Biker Chic Page 2

  “You bet your ass I would have.” The words sounded harsh and bitter even to her own ears. She didn’t like that. She didn’t want to be an antagonistic shrew.

  “Then you got it all?”

  Melanie shrugged. “Got it all? I don’t know if I have anything useful at all.”

  Angela’s green eyes widened. She twisted a piece of her bleached blonde hair around a finger. “Oh, come on, honey. Tell me all about the settlement again.” She giggled. “Hearing about it makes me shiver.”

  “I’ve told you ten times already.” Melanie picked up her wine, emptied the glass then motioned to the waiter for a refill. “How many times do you need to hear?”

  Angela laughed. “Ten more times, honey. I’ve love it when a man gets the shaft. Tell me again how he yelled at your attorney he was being more than fair.”

  Watching the sparkling liquid swirl into the glass as the waiter poured, she remembered the look on Phil’s face as he’d signed the last of the papers. He’d been seething, barely able to maintain his civility in front of the judge. Not only had she gotten the house and her car, she’d walked away with more than half of the precious stock portfolio he’d been carefully building—worth almost two million dollars.

  She hadn’t known about it, as she never asked about the finances and his more than frugal handling of money. They’d lived well, but he made every decision regarding major purchases and controlled her allowance with an iron fist. She’d known he’d come into some insurance money when his parents died, but she didn’t know any exact figures. Apparently, he’d taken it and invested it, with the intention of constructing himself a tidy little nest egg. And until he’d abused her, she’d been willing to settle for selling off the assets she knew about, taking her half and cutting her losses.

  But he’d blown her good will out of the water when he fucked her up the ass and called her a bitch. Being raped—and in her mind, he had raped her—had made her a hard and cruel woman these last few months. If he hadn’t known what a bitch was before these proceedings, he certainly did now. Forget about trying to be civil and decent and mature. She’d hired the best divorce attorney in Albuquerque and sent him after Phil’s jugular. Simply, she wanted to see the bastard bleed. It was frightening how easily love could turn to hate. Now that it was said and done, she saw every flaw her ex-husband had. In retrospect, she could think of nothing positive.

  There was something wet on her face. She touched it with a hand and discovered she was on the verge of crying again. This simply would not do. She was supposed to be a mature woman, in control of the emotions that should have stopped hurting her months ago. It was time to abandon the past. She couldn’t let herself keep dwelling on a man who’d abandoned and betrayed her.

  “What can you call fair when a man screws you like Phil did me?” she snapped, daubing at her face with a napkin. “Sure, I got some damned possessions, but what does that really mean?”

  Angela wisely ignored Melanie's angry outburst. “That you’ll never have to work again?”

  “It means I doubt I’ll ever get my trust back. Right now I hate men. I think they’re all bastards.” Melanie drank down half the glass, liking the way the wine tasted as it trickled down her throat and warmed her belly. Though she was still far from relaxed, the alcohol was loosening her tongue—and it was also bringing out the worst of her mood.

  Angela pushed her fruit salad aside and settled her gin and tonic in front of her—her third since their lunch began. With absurdly long, hot pink, faux-diamond-encrusted fingernails, she fished out a piece of ice.

  “Come into the real world, Mel,” she chided. “All men are bastards. You’ve just never learned because you’ve been married to—and with—one man for almost twenty years. You’re out on your own now, and you’re about to learn some hard lessons.”

  Melanie arched a cynical eyebrow. “Such as?”

  Angela propped an elbow on the table and held up her index finger. “One—that all the good guys are married or gay.” She held up a second finger. “Two—men will fuck you, lie to you and make you feel like it’s your fault every time. I know, honey. I’ve been through four.”

  Melanie regarded her friend of ten years over the rim of her glass. Angela Sloane was by no means a beautiful woman, but she had a good personality and was loads of fun. Her green eyes sparkled, and she’d an absolutely winning smile. Between the cleavage and her sexual abilities, she never failed to have a husband or boyfriend, sometimes both at the same time. Angela Sloane had made a career out of alimony, living and spending lavishly. She was currently sporting a huge pink diamond engagement ring so gaudy Elizabeth Taylor would blush with embarrassment. No doubt, she would probably exceed the number of husbands the actress had taken, given time and opportunity.

  “So what can a girl do?” she inquired.

  “Use them back, honey,” Angela advised. “Men and women are so different, there’s no way on God’s green earth they can ever get along. The only real reason we come together is for breeding purposes. If it weren’t for sex, I think men and women would stay far away from each other.”

  The waiter interrupted their talk briefly, taking away their mostly untouched plates and refilling their beverages. Melanie couldn’t fail to notice he was good-looking, cute the way men around twenty-one or twenty-two always were. He was buff and looked like he could fuck all night and all day. She gave him a look-over, but showed no interest. Angela practically drooled, dropping hints and innuendoes until the poor fellow walked away blushing.

  “Looks like you’d like a piece,” Melanie said, making a quick squeezing motion with both hands as Angela checked out the waiter’s tight butt.

  Angela sipped her gin. “Yeah, I surely would. But I’m trying to be faithful to Rich.”

  “At least until the pre-nup is signed,” Melanie teased, glad to have steered the conversation away from her own angst and problems.

  “No pre-nup,” Angela announced happily. “I sucked him right out of that thought.”

  She blinked. “You what?”

  “I sucked him right out of it,” her friend repeated blithely.

  Melanie’s hand flew to her mouth. “You don’t mean?”

  Angela vigorously nodded her head. “Oh yeah. Put on my kneepads and went to work, honey. He’d better enjoy it now, too, ‘cause after we’re married, that’s the last time I suck his puny cock.” She let out a deep, put-upon sigh. “After all this activity, I’ll need a vacation.” Her green eyes lit up at the idea. “Hey, not a half-bad idea. You could probably use one, too.”

  “A vacation?” Melanie echoed. “What’s that?”

  “Why not?” Angela prodded. “Don’t you have someplace you want to go?”

  Melanie had to laugh. “Well, I guess I’d like to go to Europe.”

  “You guess? God, girl, boring! Isn’t there any place you’d like to go? I mean, just get into the car and drive? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  She drained her glass. “I guess my sense of adventure died years ago, you know?” Feeling the effects of the wine combined with the stresses of the last six months, an incredible sensation of exhaustion suddenly washed over her.

  Leaning forward on her elbows, Melanie stared into her wine glass. It’s as empty as I feel inside, she thought. She gave it an idle thump with her thumb and forefinger, listening to its clear ringing tone. When had she started thinking in such a negative way? She didn’t remember any other time in her life when she’d been so depressed. She’d always believed she’d led a full and fulfilling life. While Phil was at work, she’d tried to keep herself occupied; keeping house, working out at the country club, planning dinners for their friends, participating in community services. She'd had her circle of friends.

  Her brow wrinkled.

  Circle of friends? Melanie questioned herself. Her eyes drifted around the table. The other chairs were empty. She’d invited four other women to join her for lunch. Only Angela had bothered to show up. The rest were ‘otherwise
occupied’.

  At least, she'd thought she had friends. Strangely, they weren’t around much anymore. All her girlfriends were married, now one-half of a couple. She was single, half of…well, nothing. It suddenly occurred to her why no one called to chat any more, why the lunch dates had dwindled to nothing, why the invitations to events had ceased to come, why everyone’s beauty appointments were now coincidentally different from her own.

  They’re afraid I’m on the prowl.

  The realization hit her cold, but in her heart she knew it to be true. The ladies had circled the wagons around their men and left her standing alone on the outside. A single girl was the enemy, like a fox in the hen house. She was a newly divorced woman, ink barely dry on her papers, financially independent. She couldn’t have been more threatening in other women’s eyes than if she’d stripped off her clothes and lay spread-eagled on the floor before their men.

  No wonder it’s just me and Angela lunching today, she thought. I’ve been frozen out. She wondered how long it would be before they asked her to resign her membership at the country club. That sounded like something those cliquish bitches would do. Oddly, the idea did not bother her as much as she thought it would.

  Considering getting smashingly drunk, Melanie ordered more wine from the passing waiter and tuned out Angela’s voice. She suddenly didn’t feel like gossiping or man bashing anymore.

  All she felt was empty.

  Chapter Four

  It was after dark when Melanie returned home. Pulling into the driveway, she killed the lights and sat looking at the house, now hers alone. No illumination came from within, no sounds of a happy family bustling around. The house was empty, a shell. There was no one waiting for her. No one at all.

  How can I live here alone? She thought, almost panicked. It’s too big.

  Reluctantly opening the car door, she got out and walked up the sidewalk. The wine she’d consumed earlier had gone to her head and she staggered a little, not exactly drunk but not entirely sober, either. Mostly she was tired. Exhausted, actually.

  Her marriage to Phil had become an albatross around her neck, weighing on her soul. It was a relief the divorce was over, a relief he was forever out of her life. Her emotions were raw, painful. She was still reeling from having the identity she’d had since the day she married stripped away from her. She was no longer Mrs. Phillip Brooks, wife of a successful doctor. She was now just plain old Melanie Brooks, wife of no man.

  I’ve been cast off like an old pair of pants, she thought, fumbling with her keys to unlock the door. It swung inward on silent hinges, beckoning her into the dim foyer.

  Flicking on the lights flooded the living room in brilliant illumination. She winced against the brightness. Pain stabbed through the front of her skull, the beginnings of a tension headache combined with too much wine.

  The house was immaculate, elegantly furnished; every piece of object d'art ever so carefully arranged to be shown to its best effect. She’d spent years decorating this house, making sure nothing offended Phillip and his picky eye. Living in New Mexico, the one thing they had not wanted to do was go for the traditional southwest Spanish-Indian style themes. It was too common and tacky, more prevalent around Santa Fe. Instead they had chosen sleek and modern—leather furniture, glass tables, cut crystal. Such expensive décor excluded children or pets.

  With a jolt, Melanie realized how artificial everything looked. Instead of a home, the place looked like a display you would see in a magazine. It was a showroom, not a place people lived. It wasn’t the kind of room you could lounge in, kick back, put your feet up on the coffee table, and watch television. It was the kind of room where classical music played softly in the background, where people sat around very prim and proper, sipping dry martinis and nibbling tiny tasteless canapés.

  She suddenly hated it. Hated everything about the life she’d spent eighteen years building.

  Tossing her purse onto the couch, she dropped down beside it. Tears stung in her eyes. She blinked, not wanting to let them fall. She was so tired of crying, of spending her nights alone with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues. She felt sick inside, her nervous system so knotted and cramped she feared she would never be able to relax again. She was filled with self-loathing, unable to comprehend why she still felt so lost, so alone. All of a sudden, she felt too battered emotionally to even think about the divorce anymore. All she wanted to do was hide away from the world. If there were a way to hide herself from herself, she would have chosen the option.

  “What are you crying over?” she asked aloud, not caring there was no one around to hear her words. “You walked away the winner, Mel. Took half of everything Phil had. This is all yours now.”

  But she no longer wanted it, no longer felt vindicated she’d gone after her husband with the vengeance of a woman scorned. Of course she’d known Phil Brooks had a wandering eye, had cheated on her more than once. But she’d managed to hold her head high, keep her chin firm, knowing his little affairs would eventually end, that after he dallied around Phil would inevitably come home to her. He always had before.

  And then came Tammi.

  Like Pygmalion sculpting his Galatea, Phil had reconstructed Tammi, taking a plain, unattractive girl and giving her the beauty God had failed to finish. He’d straightened her crooked nose, put a cleft in her chin, installed a C-cup rack of tits, and lipoed a little baby fat out of her stomach and thighs. Medical science and Phil’s talent to manipulate human flesh had made Tammi Hankins a beautiful woman. Her parents had happily footed the bill, blissfully unaware the doctor doing the work was also playing Svengali with his ex-patient.

  Laying her head back on the cushions, Melanie’s brow wrinkled in thought. Why, after all the women he’d cheated on her with, had Phil chosen this last dalliance of his to leave her for? She never stormed, threw jealous fits, or played the perfect shrew. Quite the opposite—she’d been a doormat.

  During the many nights she’d spent alone, Melanie had often thought of taking a lover herself. Something always stopped her. She was the kind of woman who took her vows of marriage seriously. She’d promised to be faithful, for better or worse, richer or poorer.

  I let Phil stifle me, then smother me, she thought, wiping away the tears escaping down her cheeks. He was good-looking, educated, urbane. She, on the other hand, was always the little brown wren. She knew other women looked at her, wondering how he could have possibly been attracted to such a dud. God knew she tried to keep herself together. But face it, Tammi was twenty-one. She was thirty-seven. Youth won every time.

  Rising, she walked upstairs, heading to her bedroom. There, she stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower. The warm water would help soothe her shattered nerves. She looked at herself in the mirror and flinched at the image it flung back at her. She looked, she decided in despair, exactly like what she was. A sad, lost woman. She shook her head, trying to chase away the misery coiling through her guts.

  “Thank God I got away from Phil,” she remarked, adjusting the water until it was just the right temperature. She stepped under the showerhead, enjoying the stinging, massaging spray hitting her back and shoulders. Wetting her hair, she poured a dollop of shampoo into her hand and set to giving her scalp a good scrub. Rinsing away the bubbles, she picked up a bar of her favorite scented soap and began to lather up her body. Finishing her wash, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a thick fluffy towel around her naked body and another around her wet hair.

  Drifting into the bedroom, she sat down on the edge of the bed and toweled her hair dry. Not for the first time, she began to wonder what it would be like to make love to another man. Listening to friends like Angela swap stories had made her ears burn and her cheeks redden. She couldn’t imagine being so casual about sex, treating it as if it were nothing more than another manicure. She was curious, though.

  At this point, she couldn’t imagine the answer because she simply didn’t know.

  Getting off the bed, she slipped
out of the towel and into a comfy T-shirt and panties. She hated being constrained when she slept, and often slipped out of the shirt during the night. The feel of cool cotton sheets against her warm skin was a sensual one.

  Climbing into the king-sized bed and pulling the comforter over her body, she was again struck by how large the house was. She really didn’t need four bedrooms. Even though she’d gotten the house free and clear, it was still going to be expensive to maintain. If she was careful with her settlement and invested it wisely, she would never have to work. Selling the house, banking the money, and finding herself a smaller place might be the wisest thing to do. Did she really want to stay in a place where she’d known so much unhappiness? What would be the point?

  “So,” she said aloud. “I’m divorced, rich, and childless. What to do?”

  The thought dismayed her.

  She had nothing to do. Searching her brain, she found that there wasn’t one single reason why she should get up in the morning. The years she’d spent decorating, hanging out at the spas, gossiping, and lunching at the country club were all gone, leaving nothing but an empty void in her soul. God, she’d believed she had a life. In reality she had nothing, using those superficial activities to fill the endless hours.

  Maybe it is time to get away, she mused, I should pack my bags, go somewhere new, see something different.

  Getting out of the city didn’t seem like a bad idea at all.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Melanie woke up late, slightly hung over, but none the worse for wear. Groping her way to the bathroom, she managed to get herself showered, teeth brushed, and hair combed with relatively little pain, save for a nagging headache. Popping a couple of aspirin, she went downstairs and made herself a cup of coffee. Though not usually a breakfast eater, she thought she would feel better if she’d a little something in her stomach. She made two slices of whole-wheat toast with a tiny dollop of butter—just for taste. Then, wondering why she was watching her figure, she slathered on more butter and added a thick layer of cherry preserves. A long time since she’d indulged her sweet tooth.