she’d felt the sting of a scalpel. Looking down at my own thirty-year-old breasts, I couldn’t help but feel less than.

Michael’s solid shoulder muscles flexed and released as he worked his lower body. His hard ass muscles bunched with each thrust. His body was tone and tan—a product of his many afternoons at the gym. I never understood why a lawyer needed to work out the way he did, but I was more than happy with the results, even if I didn’t get to enjoy them the way the girl in bed with him obviously was.

She ran her fingers though his blond hair, tugging at the tips, and making him growl, before running her nails down his glistening back muscles. Deep scratches followed her fingers, welting before my eyes.

I felt as invisible as I had for the last three years as Michael continued to pound into her lithe, Pilates-practiced body like his life depended on it. Her leg was slung over his shoulder as if he couldn’t manage to get deep enough—as if he wanted to disappear inside of her. He’d never made love to me that way in all of our nine years of marriage. Never.

Michael had always treated me as if I were breakable. His touch soft and almost non-existent. His thrusts shallow and unhurried, as if going any deeper would break me in two. I was only worth quiet missionary that would have already been over. He would lean over me, get what he wanted, and leave me burning with unreleased feelings and a longing much stronger than it was before we started.

Never would he have flipped me over, pulled my hair, or smacked my ass the way he was doing with the young, supple woman he was with. Of course, it had been almost a year since he’d touched me. Maybe his style had changed since then.

Slowly, I backed away, tucking my pride deep into my stomach. I should have been angry. I should have lashed out and went on the attack—asked for a divorce and threatened to take half of his millions, but I didn’t. I was embarrassed and, strangely, I was worried about what the girl he was sleeping with would think of me. I didn’t want her to see me. It was as if seeing me would help her understand why Michael was cheating on his wife.

I was a waif of a woman. Thick where I should have been slender. Saggy where I should have been pert. Where her body made no movement—tight and fit—mine would have jiggled. My hair was longer than hers was, but while hers surged with blonde highlights and life, mine was dull and the most solid color of yellow. Her blue eyes were brilliant, while my brown were nothing more than a smudge of color on my lackluster face. I didn’t compare. I’d never compare.

Backing toward the door, I couldn’t seem to get out of the room fast enough. The air was thick with their lovemaking. The sounds and smells of their bodies coming together lingered in the air around me—sweetness and sweat. My back collided with the wall, sending a picture of Michael and me on our wedding day crashing to the floor.

All movement stopped. Michael’s hips stilled, and the girl lifted her head from my pillow. I’d secretly hoped that shame would fill Michael’s face and he’d drop to his knees and ask for forgiveness, but that was not what happened. Instead, he pumped his hips once more, smiled as if I were totally used to seeing my husband have sex with another woman, and then asked, “Want to join us?”

Nausea rolled in my stomach at his words.

Us?

They weren’t us. Michael and I were us. Yet there I was, standing in my bedroom, surrounded by everything I owned, feeling like a total outsider.

I supposed in a way, it was my fault. I should have called Michael and let him know I was coming home from Seattle early, but it wasn’t like I expected my father to die so soon. Usually when the oncologist said three-to-six weeks before the cancer killed you, they didn’t mean three-to-six days.

I shook my head, moving away from the wall and closer to the door.

“You sure?” he asked, his eyes challenging and his smile crooked. “You might actually show some emotion if you fuck a woman.”

The girl beneath him licked her lips in my direction and laughed. Pushing her thick hair from her sweaty cheeks, she showed no remorse for the situation. Instead, she pressed her ass against Michael as if she were begging for more.

“No,” I squeaked. “No, thank you.”

And then like the coward I was, I turned and left the room. Taking the stairs quicker than my heels would allow, I stumbled and fell down the last three. My ankle twisted beneath me and tears finally sprang to my eyes. I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, Michael’s careless betrayal or my ankle. Either way, I limped away and left the house like a wounded animal.

Nine years.

That was how much of my life I’d given Michael. My best years were spent trying to be everything he wanted me to be, and still, I wasn’t enough. Honestly, I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I’d spent so much time being what he wanted that the girl I used to be had perished. A causality of the war I’d waged on trying to keep Michael happy.

I was so young when I’d met him—so naïve and sure that Michael would love me forever. He’d promised my father the day we got married that he’d take care of me and make me happy for the rest of my life. That was one promise he never meant to keep.

Now my father was gone, and I was all alone in the world. Michael was all I had, and I was about to lose him. No matter what I had to do, I’d make him want me again. No matter what.