Page 30 of The Man I Hate

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.