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

were sensitive writer-types; soft-spoken artists. Van Gogh was a “passionate lover” for sending his own ear to an ex, while Taylor Swift was a “deranged psychopath” for writing songs about the guys who fucked her and then dumped her. Any woman who wore her emotions on her sleeve and didn’t play the part of Cool Unaffected Hot Chick was a “Crazy Bitch,” a bitter harpy who kept giving her opinion long after men wanted to hear it – and now I was about to take that title and fuck up Richard’s life with it.
    This Crazy Bitch is about to take a lover, Richard. How’s that for crazy?
    I tossed aside my book for good – it was time to take charge of my story and go from helpless to heroine. In a world where women were told to stand down, I was going to stand and be brave – and slutty. As blood hummed in my ears and adrenaline pooled in my veins like an oceanic thunderhead popping up on the edge of the horizon on an August afternoon, I cursed the day I had ever heard the name Richard Paul Robinson III and then pressed Download.

5
    Ben Bradley
     
    Twenty minutes after singing some papers and stopping by the Neiman Marcus in McLean to “smarten up my look,” as Carol had called it, I sat in the back of the SUV next to her while she barked arrangements into her phone.
    “He’s new, but he’s perfect,” she said, glancing over at me. “He’s got the soul of an artist and the body of a fighter. Soon every woman will know his name, and moan it in bed while having sex with her husband. Yes, his client just signed up tonight, she submitted everything and has already been verified…of course I’m letting her start early, she seems legit. The payment came from a fake name and a pretty obscure wire transfer that not even Colleen in security could trace, so God only knows who she really is, but she’s clearly loaded…the boy? Just found him, but, um, yeah, he’s been cleared and tested, he should be with us for a while. His name is Ben, by the way, and he’s a little worried about his future…”
    I fidgeted in the coat Carol had bought me, which fit like a dream. I still couldn’t even believe this whole shadowy world existed, where powerful single women outsourced their sex lives to some service that delivered beefcake to their doors like pizza. I mean, I was totally cool with the feminism movement, and I wanted my sister and (hopefully) future daughters to have all the same rights I enjoyed, but this seemed a little brazen even by my liberated standards.
    Suddenly my phone pinged again – it was another email from the hospital’s administrators, no doubt demanding payment on yet another bill for Claire. But I pushed away the wave of anxiety that formed in front of me. I’d finally found an opportunity to save Claire, and all it required was doing something I did all the time, anyway. All I had to do now was drink this champagne until the sick, guilty feeling at the bottom of my stomach subsided…the feeling that reminded me I was about to become a male hooker…
    “Okay, we’re good,” Carol said, and then she hung up and leaned toward the driver. “Head to Georgetown, and hit it hard,” she said, referring to the fanciest part of Washington, the townhouses that lined its cobbled streets easily reaching the ten million range on the market. As we sped up and changed lanes, I felt a tremor rise up my leg. This added a new layer of danger, because in a city where status was derived by proximity to power, this woman probably had both to spare. If I were to get caught, my name could be ruined forever – or worse.
    “Alright,” Carol told me, “now for a few last-minute details. Don’t get too nervous – this woman is a first-timer, too. You don’t know her, do you?”
    She showed me a photo of my client. The image was a bit blurry, but the lady actually seemed kind of sexy, with intelligent eyes and long dark hair. Actually, she was really fucking sexy , I decided as I inspected the photo and