Page 78 of The Man I Hate

He continued to pummel the door with the back side of his fist. I had no idea who the knucklehead was, but Braxton desperately needed his sleep.

“Hey!” I screamed, taking a few more steps toward him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”

He faced me. “Oh. You must be—”

“Don’t beat on that door.” I walked in his direction. “You’ll wake him up. He hasn’t slept well in two days.”

“What the fuck’s he been doing?” he asked. “Not returning my calls, that’s for sure.”

I paused 30 feet from where he stood. He was tall, lean, and in good physical condition. Tattoos peppered each forearm. His hair was short and spiky, and his pronounced brow jutted forward like a rock ledge.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Gordon Pratt,” he replied. “Are you Annie?”

I was pleasantly surprised that Braxton had mentioned me. Even if his friend couldn’t get my name right.

“Anna,” I said proudly. “Please. Don’t knock on the door. Braxton’s sick.”

His gaze narrowed. “He’s not—”

“Yes,” I said. “He is. I’m taking care of him.”

He nervously stepped to the side, toward his truck. “He’s got the virus?”

“Yes, he does,” I replied. “So does his father. His father’s in the hospital.”

“Hap? Holy fucking shit.” He rubbed his temples with his palms. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He tilted his head toward Braxton’s house. “You’ve been in there?”

“I have not. But I’m going in there in a minute. He needs something to drink, so I bought him Gatorade.” I gestured toward my car. “I got a thermometer, too. I want to take his temperature.”

“If you haven’t been in there, how…fuck, he could be…what if his lungs filled up with shit and he’s dead?”

I brushed my hair behind my ear. “I’m on a phone call with him, listening to him twenty-four hours a day. I have been for a day and a half. I don’t know what I’m going to do if it gets disconnected.”

“You got a key to his place?”

“I do.”

“If it gets disconnected, call me,” he said, folding his arms over his broad chest. “I’ll reconnect it.”

I mentally rolled my eyes at his foolishness. “You’d have to go inside to reconnect it. He’s infected.”

“He saved my life,” he said. “He could have been killed doing it, too. Been meaning for years to pay him back for what he did, but I never got the opportunity. I’ll take the stuff in, I’ll take his temperature, and I’ll reconnect the phone if it gets disconnected.”

A sigh of relief escaped me. “You will?”

He gave a sharp nod. “I sure will.”

A light bulb went off. “Oh my God. You’re Pratt! The guy that squashed the cookie sheet and the guy from his dreams.”

He seemed confused. “What dreams?”

“His nightmares,” I said. “He had them all night last night. He was talking in his sleep. I remember him saying your name. It came up over and over.”