Page 17 of The Man I Hate

“That’s what she said.”

He seemed confused. “I thought you said she was cute as fuck. Little spinner with a banging body and badass hair.

“She is.”

He took a step back and scratched the side of his head with his fingertips. “Cute as fuck and she hasn’t had any dick in two years?”

“That’s what she said.”

“You never want to be the guy that takes a chick off a dry spell.” He shook his head and looked away. “You’re going to have a clinger on your hands.”

“She lives in Oklahoma,” I replied. “She won’t be clinging to me.”

“After a two-year dry spell, you fucked her in the parking lot of the diner.” He laughed. “She isn’t going back to Oklahoma. At least not right away. She’s going to spend the next few weeks banging on your door every time her twat gets that itch.”

“She’s going back Tuesday.”

“Already got her plane ticket?”

“She’s driving. I think she’s planning on taking some stuff home with her. Said the drive relaxes her.”

“Probably afraid of catching the virus at the airport,” he said. “Smart girl.”

“Not another word about that fucking virus, goddamn it.”

“Fine,” he snapped back. “So, this chick’s leaving in five days, huh?”

“That’s what she said.”

“My money says she’s staying. She’ll have her neighbors feed her nasty little goats and she’ll stay here hoping for one more chance at that dick. She’ll come up with a bullshit reason for not leaving. Needs to meet with a realtor and can’t get an appointment, taking some time to rethink her life’s mission, need to repaint the kitchen, something.”

If I had one weakness it was gambling, and Pratt knew it. I didn’t bet on everything, only what I truly believed in or felt I could control through manipulation. Subsequently, I rarely lost a bet.

“Your money says she’s staying?”

“Yep.”

“How much of your money?”

He puffed his chest. “Hundred bucks.”

“Make it a grand,” I said.

He gave me a side-eyed look. “How good did you fuck her? Give her a little bit of forgetful dick, or did you fuck her like she was the last piece of ass on earth?”

“I beat her shallow little pussy to a pulp. Left depressions in the headliner of my car where her pretty little head hit it,” I replied. “Fucked her until she couldn’t see straight.”

“I’ll take that bet.” He extended his hand. “She isn’t going anywhere.”

I’d made myself clear. The sex was a one-time affair. If I made the mistake of fucking her again, Pratt may be right. All I needed to do to win the bet was keep my dick in my pants for the next six days.

I shook his hand. “It’s a bet.”

Anna

Sex with Braxton began as an itch that needed scratching. Nevertheless, in the twenty-four hours that followed since we did the dirty, I identified three reasons that assured me walking away from him wasn’t going to be a simple task.

First, the fact that he saved me from being harmed—or even killed—caused me to gravitate toward him. I dismissed it as being some weird psychological issue comparable to the Stockholm Syndrome. I’d emotionally attached myself to my savior. It was probably a textbook reaction to the situation, but it wasn’t something I was accustomed to.