The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  My means of gathering inside information ranged from interviewing disgruntled spouses to bribing enemies, friends, and neighbors. My sources weren’t always right. Some provided more accurate information than others.

  Not yet convinced I’d acted on a bad tip, I searched for answers. “You were there the entire night?” I asked. “You never left once?”

  “What? Left?” He looked at me like I’d punted his cat off the Vincent Thomas Bridge. “I was on assignment. You think I dipped out to Jack in the Box for a burger?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Watched the place like a hawk from a little after seven last night until about thirty minutes ago.”

  “No movement whatsoever?” I asked. “No one came or went?”

  “Nope.” He lowered his backpack to the floor and took a seat by the window. “Nobody in, nobody out.”

  Gordon Pratt was one of the best there was. As a MARSOC Marine, the training he received in surveillance, countersurveillance, evasive driving, and hand-to-hand combat was the best the Nation had to offer. His twenty years of experience included time spent working side by side with the CIA, Navy SEALS, and the Army’s elite Delta Force.

  I squeezed a drop of Visine into each eye. “You look like shit.”

  “I’m worn the fuck out,” he admitted. “Pisses me off that I hid in that tree line for twelve hours and all he did was take his dog out twice.”

  “You look like you haven’t slept in a fucking week. Put some of this in your eyes.” I tossed him the bottle of Visine. “What kind of dog?”

  “I don’t know.” He put a drop in each eye. “I’m not a dog person. It was a little white poofy fucker with short legs.”

  As far as I knew, our target didn’t have a dog. If he decided to get one, a “little white poofy fucker” didn’t sound like something he’d pick.

  “Did you get pictures?” I asked.

  “Of what?”

  I narrowed my gaze. “The dog.”

  “Sure did.” He tossed me the bottle of Visine and reached for the backpack. “There wasn’t much else to take pictures of, other than the neighbor chick southeast of him.”

  Pratt had two weaknesses that I was aware of.

  Candy and beautiful women.

  His addiction to lollipops and Jolly Ranchers didn’t interfere with his ability to stay on task. Women, on the other hand, often did. On the rare occasion that he made a mistake, there was typically a beautiful woman involved.

  I glared. “Explain to me how you could keep an eye on the objective if you were watching his neighbor?”

  He pulled the camera from the bag and powered it on.

  “I wasn’t watching her,” he insisted. “But I saw her. The sexy bitch was dressed in hooker heels, a bikini top, and a pair of cut-offs that fit her like a thong. She had tits the size of fucking cantaloupes, and she was walking a fucking leopard on a leash. Kind of tough not to see her.”

  He handed me the camera.

  I scanned the pictures. Sure enough, the scantily dressed neighbor was quite a sight. The thirty-pound African Serval at her side was an oddity, no doubt. Even so, it wasn’t enough of one to cause most men to tear their eyes away from her.

  I flipped to the photo of our target walking the dog. The look on his face made one thing clear.

  He lacked interest in what he was doing.

  Zooming in for a closer look revealed the dog’s pink collar and matching braided leather leash were fitted with what appeared to be diamonds. I held the camera at arm’s length. “Look at the collar and the leash.”

  Pratt studied the picture. His face washed with embarrassment. “Not his dog, is it?”

  Our target was an R&B artist with ties to a well-known street gang. He had been convicted of several acts of domestic violence and multiple counts of felony assault against various men. I doubted his choice of dogs would be Maltese, nor did I suspect his favorite color was pink.

  “I’m guessing it’s someone else’s dog.” I glanced at him and then shook my head. “Every time you get within eyeshot of a good-looking woman, the quality of your work goes to hell.”

  “I took that picture from the tree line at Bilmoor Court,” he argued, hoping to save face. “It’s a hundred yards from his house. Easy for you to zoom in on the fucker now and condemn me for what I couldn’t see when I took that long-distance shot. With all the shit that’s going on, I’m not on my A-game. Give me a break.”

  “What shit that’s going on?”

  “That Chinese virus. Fuckers are dropping like flies.” He tossed his hands in the air. “We’re all fucking doomed.”

  The virus he spoke of was extremely contagious and had proven to be rather deadly. Recently imposed travel restrictions assured the citizens it would remain contained in mainland China. For him to use fear of becoming infected as an excuse for being insubordinate was ludicrous.

  “You should have zoomed in on that picture right after you took it.” I gave him the camera and a look of disappointment at the same time. “That’s my point. Your quality of work goes to hell when there’s a woman involved.”

  “My quality of work goes to hell when I’m faced with a fight I can’t win,” he argued.

  “What fight?”

  “San Francisco is on lockdown,” he said. “We’re fucking next. Are you and I having the same conversation?”

  San Francisco overreacted about everything. Surprised that he thought we’d be next for a lockdown, but not willing to accept it as an excuse for his shortcomings, I continued to glare.

  “San Francisco is filled with a bunch of tree-hugging hippies,” I mumbled. “They’re on lockdown because they don’t want their tofu and wheatgrass infected.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Pratt. The chick with the big tits and the cat had your head elsewhere.”

  “You’re one to talk, asshole.” He shoved the camera in the bag and faced me. He raised his hands and spread his fingers wide. “I need more fingers if I’m going to count all the women you’ve fucked in the past year.”

  I raised my brows. “We’re not talking about me.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, we are.”

  Very few men could challenge me and get away with it. Pratt was one of them. We respected one another deeply but argued and fought like brothers. At times, it was difficult for me to make a point without getting in an argument about it.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m talking about how every time you’ve been deficient, there’s a woman—”

  “Jesus, Rourke. You stick your dick in every woman you meet,” he said with a laugh. “How can you complain about me?”

  I gave him a serious look. “Women don’t have an effect on my ability to perform my job.”

  He coughed out a laugh. “How could they? You’re the king of one-night stands. Mister pump and dump.”

  He was right. I hadn’t had sex with a woman more than once since my divorce, nor did I have any intention of doing so. Having sex beyond a “one and done” was a recipe for disaster.

  “You should try it,” I said. “The lack of distractions keeps me from missing shit like the diamond-studded collar on that Maltese.”

  “I didn’t miss the collar,” he replied. “I just hadn’t noticed the fucker yet.”

  “I’m guessing the owner of that dog is the woman we’re hoping to catch him with. If we get pictures of those two together, it pays sixty grand. We need to get some wireless cameras on that place. You can take your portion of the proceeds and buy a plastic bubble to live in. That’ll alleviate any concerns you’ve got about the virus.”

  “Fuck you,” he replied dryly. “I’ll set some cameras up this evening.”

  “Go back there and do it now,” I insisted. “Who knows where they’ll be this evening.”

  “You want me to go back there now?” He gave me a look. “In broad daylight?”

  “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll get something figured out.”

>   “I’ll get it done and then I’m going home to get some sleep.” He started to turn away, but hesitated. “Are you coming or going?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You haven’t taken your jacket off.” He crossed his arms. “Are you coming, or are you going?”

  “I just got here.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s noon.”

  “I was tied up at the police station until a few minutes ago.”

  He slung the bag over one shoulder. “Doing what?”

  “Some shithead was trying to carjack the neighbor on my way in this morning. I grabbed the guy before he got very far. O’Malley came by and picked him up. I had to go to the station and fill out a report.”

  “The girl next door?” He sauntered to the edge of my desk. “The chick you thought was a realtor but ended up being the daughter of your neighbors? The one with all the hair?” He tapped his index finger against his lip as if he were thinking. “Let’s see. Small waist, perky tits, and a ferocious ass. Her?”

  “She’d be the one.”

  He threaded his free arm through the loose strap. He studied me for a moment, and then shook his head in disbelief. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  I grinned. “In the diner’s parking lot.”

  His brows raised. “Any good?”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I bragged. “Not much stamina, though.”

  “Single?”

  “Yep.”

  “Probably hasn’t had any dick in a while,” he said. “Didn’t you say her parents were from Oklahoma?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “She’d be just like those girls in Iraq that looked at us like they wanted to fucking eat us. Bet she lives in a farmhouse in the middle of no-fucking-where with a bunch of dirty-assed goats and a couple of cows. Probably not a man for miles. Her little pussy was wet the minute you saved her from the carjacker.”

  I coughed out a laugh. “Dirty-assed goats?”

  He nodded. “I saw one up close in Afghanistan. Believe me, they’re nasty little fuckers.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Anyway.” He adjusted the weight of the pack. “Sounds like she was starving for some dick.”

  “She said it’d been two years.”

  His face contorted. “Since she’s had any cock?”

  “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.

  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.