Page 21 of The Man I Hate

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.”