Page 31 of The Man I Hate

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.