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You feel dirty because you acted dirty—like a dirty slut! whispered a mean little voice in her head. Going over to their suite and flaunting yourself like that—playing Truth and Dare and sucking both their cocks and letting them finger you! What’s wrong with you, Melanie? When did you turn into such a whore?
Melanie winced and put a hand to her temple. In the hours since she’d woken up, her headache had gotten worse and her self-talk had taken a severe downwards turn. The little voice in her head which provided her inner monologue had turned vicious and it seemed that none of the techniques Melanie’s therapist had taught her could stop the endless flow of negative self-criticism.
You’re disgusting, the little voice told her. And you’re old. I bet Strong and Clear are laughing at you right now! Making a fool of yourself that way at your age—as if two gorgeous, hot young guys like them would honestly consider having anything to do with you!
“Stop!” Melanie moaned under her breath. “Please!”
But the voice was relentless. She barely noticed the lovely trees on either side of her aunt’s street or the chilly nip in the air which was so rare down in Florida. The Christmas lights on the neighbors’ houses, twinkling in the growing twilight, didn’t register either. In fact, she was so blinded by misery, she almost didn’t see the flashy, low-slung sports car in candy apple red that drove up to park on the side of the road beside her.
It wasn’t until the doors opened and two people got out that Melanie noticed anything. But though her visitors provided a distraction from the mean little voice in her head, it wasn’t a good one. Not at all.
“Steve,” she said flatly, as her ex-husband came swaggering up to her, his arm around a girl with short red hair. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Melanie.” Everything Steve said came out as a sneer. He was a skinny worm of a man with a severely receding hairline he tried to hide by shaving his hair really short. But since he had black hair and a very pronounced widow’s peak, this only succeeded in making him look bizarrely like an almost-bald Dracula—at least in Melanie’s view.
Wrong holiday, she thought dully. Dracula is for Halloween.
But Steve was already speaking again.
“Mitzy and I are on our way to a big Christmas Eve bash out on the lake,” he informed Melanie, lifting his narrow chin importantly. “But I thought I might catch you at your aunt’s house this time of year, so we swung by here first. Mitzy,” he continued, turning to the girl. “This is my ex.”
“Pleased ta meet cha,” the girl giggled and nodded at Melanie. She was obviously still in her early twenties and wearing a green lace party dress that was stretched tightly over the rounded bulge of her lower belly.
Six or seven months pregnant at least, whispered the nasty little voice in Melanie’s head. That should have been you, Melanie. But it never will be. You’ll never have any babies—it’s too late for you.
“Did your aunt tell you I was trying to get in touch with you?” Steve demanded, adjusting his black suit, which looked like something an undertaker would wear.
“Yes…” Melanie sighed tiredly. “I know you want your record collection back and you can have it. I don’t want anything of yours. You could have just taken it with you in the first place—”
“It’s not about the records,” Steve interrupted, cutting her off. “I have some paperwork I need you to sign.”
Melanie frowned.
“But I already signed the divorce papers. That’s over and done.”
“The divorce is, yes,” Steve said, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his inner jacket pocket. “These are for something different. Here.”
He shoved the papers at Melanie, who was forced to squint at them in the dim light, since the sun was sinking and it was almost dusk.
“Having a hard time seeing there, Mels?” Steve asked, smirking at her. “Maybe it’s time you got some reading glasses. You are getting to be about that age now, right?”
If Melanie hadn’t been feeling so bad, she would have pointed out that he was actually six years older than she was. But as it was, she kept silent and studied the papers.
“These are for spousal support—fifteen hundred dollars a month,” she said, frowning and looking up at him at last. “But I didn’t ask you for any money when we called it quits.”
In fact, all she had wanted was to get as far from her cheating rat of an ex-husband as possible. Which was why she’d been willing to sell everything off and split it right down the middle, even though it meant taking a loss on the house her parents had left her, which had been in her name before they married.
