Read Mrs. Robinson (Mrs. Robinson #1) for Free Online Page A

proverbial knife to my proverbial wrist, my voice sounding like it had come from a corpse. Why , again, did I subject myself to this?
    “Yeah, uh, bad news,” Richard said, sounding thoroughly untroubled about whatever it was. I could picture him looking over his shoulder at that whore, who was no doubt beckoning him back to the desk, or whatever surface she’d just fucked my husband on. “Looks like I won’t be able to make it home tonight at all. This Campbell file is taking forever, the interns are losing steam, and I’m gonna need to stay here tonight and guide them into morning. I’ll probably just crash on my cot here, or get a room at the St. Regis like usual, if I can’t make it home.”
    I stared at our stupid bird as she sat in her golden cage, hating herself. “Okay,” I said dully, the voice that came from my mouth sounding alien even to me.
    “Sorry again, I’m just so slammed. I’ll make it up to you. We can-”
    I heard giggling in the background.
    That filthy fucking whore is giggling while her boyfriend is on the phone with his wife, I thought.
    “Ah, the interns need me, gotta go,” Richard said, and I thought I heard a smile in his voice. “Why are you up to tonight, anyway?”
    Something dark and hot and angry stirred within me. I could say it, I thought. I could totally say it.
    The woman you think is your powerless little socialite wife is about to use your money to get banged by a younger, hotter, and more virile man than you. How’s the weather?
    But I didn’t.
    “Not much,” I said instead, but this time my voice wasn’t broken down and burned-out – it was cold and clipped; frozen in anger. “Maybe some laundry and a good book.”
    “That’s great. Have fun.”
    ‘That’s great?’ I asked myself. That’s what you give your wife on your twentieth anniversary? ‘That’s great?’
    I narrowed my eyes as my inner monologue ramped up.
    I love you so much, and I am going to ruin your fucking life for doing this to me.
    “Love you, too,” I said in my chilly new voice, and then the line went dead. A ball of white rage formed at the pit of my stomach, spreading flames that licked across every inch of my body, filling me with a burning hatred I had never felt before. And for the first time, I really considered using Hookd. Richard deserved this. A searing montage flashed through my mind of all the times he had left behind a trail of badly-hidden clues to flog me with; whether it was letting that bitch laugh in the background of our conversation or leaving a smudge of foundation on the sleeve of his shirt for me to notice or leaving a phone number in his pocket for me to find on laundry day. Richard was no lost, neglected man searching for love – he was hurting me, at least in part, because it was feeding something inside of him. That was so clear now. And all at once, I decided to quench his hunger once and for all. If he was pushing me away, I was going to run.
    I took out my phone and searched the word “Hookd” in the App Store. Soon the icon popped up, red and sexy, on my screen. Maybe I’d been wrong: maybe I wasn’t some pathetic cougar by dipping into the younger guy pool. After all, it was a new century, a new era. I had everything I needed to throw aside my moral hang-ups and become a Hookd client: I had the money, a big house to myself, and a wounded, willing, and wine-soaked heart. Grace Phaedra Robinson would be nice no more – it was time to have a little fun. And maybe, just maybe, have a little sex, too.
    As I stared at the screen, a newfound sense of purpose settled into my bones. Crazy bitch , I’d heard Richard call me earlier, and not for the first time. And maybe I was a little crazy. I’d been an artist in college, and I was always the girl who Felt Too Much, who let things affect her deeply and thoroughly – and as a woman, that made me fucking insane in the eyes of the world. Meanwhile men were praised for the same surplus of emotion – they