“He does.”
Her eyes shot wide. She fidgeted in her seat. “Seriously?”
She was far too excited. My stomach flip-flopped at the thought of her and Braxton doing the dirty.
“You two haven’t—” I wagged my finger toward the inside of her tanned thighs. “You didn’t—”
“Oh. No. I’m just—” She cleared her throat. “A few years ago, I saw him on TV escorting Selena Gomez at the music awards. I couldn’t help but notice that he had a very confident presence. I’ve been intrigued by him ever since. That’s all.”
Despite what she said, her face was flush with excitement. I wasn’t convinced she was completely disinterested in Braxton.
“Intrigued,” I said under my breath. “Yeah. He’s intriguing, that’s for sure.”
“It’s quite a little bonus that he’s your neighbor,” she said. “Did he come over and introduce himself? Is that how you met?”
“No. I was backing out of the driveway and a guy tried to steal my car. Braxton was driving by when it happened. He grabbed the guy and called the cops. While the police were processing the paperwork, we went to breakfast. I’ve already told you the rest of the story.”
“Someone tried to steal your car?” Her face contorted. “Here?”
Having Braxton Rourke for a neighbor may have been good selling feature. The potential of having a car stolen out of the driveway wasn’t.
“Yeah,” I said dismissively. “It was some guy just passing through. I was backing out of the driveway with my window down. I must have looked like easy prey.”
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “That wasn’t a theft. It was a carjacking.”
“Is one worse than the other?” I asked. “I guess I didn’t realize there was a difference.”
“He tried to take the car while you were in it, right?”
“That was his plan.”
“It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt.” She plucked a few pieces of fuzz from her skirt and then looked up. “At what point did Braxton show up?”
I envisioned her slinking her way to Braxton’s house after I went back to Oklahoma. Following each showing of the home, she’d take her ample cleavage and full lips with her and sashay next door. Given her level of expressed interest, it was bound to happen.
Considering Braxton’s promiscuity, he’d grant her sexual wish, but only once.
With slight reservation, I gave a few more details regarding the day in question. Elaborating enough to satisfy her wasn’t going to hurt matters. There was nothing I could say to make her any more interested in Braxton than she already was.
“I was backing out of the driveway, and this tattooed guy leaned inside my car window. He was yelling at me to get out of the car,” I explained. “The next thing I knew, someone yanked him away. Then, Braxton came into view and asked me to open my trunk—”
“Open your trunk?” She seemed perplexed. “Why?”
“He wanted to throw the guy in there to contain him.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s got to be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I laughed at the thought of it all. “It all happened pretty fast. It didn’t seem odd at the time. Not really. He smacked the guy, choked him until he was passed out, and then zip-tied his hands and feet.” I paused and considered what I’d said. “Now that I’m talking about it? Yeah, it seems kind of weird.”
“He locked the guy in your trunk, and then the police showed up?” she asked.
“Yeah. The cops quickly recognized the guy. He’d just been released from prison. The officer in charge talked like the three-strikes law was going to make sure he was locked up for a long time.”
“Hopefully he’ll make a plea deal and you won’t have to testify in court.”
Testifying hadn’t crossed my mind. I didn’t like the thought of staying in California, going into a courtroom, or seeing the tattooed thug ever again. I swallowed the foul taste that came with the realization that at least two of those three things may happen.
“I hope he makes a plea deal, too,” I admitted.
“So.” Her brows raised. “Where do you and Braxton stand now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you two seeing each other?”
I let out a muted laugh. “No.”
She seemed amused by my response. “Sore subject?”
“He’s not interested in a relationship or anything that resembles a relationship,” I replied. “I’m going to have to be satisfied with ‘one and done’ for once.”
“One and done?” She gave me a side-eyed look. “Is that what you want? One and done?”
It wasn’t at all what I wanted, but I wasn’t the one making the decisions. Braxton was. I knew little about him, but I was sure there was no way on earth I could make him do something he didn’t want to do.
“No, it’s not,” I admitted. “I’m not the one making the decisions, though.”
She arched one of her perfectly plucked brows. “You could be.”
I leaned forward. “How so?”
“Men want everyone to think they’re in charge of things,” she said. “They’re not. We are.”
The one with the pussy has the power. I’d heard the phrase before. The claim was myth, not fact. Although I’d had the pussy in all my relationships, I’d never had the power. The one with the dick was the decision maker. Always.
“I don’t think Braxton will be too receptive to me suggesting we have sex again. I kind of tried that already.” I exhaled until my shoulders slumped in defeat. “It backfired.”
“Giving a man the opportunity to get laid is like offering a dog a steak,” she explained. “No matter how disciplined he is, when no one’s looking he’ll take the offer.”
“You’re suggesting I get Braxton alone and offer him sex?”
“If you want more than a one and done with him, that’s my suggestion.”
It sounded like she knew what she was talking about. I mulled over the idea. In a moment, I quickly came to my senses.
“Two and done doesn’t sound much better than one and done,” I complained.
“Having him agree to sex is only half of it,” she explained. “The other half—the key half—is how you do it.”
“How I do what?”
“The sex.”
She was talking in cryptic circles. Most of what she was saying—although interesting—made little sense.
“Can you elaborate?” I asked.
“Let’s say you get him alone and offer him sex. He agrees. You hike up your skirt. He pulls his pants down to his thighs and gives it to you in the kitchen. That would probably secure you a ‘two and done’ position.”
My curiosity vanished. I looked at her like she was nuts. “I’m confused. I’m not any more interested in a ‘two and done’ than I am a ‘one and done.’”
“My point was that you can’t just have sex with him.” Her gaze hardened. “You’ve got to fuck him like you’re trying to kill him.”
“Kill him?” It sounded too good to be true. “I’m going to fuck him to death?”
“No, you’ll just fuck him like you’re trying to kill him,” she clarified. She nonchalantly checked the clasp on her Cartier watch. “It’s called a hate fuck. It’s the only answer.”
I choked on my spit. “Hate fuck?”
She stood. “Have you ever been frustrated enough to throw a utensil? Kick a door? Punch your fist deep into a pillow?”
I felt like I was watching a late-night informercial about acne cleansers. Have you ever had to cancel a date? Felt embarrassed about going out in public? Given up on cleansers because they simply didn’t work?
I stood. “Yes, yes, and yes.”
“Channel your frustration into fucking him.” She reached into her purse. “You can either have basic sex and end it or you can fuck him like you’re mad at him and secure your place in his life. It’s sad that a man’s life revolves around sex, but it does.” She pulled out a
business card and gave it a quick look. “They’re all pigs.”
We agreed on one thing, at least. Men were pigs. I reached for the card. “I like your way of thinking.”
She pulled away. “I’ll take the listing on the home, but only if you agree to keep me apprised of your progress.”
“Do you really think this will work?”
“I know it will work.” She smirked. “It’s how I got my husband. It sounds like he and Braxton are—well, were—a lot alike.”
“You’re married?”
“Very much so.”
I gestured toward her hand. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“It’s better for business if I don’t. More proof that men are pigs.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” I said, reaching for the card. “But I have my doubts about this mission’s success.”
“My husband was a single thirty-five-year-old multi-millionaire who had no interest in being in a relationship. We met one night at a restaurant, of all places. We had an instant connection. He left the two men he was meeting with and took me out for drinks. The attraction was undeniable, so I agreed to sex. In the weeks that followed, I couldn’t get him to do so much as answer my calls. Then, I saw him at a showing of a high-end estate. Based on the advice of a coworker, I fucked him like I was trying to kill him. The next day, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“It was that easy?”
“I ghosted him for a week or two, afterward.” She grinned slyly. “Men want what they can’t have.”
“Well,” I said, pocketing the card. “I guess it’s time for a hate fuck.”
* * *
I waited for Braxton to return from work. Upon seeing his SUV drive past, my heart raced at the thought of implementing Giselle’s plan.
With my fourth glass of liquid courage cradled in my hand, I nervously paced the living room. Eager to see him—but not wanted to seem so—I sipped my wine and wondered how long I should wait before I meandered to his door.
If I waited too long, he might leave. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and go throughout the evening and well into the night. If I went too soon, it would make it seem like I was staring through the window waiting for him to return.
Although my drunken face was plastered to the glass as he drove past, I didn’t want him to realize it. I hoped to portray myself as someone who cared little about what happened between us, even if that wasn’t necessarily the case.
I finished my drink and contemplated pouring another. After a lengthy mental battle, I set the glass in the sink and meandered to the bathroom. I checked myself in the mirror. The pants suit I was wearing was unflattering. I changed into a pair of micro-shorts that I’d mistakenly purchased from a local clothing store. I could never wear them in Oklahoma. They were only suitable for tweens, prostitutes, and 1970’s roller-disco queens.
They were perfect for what I intended to do. I could rush to Braxton’s home, go inside, and then parade around in front of him for fifteen minutes. The brief presentation would convince him sex was a great idea. My “no strings” offer that followed would push him over the decision-making edge.
I would then fuck him like I hated him, all the while celebrating in the fact that he’d spend the rest of his life regretting his decision to do the dick ‘n dump.
Filled with drunken certainty that the plan was foolproof, I sashayed to his door as if I were walking along the runway of a French fashion show. Once within earshot of his home, I heard commotion. Footsteps. Elevated voices, one of which was female.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Getting him alone was step one to a successful hate fuck.
I rang the doorbell.
The arguing stopped. It started again.
I rang the doorbell. The arguing stopped.
The door opened.
Dressed in a dark tailored suit that accentuated everything about him, Braxton gave me a thorough once-over. Twenty feet beyond him, a leggy twenty-something stood in the kitchen. Wearing nothing but a tangerine-colored bikini, she was gorgeous in a European kind of way. Her tan legs went on for miles, coming together to form the shapely ass of a gymnast. Her most eye-grabbing feature, however, were her big round boobs.
She leaned to the side and looked me over.
I shot her a “he’s mine, not yours” glare.
“Good afternoon,” Braxton said.
A look of disdain was etched on his face. There was no denying my arrival caught him by complete surprise. He seemed nervous. Frustrated maybe. Interested in fucking me?
Not. At. All.
He looked just like Bruce Miller on the afternoon I caught him with Karen Carter. Bruce and I had been an on-and-off couple throughout our senior year in high school. I’d paid him an unscheduled visit at one of the times when we were officially together, only to have him answer the door looking like he’d swallowed a rotten oyster. I later found out that Karen was hiding in the bedroom closet, naked.
“Just thought I’d stop by and bid you farewell,” I said, cocking my hip unapologetically. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
It was a complete and utter lie. I wasn’t going anywhere. For the sake of luring him away from the tween porn star, lies, however, were a must.
He glanced at my ass. “Did you put the house up for sale?”
I arched my back. “I did.”
He took another peek at my lower region and then looked up. He seemed confused. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, why?”
His brows pinched together. “You look like you’re uncomfortable.”
I was hoping for irresistible.
Drunk, disappointed, and forced to take in an eyeful of Braxton’s next victim, I wasn’t pulling it off very well. As I considered my options for a smooth recovery, the long-legged gymnast stepped behind Braxton and pressed her massive mounds against his back.
A hint of patchouli oil wafted past me.
I surveyed her from head to toe. She was undeniably flawless. And young. Her golden skin was smooth and wrinkle-free. The beautiful highlights woven through her hair appeared to be natural. She had long lean legs, a tight round ass, flat stomach, big tits, skinny arms and a gorgeous face.
I hadn’t been young since before she was born. I had short legs, wrinkles, and lunch lady arms. My boobs were miniscule, and my hair was a natural curly disaster.
I was hoping to convince mister one and done to agree to a round two. The skinny whore, on the other hand, was a shoo-in for round one. Her prep time would be non-existent. She was already nearly naked.
My self-confidence escaped me like air from a whoopie cushion. I was clearly outmatched by the big-boobed youngster. I felt foolish for believing I could lure Braxton into a pity fuck. He was obviously a player, and I had merely been played. Irritated with myself for allowing him to play me, I forced the corner of my mouth to twist into a smirk.
“Uncomfortable?” I asked in rhetoric. “No, not at all. It’s just—”
Despite my attempts to squash my frustration, it morphed to anger. I contemplated turning and walking away. I gave each of them a quick glance while they waited for me to finish speaking.
Braxton’s look of slight concern remained. The post-teenage porn star ogled me with curious eyes.
If he had the gall to parade the blonde tramp in front of me like a trophy, I needed to depart with a bang.
A loud one.
“I wanted to come by and thank you for screwing me in the diner’s parking lot the other day,” I said in a whisper loud enough that the buxom nymph was sure to hear. “It’s been a long time since I had sex in a car. Thanks, it was fun.”
The porn star’s eyes shot wide. Braxton swallowed so heavily I could hear it. Satisfied that I’d done all the damage that I was capable of doing, I turned around and walked away.
On my way home, I exhaled a breath of frustration. Giselle’s hate fuck plan was a bust.
Being used—and knowing it—was painful. The only way to feel better about
myself was to get as far away from Braxton Rourke as I could.
It was for the better, anyway. Sooner or later someone was bound to migrate from Washington state to California. The possibility of them being infected with the virus was minimal, but it was a possibility.
To err on the safe side of things, I needed to be long gone whenever it happened.
And that’s just what I intended to do.
Be long gone.
Braxton
“You fucked her in the parking lot?” Mica eyed me from head to toe. “Her? Seriously?”
I closed the door. “What we did or didn’t do is none of your business.”
“You’ll hit that, but you’re telling me no?” She laughed dryly. “Tell me how that makes sense.”
It didn’t make sense. Mica wanted to fuck. Granted, she offered herself to anyone who was willing to reciprocate, but she had offered, nevertheless. Saying “no” wasn’t as easy as one might think. There was a long list of reasons I shouldn’t fuck her, and I knew each and every one of them. With each breath that I took, however, the list seemed to get smaller and smaller.
Faced with the aggravation of knowing Anna was disappointed in me—and that Mica was going to spend the rest of the afternoon parading around my home half-naked—I brushed my way past Mica and into the kitchen.
“It doesn’t need to make sense to you,” I said. “But it makes perfect sense to me. That’s all that matters.”
“We’re all going to be dead in a month, anyway,” she said. “You just as well die happy.”
I looked her up and down. “What in the fuck are you talking about?”
“The virus,” she replied. “San Francisco order people to stay at—”
“I’m tired of hearing about that fucking virus,” I snarled. “We’re not having sex, virus or no virus.”
Her bottom lip jutted out.
I should have let her leave with Pratt. They could have discussed the end of the world, became convinced it was imminent, and then fucked each other’s brains out.
I poured a glass of scotch, neat, and paused. The last thing she needed was a shot of liquor. I set the bottle aside. As I sipped the scotch, she continued to display her pouty-lipped expression, hoping to coerce me into feeling sorry enough for her to fuck her. I had news for her: there wasn’t a woman on earth who could manipulate me into fucking her once my mind was made up.
The Man I Hate Page 7
