I’d settle for sweats and a tee shirt.
The door opened.
He was wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt. His hair was mussed. The length of his beard was a little shorter than the day we met. Now trimmed to nothing more than a layer of salt-and-pepper stubble, it revealed the outline of his strong jaw.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on?”
I suppressed the urge to tackle him in the doorway. I extended my open hand. “My couch burped these out when I sat on it. Now it just flops at one end.”
He glanced at my hand and then at my face. He chuckled. “You look like hell.”
I hiccupped. “Thanks.”
He leaned forward and took a deeper look at my face. “Is there a problem other than the couch?”
I perceived death differently than most people. I wasn’t pleased with the circumstances surrounding my parents’ death, but their dying was unavoidable. Spending days upon days crying about it wasn’t my way of grieving. To cause Braxton to feel sympathetic I could snivel a little bit, though.
“It’s just…I don’t know…” I stammered. I lowered my head and pinched my eyes shut tight. After squeezing out the remnant of a tear, I looked up. “It’s just…it’s hard. His tools are in the garage, but…I don’t know if…” I gave a half-assed shrug. “I don’t want to see the car.”
He scooped the nuts and washers from my hand. “Please.” He moved aside. “Come in.”
I stepped inside his bright and beautifully decorated home.
“Let me grab a few tools,” he said, turning away. “I’ll be right back.”
The open floorplan was much different than my parents’, which was divided by so many partition walls that it seemed like a maze.
The floors in Braxton’s home—which seemed to go on forever—were covered in gray hardwood. The walls were painted white, as was the trim. The kitchen, in plain view from where I stood, was fitted with white marble countertops and white cabinetry. Various shades of blue and gray subway tile were used for the backsplash.
I glanced around. The entire home was decorated with wonderful pieces of abstract art. One in particular—a powdery gray canvas with a lone woman in a red dress—caught my eye. A stark white umbrella was cradled over her shoulder.
I wondered if he purchased the home in the condition it was in, or if he had it remodeled to suit him. While I admired the painting, he returned.
“That’s my favorite piece,” he said. “Rather fitting, considering everything.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He studied the painting. “What do you see when you look at it? Is there a story in there, somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “I was trying to figure it out.”
He nodded toward it. “Take a good look at it.”
I gazed at the painting, seeing nothing more than a woman in a red dress standing in the rain. My appreciation of art was deep, but my ability to express it was nonexistent.
I let out a sigh. “I’m lost.”
“Hidden in those shades of gray there are several people beyond her, in the street,” He explained. “They’re all wearing black. Their umbrellas are upright. She’s wearing bright red, and her umbrella is draped over her shoulder. Although you can’t see her face, you get the feeling that she’s vibrant and filled with life. Excluding her, everyone in that painting is sheltered from the storm. As far as she’s concerned, the weather isn’t bad enough to raise her umbrella.” He rubbed the side of his stubble-covered jaw with his fingertips. “Life is only as terrible as you perceive it as being.”
His explanation—and the painting—were beautiful. I was now teary-eyed for real, and for no good reason. I wiped my eyes with the knuckle of my index finger.
I admired him as he continued to look at the painting. In expressing his feelings about the artwork, he’d exposed an intellectual side of himself that I hadn’t seen yet. It may have been his most attractive quality.
I reveled in his words while he appreciated the faceless girl in the red dress. Eventually, he turned to face me.
“I’m going to lower my umbrella,” I said.
He flashed what could have been perceived as a smile. “I don’t own one.”
It was obvious that he ran into the face of the storm regardless of the forecast. I smirked at his remark. “I’m sure you don’t.”
He gestured toward the door with a wrench. “Let’s go have a look at your couch.”
Side by side—and without small talk—we meandered to my home. Emotionally crushed by his lack of expressed interest in me, I opened the door and gestured inside.
He walked past me and lowered himself to the floor. He rolled up his sleeves and surveyed the damage. “This should just take a minute.”
Unwilling to accept my fate as being nothing more than a needy neighbor, I knelt at his side. I strategically positioned myself to give him an unobstructed view of my new push up bra.
He didn’t so much as look in my direction.
Knowing more is always better, I unbuttoned one more button on my blouse while he was distracted.
He offered not so much as a glance.
In a last-ditch effort to gain his interest, I leaned over so far that I nearly toppled to the floor. I braced myself to keep from falling.
He stood and dusted off his sleeves. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
I wanted him to want me as much as I wanted him. With my face was covered in cheap mascara, my blouse unbuttoned to my navel, and my hair a mess, it wasn’t going to happen.
My plan was backfiring.
I’d lured him to the home with lies and deception. It was time for me to face the facts. I looked like an idiot and he wasn’t interested.
He handed me the stack of hardback books I’d left on the floor beneath the couch. “I’m guessing you were trying to stabilize the couch with these?”
“Yes,” I lied, setting the books aside. “I was.”
He picked up his tools and took a look around.
His strengths went well beyond his bulging biceps, big cock, and broad chest. A glass of wine and thirty minutes of small talk would be much better than a phony couch repair and an immediate departure.
Willing to accept whatever I could get, I decided to strike up some idle chat and go from there.
“This place is a lot different than yours,” I said, glancing from one wall to the other. “Not as bright and open.”
“Mine looked like this when I bought it,” he replied. “I spent three months turning it into what it is now.”
Hoping to lure him to the wine, I stepped into the hallway and turned toward the kitchen. “I can’t believe you got a contractor to do all that work in three months. I called last week about having the upstairs bathroom remodeled and I was told it would be six months before they could come look at it.”
“I did it myself.”
I spun around. “All of it?”
“Every bit.”
“Of course you did,” I said with a laugh.
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“You’re like a superhero.”
“Which superhero?”
“Not any of the ones who exist.” I folded my arms under my chest, and then realized I was shoving what little exposed breast flesh I possessed out the top of my unbuttoned blouse. I acted like I didn’t know. “You’re a new one altogether.”
He gave me a curious look. “What’s my name?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “I like The Gray Fox, but it’s not descriptive enough and it’s kind of cliché.”
“The Gray Fox?” He laughed. “That’s a good one.”
“Captain Cockstrong,” I said. “How’s that? You’d wear a tight-fitting red spandex bodysuit with two overlapping C’s on your chest. One end of each letter would be shaped like the head of a dick.”
His brows pinched together. “Isn’t cockstrong a term that’s used to describe someone who is
strong because of testosterone buildup due to lack of sexual activity?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Probably. I just liked how it sounded.”
“Captain Cockstrong would achieve his superpower from abstinence,” he explained. “You should probably pick something else.”
His comment should have struck me as playful or cute. Instead, it struck a nerve.
I shot him a glare. “Are you promiscuous?”
He scratched his beard. “I could be described as such, yes.”
My face flushed hot. Other than voluntarily providing details of my two-year hiatus from sex, we hadn’t discussed our sexual activities. I now wished I hadn’t said a word. Nevertheless, he’d admitted to being nothing short of a pig.
I raised my brows in false wonder. “Oh, really?”
“I told you I was ugly when it came to relationships,” he replied. “I wasn’t lying.”
I pressed my hands to my hips. “Being ugly in a relationship has nothing to do with sexual promiscuity.”
“I tried marriage once,” he said, seeming to recall the experience. “I have no business in a relationship. Knowing that about myself allows me to be honest when it comes to sex. I told you it was a one-time thing between us. I didn’t lie to you.”
“I didn’t accuse you of it,” I snapped back.
He looked me up and down. “Why are you pissed off?”
“I’m not,” I huffed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking me up and down. “Because I don’t want you to be.”
Wine and small talk was out of the question. Walking away before I developed feelings for him was the only answer. Anything more, and I’d only be hurt.
“I’m fine.” I hurried to the door and snatched it open. “Thanks for fixing the couch. I appreciate it.”
“I don’t want to leave if you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I insisted.
He gave me a look of disbelief. “You’re sure?”
I stepped to the side. “Positive.”
He offered a shallow nod and turned away. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Have a nice night, Anna.”
I watched him saunter away. Each step he took was a reminder that he had no interest in indulging my sexual desires. When he disappeared behind the shrubbery that separated our yards, I closed the front door and locked it.
My hands balled into fists. I turned toward the kitchen. Despite the outward appearance of my clenched teeth, white knuckles, and mascara-covered face, I wasn’t mad.
I was disappointed.
Braxton
Monday mornings were filled with phone calls and cryptic text messages from clients who made regretful choices over the weekend. Presented with an opportunity to make $80,000 before the sun went down, I silenced my phone and slipped it into my pocket.
“She needs to be brought to my office as promptly as practicable,” Crenshaw explained. “Following her safe removal from the home, her male friend needs to be made aware that avoiding her in the future will be paramount in assuring his continued existence on this earth.”
Robert Crenshaw was the attorney of choice for LA County’s upper crust. Professional sports stars, musicians, actors, movie producers and celebrities of all types utilized his services.
He rarely went to trial, but when he did, he embarrassed the opposition.
The epitome of good health and sound mind, he wore his age of sixty-two years extremely well. An intimidating man in and out of the courtroom, the mere mention of his name caused the DA’s office to cringe. His stature and the stern look permanently etched on his face caused everyone else to do so.
A small portion of his time was spent defending legal cases. The remainder of it was devoted to making problems disappear long before his clients were charged with a crime.
Facing the desk, Pratt stood in the far corner of Crenshaw’s office, attempting to peel the wrapper off a miniature sucker he’d received from a bank teller.
Seated in a chair at the opposite side of the office, I mulled over the proposed assignment.
Pratt pulled the sucker past his lips with a pop! “This is the same girl we picked up three or four years ago? Over and over?” He looked at the lollipop like he’d never seen one before. After a thorough inspection, he poked the blue candy sphere back into his mouth. “The producer’s daughter? Weinberg, or whatever his name is?”
Crenshaw diverted his attention from the stack of paperwork he held. “That is correct. Mica Weinberg.”
“She’s got to be, what, twenty-one years old?” I asked.
“Twenty-two,” Crenshaw replied, meeting my gaze. He seemed annoyed that I’d asked. “Why?”
The last time I’d seen Weinberg’s daughter she was seventeen years old.
The first time we found her, a San Diego Chargers VIP aftergame party had turned into a week-long session of her abusing drugs, screwing half the football team, and allowing them to record the events in a video. We removed her, the recordings, and her father’s wrecked Bentley from the estate.
Upon learning her age, we were both shocked. Lip injections, breast enhancement surgery, and an endless high-end wardrobe allowed her to pass for being much older.
At the time, keeping her whereabouts out of the news was her father’s main concern.
Three weeks later, we found her in the bed of an up-and-coming recording artist, naked. Her clothes, purse, and Maserati were nowhere to be found.
Three months later, a matter of weeks before her high school graduation, she’d disappeared again. Topless and sprawled out beside the pool of a professional basketball player’s Torrey Pines mansion, she seemed to be having the time of her life.
“The last time you had us pick her up, she was a senior in high school,” I explained. “Now, she’s an adult. She can do whatever she pleases. Weinberg might not like it, but he doesn’t have any say in the matter.”
Crenshaw set the paperwork aside and sharpened his gaze. “He certainly does have a say in the matter. He’s her father. He’s concerned with her coming in contact with someone who may be infected.”
“With what?” I asked.
“COVID-19, of course,” he replied.
Pratt glanced in my direction and raised his brows. I felt like laughing but refrained. I shifted my attention to Crenshaw. “COVID-19, of course.”
“Are we in agreement?” he asked.
“To what extent are we to encourage the boyfriend to keep his distance?” I asked.
Crenshaw locked eyes with me. “Whatever length is necessary.”
“Make it a hundred grand,” I said. “If this guy lives in Calabasas, he’s not some low-level thug. This won’t be a walk in the park. It’s going to take some planning.”
He shifted his gaze to Pratt.
Pratt pulled the sucker from his mouth. “It’ll be a bitch. Surveillance. Half a day of recon. One man extracts the girl while two or three others secure the residence and its occupants. Then, there’s the boyfriend. I don’t know the guy, but my guess is if he’s in some Calabasas mansion, he’s wrapped up in something illegal. Probably drugs. With dope, there’s always guns. The dope and guns mix means he’ll be crazy and armed. It’s not a good combination. He’s going to be pissed that we’re taking his flavor of the month. Violence and torture will be the only way to—”
“Stop!” Crenshaw raised his hand as if offended by Pratt’s theories. “I don’t want to hear the details.” He looked at me. “Fine. Return her to my office without harm. One hundred thousand.”
I stood. I tugged the wrinkles from the sleeves of my jacket. “I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Calabasas was home to many who saw inner Los Angeles as overcrowded and violent. The city contained an eclectic mixture of properties. Modular homes in a mobile home park sold for $250,000, while golf community mansions were listed for $25,000,000 or more. Situated in a neighborhood on a hill, the boyfriend’s residence was a secluded home valued at $12,000,000.
>
The large trees and lush landscape filling the half-acre lot gave the owner a sense of separation from the remote neighbors. The dense foliage provided us reassurance that our actions weren’t going to end up recorded by a neighbor—and then appear on the six o’clock news.
Pleased that there wasn’t a gate to contend with, I eased my way up the palm tree-lined brick driveway. I came to a stop at the front of the sprawling Mediterranean residence no differently than if I owned the place.
Pratt methodically screwed the silencer to the end of his pistol’s barrel. He shoved the weapon into the holster hidden inside his name-emblazoned work coat. He reached for his utility belt. “I’ll follow your lead.”
I exited the vehicle and looked the place over. The landscape—and the home’s exterior—were meticulously maintained. I caught Pratt’s gaze and turned toward the house. Clutching an aluminum clipboard in his left hand, he accompanied me to the front door.
As I searched for the doorbell, the door opened. A lean twenty-something Latina female stood in the opening.
Loose-fitting gray sweats hung low on her shapely hips. A ribbed white tank clung to her unsupported breasts. Upon seeing us, she raked her fingers through the sides of her curly shoulder-length brown hair.
“Good afternoon.” Wearing an ever so slight smile, she alternated glances between us. “How can I help you?”
She had no discernable accent and spoke with humble authority. I wondered if she was one of the boyfriend’s many female companions.
I reached into my jacket and produced a business card. The official-looking ADT Security cards had proven useful on many previous similar occasions.
“We’re with ADT Security,” I said, handing her the card. “Can we speak with the owner of the home?”
She studied the card. Upon satisfying herself that it was legitimate, she met my gaze with a smile. “I’m Sophia Santos,” she said. “The homeowner.”
The home was listed as being owned by Samuel Santos. Instead of challenging her, I nodded in agreement.
“We’ve had a series of problems with the security systems in the area that were installed between 2005 and 2015,” I explained. “Sadly, the motherboard isn’t allowing the system to communicate with the main switchboard during an intrusion. We’re in the neighborhood this morning hoping to check the sequence numbers of all applicable systems. If it’s in need of replacement, we’ll get it scheduled for first thing next week with the repair division. May we come in? It should only take a few minutes.”
The Man I Hate Page 5
