Page 1 of The Last Good Man

1

MELODY

“So… What do you think is the problem?” Dr. Aretha Stenson, a woman in her late thirties and one of the best psychotherapists in Manhattan, asks.

With a sleek bob haircut, a belted, tailored mauve dress, an expensive ruby–encrusted watch around her slender wrist, and cat eyeglasses highlighting her symmetrical face, she sets down her notebook and engraved pen before leveling her eyes on me.

Despite her surging frustration, she seems genuinely interested in my opinion.

My eyes hover over her impeccably arched eyebrows, painted with stencils and patience I don’t seem to have these days.

I like spending time with her.It’s one of my favorite pastimes, helping me decompress while fucking with someone else’s mind for a change.

An absolute reprieve.

Out of habit, I drag my hand to my designer bag, an indecently expensive piece that matches my gravity-defying crimson heels.

‘The bag has timeless appeal,I was told.

Like everything else these days.

Color me unimpressed.

Her eyes slide promptly to my hand, which makes me lift it to my hair, concealing my intentions.

Fingers carrying the tension of my day slide through my long, damp hair.

“It was your idea,” I murmur, listening to the monotonous pitter-patter of the rain as thoughts swirl in my head.

Snapshots.

Snippets.

Pieces of a glamorous life.

Money. Big money.

Good things. Bad things.

Meetings. Cocktail parties.

Nights spent at the clubs with high-power men.

Some eager to date me––fuck me.

Then…

Work, work, work. Stiff competition.

Me always on my toes.

And me vulnerable… At times.

Aretha’s office is in a magnificent building overlooking one of the few serene streets of Manhattan.

A dog park is around the corner, and my place is only a short drive away.

Empty sidewalks, leaves lining the concrete, and glowing streetlights paint the view.

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