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.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, and after a ton of research on the topic, I was sitting in the waiting room of Miami’s best plastic surgeon, looking at before-and-after photos. It was amazing the changes a doctor could make, and I was looking forward to changing myself for the better.

  The waiting room was empty. The sounds of the large, saltwater fish tank filled the space. My eyes lingered on the tropical coral reef and the exotic fish that moved languidly through the water. Oh, to be a fish and glide carelessly through life.

  The door opened, taking my attention away from the tank, and a slim brunette walked in and went to the counter. She stood with her back to me—her
curvy figure accentuated by the tight pants and stylish shirt she was wearing.

  Girls like her were the reason I was there in the first place. She was perfect, and I wanted that kind of perfection. I had dreams of slimmer hips and a gap between my thighs. I envisioned a flatter stomach and perky breasts. Running my fingers down my face, I thought how much smaller my nose could be and how much brighter my eyes might look once I’d had a face-lift. I wanted the works.

  “Mrs. Aldridge, the doctor will see you now,” the nurse said, waking me from my daydream.

  Collecting my expensive purse, I stood on shaking knees and followed the nurse to the back. She was my age. An auburn ponytail bounced with her step, occasionally showing off her tiny diamond earrings. Her teal scrubs were cute and baggy, but still showed off her short stature and small frame.

  She opened a door for me, and held it open, allowing me to enter before her. The room was just like any other room at the doctor’s office. Pastel-green covered the walls, and the sterile smells of a germ-free environment tickled my nose. Along the walls were posters of the female and male body. Colorful pictures depicted muscles in red and bone in white. Examples of how changes could easily be made showed in step-by-step processes made my skin crawl.

  Reaching under the cabinet, the nurse pulled out a white, paper gown and handed it to me. “You can leave on your panties.”

  The nurse looked up me sympathetically as my shaky fingers brushed hers, and I took the gown from her hands. She gave me her best ‘don’t worry’ look and patted my arm.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “Dr. Blake is the best. He’s done wonders for every one of his patients. Whatever it is, I’m confident he’ll fix it.” She gave me an encouraging smile and turned to leave me in the room alone.

  Guilt and nerves rolled in my stomach, and I was worried I might lose my breakfast. I hadn’t exactly lied about my reasoning for my appointment with the plastic surgeon, but I’d spent the last two weeks stalking him and I knew his rules.

  Reconstructive only.

  I shivered as I thought about the horror stories and images I could never un-see. Picture after picture of all the botched plastic surgeries some women had endured. I refused to let some fresh-out-of-school doctor use me as his first Frankenstein project.

  I didn’t have many friends, close or acquaintances, but I knew a few of the women at the country club Michael and I attended flaunted their plastic surgeries like they did a new pair of Manolos. I’d seen those women before and after and I had to admit, they were better afterward.

  As embarrassed as I was, I worked up the nerve to strike up a conversation with Molly Douglas and gushed over her pretty, pink lipstick and how fabulous it looked on her. That was all the encouragement she needed to tell me all about the plastic surgeon who did a “little” work on her lips.

  Dr. Marcus Stein was apparently the surgeon every Miami housewife was turning to when they needed a little pick-me-up. I listened carefully as she explained her experience and when another woman joined and then another, I realized how much I missed conversation with other people.

  When two other women joined us thirty minutes later, I took it as more than a coincidence and counted my blessings when she introduced herself as the one and only Mrs. Stein. The other women praised over her husband’s work and giggled like teenage girls when they asked what it was like to have those hands on her every night.

  As the conversation grew and the mimosas filled everyone’s system, the conversation turned to Dr. Stein’s partner, Dr. Roman Blake. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, but Mrs. Stein was all too willing to admit that as good as her husband was, the one and only Dr. Blake was better.

  I listened intently, hanging on to her every word of the infamous Roman Blake before excusing myself to run home and Google him. The whole drive home I wondered why, if Dr. Blake was so much better, they hadn’t gotten him to do their surgeries. Maybe if I had stayed just a little longer, I would have found out and I wouldn’t have set my hopes so high on the one and only Dr. Roman Blake.

  Swallowing hard, I set my purse on the chair to my side and slowly began to undress. The gown was gaping in the back, letting cool air skim my back and ass. Tucking it around me, I carefully sat on the paper-protected bed in a way that would keep me covered. Wiggling my ass until I felt a semblance of comfort, I sat and swung my legs from the bed like a child as I waited for the doctor to come in.

  I heard the rattle of the clipboard on the back of the door, and then there was a soft knock before the door slowly opened. As I held my breath, the ball of nerves in my stomach exploded.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected. When I thought of a top plastic surgeon, I pictured an older man with lots of experience and knowledge. A man that had lived a long life and had the wrinkles to show it.

  That was not who walked into the room. No. This man wasn’t much older than I was, and he was tall and big. Not in the way that he’d had too many cheeseburgers and fries over the last few years, but so muscled that his scrubs, which should have hung loosely from his frame, rubbed his thick thighs like they were a second skin. He adjusted the long, white coat he was wearing and shut the door behind him. The room instantly felt ten times smaller when he fully entered.

  “Mrs. Aldridge, how are you?”

  Dear God in heaven, the man was British. My thigh muscles clenched with the sweet tilt of each of his words. His voice was deep and musical. I felt each clipped word in places that hadn’t had feeling in over a year.

  As he flipped up a page on the clipboard and looked over my file, his sleeves were pushed up and I couldn’t help but notice how thick his forearms were. Solid. Tan. Perfection. His long fingers worked a black pen as he made notes on my file. He lacked a wedding band. Not that I usually checked for things like that, but I made a mental note that he wasn’t married.

  “I’m…” I finally managed to wedge out, but I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Fine was what I normally would’ve said, but when I hesitated, he looked away from his note taking and waited for me to respond.

  His eyes clashed with mine, and I was instantly reminded of a shot glass full of whiskey. The caramel brown of his eyes glittered under the florescent lights above us.

  A tiny smile tilted his full lips and plunged a sweet dimple into his cheek. The air was literally sucked from my lungs, and I felt the heat of a few glasses of whiskey on my cheeks.

  “I’m actually really nervous,” I confessed honestly. Honesty would be the death of me one day.

  He laughed and tucked away the clipboard. “I assure you that’s quite normal. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a patient who wasn’t nervous at some point during this whole experience. A lot of my patients have a hard time wrapping their mind around the fact that everything will change for them.”

  I knew I had to tell him now, but fear choked me and I couldn’t breathe, let alone explain to him I wasn’t like most of his patients. I desperately didn’t want him to turn me away. Reject me. I wanted this more than I wanted anything in my entire life.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, snapping me from my inner fears. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dr. Blake, but you can call me Dr. Roman if you’d like. My father is Dr. Blake as far as I’m concerned.” He smiled innocently.

  He reached out his hand for mine, and a few seconds passed before I realized he wanted to shake my hand. My arm felt like fifty pound weights were attached to it as I lifted it and placed my hand in his large, warm one. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Aldridge.”

  And then, bless my poor heart, he smiled down at me, both dimples popping. I momentarily forgot why I was there, who I was, and who he was. Time froze for a few seconds and in that moment, something totally amazing happened. I got turned on. Just like that. No touching or sweet whispers. No sexual promises. Just a smile that almost shattered my reason for being there and an accent I’d swim the Atlantic Ocean to feel spoken against my skin.

  I gave him the limp
est handshake imaginable and then embarrassed, I pulled my hand from his and shifted on the table, suddenly realizing I was wearing a thin paper gown and nothing else but my panties.

  “You too,” I croaked.

  Folding his large frame, he took a seat in the rolling chair across from me and then used his strong legs to pull himself toward me. I knew what was coming. I knew he was going to ask me the dreaded question. The urge to scream and run from the room, arms flailing, was almost tempting.

  “So, tell me your story, Ms. Aldridge. How can I help you?” His eyes dropped briefly to my chart again. “Your file says you wanted to talk to me in person about your condition…” His sentence faded as he waited for me to fill in the blanks.

  I watched patience settle into the curves of his face, making me want to pour my heart out to him.

  My condition… and there it was. I knew the question was going to be asked. I expected it. My answer was on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn’t let the words loose.

  After two hours of intense research on Miami’s number-one reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Roman Blake, my dreams felt crushed. I knew, now, why the women from the country club hadn’t used him to work on them.

  As I read article after article on Dr. Blake, my despair grew as they all said the same thing. Roman Blake had started out as a plastic surgeon—his reasoning a personal choice he’d always kept to himself. However, his first year at a private practice, he suddenly changed his field from plastics to reconstruction only.

  There were speculations and rumors for his decision, but without any confirmation from Roman Blake himself, that was all it was. From then on, he had refused any and all plastic surgery patients, leaving that to his business partner, Stein.

  I didn’t know why I thought I would be the one to change his mind after all this time, but that didn’t seem to matter because here I was.

  I should be feeling a good amount of confidence over my decision. I had talked myself through the whole appointment with the understanding that no matter how much it cost, or under what terms he requested, I was going to have Dr. Blake as my surgeon.