Page 18 of The Man I Hate

Second, although he was breathtakingly handsome, his attractive qualities went well beyond his looks. His calm demeanor allowed me to immediately be comfortable in his presence. The willingness he possessed to intervene and go face-to-face with danger was another attractive quality. Then, there was his job, which I found fascinating.

Lastly, the size, shape, and girth of his dick ruined me from ever being satisfied by anything lesser. I hated to name something so trivial as an outstanding quality, but Braxton’s cock was nothing short of prick perfection. Had it been larger, it wouldn’t have worked. If it were any smaller, I would have enjoyed it, but not to the point that I’d go to drastic measures for another chance at sex with him.

Eager for one more dose of what Braxton Rourke had to offer, I’d devised a foolproof plan to get into his pants one more time.

In search of a set of sockets, I walked into the garage. Beyond the new SUV, a row of red toolboxes was situated against the wall. Seeing them sparked memories of my childhood.

My father spent his life turning ugly vehicles into gorgeous works of art. The owner of one of the Midwest’s most sought-after auto body repair shops, he reconstructed wrecked cars and restored yesteryear’s rusty heaps into show cars.

Until I left for college, I’d spent much of my spare time at my father’s side retrieving the tools he needed to complete the job he’d been tasked with.

Socket set.

Center box, far left drawer, second from the top.

I opened the drawer. The row of chrome-plated sockets was neatly placed in the center of the foam-lined tray. I removed them and opened the drawer to the right.

The ratchets of various lengths each performed different duties. The long-handled versions provided leverage, whereas the short-handled varieties limited the amount of torque that could be applied to a fastener. Others were fitted with a swivel joint, which allowed the tool’s shape to be manipulated for use in awkward places where a conventional ratchet would not fit.

Shrouded with a blanket of sadness regarding my father’s untimely death yet filled with warmth from memories of spending time with him, I walked into the house with the tools I needed.

While listening to the latest COVID-19 updates on the television, I propped the frame of the couch on a stack of books, relieving all the weight from the front leg. After carefully removing the hex nuts that attached the leg to the frame, I lowered the couch onto the crippled leg. I then moved the books to the opposite end of the couch and loosened the nuts on the other leg.

Satisfied that my ploy was fault-free, I carried the tools to the garage. Upon returning, I poured a glass of wine and stared blankly at the television. I needed a few gulps of courage before I continued with my plan.

While I drank the glass of wine, the newscaster gave an update on the COVID-19 crisis. “ABC-7 has confirmed that 143 more individuals in the state of Washington have tested positive for the COVID-19 virus, bringing the total to 1,521. The novel virus, which originated in Wuhan, China, has been described as having flulike symptoms for most of those who have contracted it. Those above the age of eighty should consider the virus to be of serious nature. We’ll have the full story, including the imposed lockdown of San Francisco, at three minutes after the hour.”

The television went to a commercial. I took a healthy drink and then another. I wondered why 1,521 people being infected with a strain of the flu in Seattle, Washington caused the people in San Francisco to overreact and force people to stay in their homes.

I shrugged it off as being ridiculous.

I finished my wine. After mussing my hair and unbuttoning the top two buttons of my blouse, I used water from the faucet to cause my cheap mascara to run down my cheeks. Then, I got the nuts and washers from the living room and headed out the door.

I hoped my shoddy appearance and alcohol-laced breath would convince Braxton that I was masking the sorrow of losing my parents in alcohol. He’d then feel sorry for me, and a pity fuck would ensue.

With a tangled head of hair and mascara dripping along both sides of my face, I made my way toward Braxton’s home. Hopeful that he’d easily be lured into my trap, I stumbled up his walk and onto his porch.

I rang his doorbell and took a step away from the door. Bathed in light from the home’s landscape, I cradled the fasteners in the palm of my hand and waited for him to arrive.

At ten o’clock on a Thursday night, I hoped Braxton would be dressed in something other than a suit. Jeans and a wife-beater were my hope.

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.