Testifying hadn’t crossed my mind. I didn’t like the thought of staying in California, going into a courtroom, or seeing the tattooed thug ever again. I swallowed the foul taste that came with the realization that at least two of those three things may happen.
“I hope he makes a plea deal, too,” I admitted.
“So.” Her brows raised. “Where do you and Braxton stand now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you two seeing each other?”
I let out a muted laugh. “No.”
She seemed amused by my response. “Sore subject?”
“He’s not interested in a relationship or anything that resembles a relationship,” I replied. “I’m going to have to be satisfied with ‘one and done’ for once.”
“One and done?” She gave me a side-eyed look. “Is that what you want? One and done?”
It wasn’t at all what I wanted, but I wasn’t the one making the decisions. Braxton was. I knew little about him, but I was sure there was no way on earth I could make him do something he didn’t want to do.
“No, it’s not,” I admitted. “I’m not the one making the decisions, though.”
She arched one of her perfectly plucked brows. “You could be.”
I leaned forward. “How so?”
“Men want everyone to think they’re in charge of things,” she said. “They’re not. We are.”
The one with the pussy has the power. I’d heard the phrase before. The claim was myth, not fact. Although I’d had the pussy in all my relationships, I’d never had the power. The one with the dick was the decision maker. Always.
“I don’t think Braxton will be too receptive to me suggesting we have sex again. I kind of tried that already.” I exhaled until my shoulders slumped in defeat. “It backfired.”
“Giving a man the opportunity to get laid is like offering a dog a steak,” she explained. “No matter how disciplined he is, when no one’s looking he’ll take the offer.”
“You’re suggesting I get Braxton alone and offer him sex?”
“If you want more than a one and done with him, that’s my suggestion.”
It sounded like she knew what she was talking about. I mulled over the idea. In a moment, I quickly came to my senses.
“Two and done doesn’t sound much better than one and done,” I complained.
“Having him agree to sex is only half of it,” she explained. “The other half—the key half—is how you do it.”
“How I do what?”
“The sex.”
She was talking in cryptic circles. Most of what she was saying—although interesting—made little sense.
“Can you elaborate?” I asked.
“Let’s say you get him alone and offer him sex. He agrees. You hike up your skirt. He pulls his pants down to his thighs and gives it to you in the kitchen. That would probably secure you a ‘two and done’ position.”
My curiosity vanished. I looked at her like she was nuts. “I’m confused. I’m not any more interested in a ‘two and done’ than I am a ‘one and done.’”
“My point was that you can’t just have sex with him.” Her gaze hardened. “You’ve got to fuck him like you’re trying to kill him.”
“Kill him?” It sounded too good to be true. “I’m going to fuck him to death?”
“No, you’ll just fuck him like you’re trying to kill him,” she clarified. She nonchalantly checked the clasp on her Cartier watch. “It’s called a hate fuck. It’s the only answer.”
I choked on my spit. “Hate fuck?”
She stood. “Have you ever been frustrated enough to throw a utensil? Kick a door? Punch your fist deep into a pillow?”
I felt like I was watching a late-night informercial about acne cleansers. Have you ever had to cancel a date? Felt embarrassed about going out in public? Given up on cleansers because they simply didn’t work?
I stood. “Yes, yes, and yes.”
“Channel your frustration into fucking him.” She reached into her purse. “You can either have basic sex and end it or you can fuck him like you’re mad at him and secure your place in his life. It’s sad that a man’s life revolves around sex, but it does.” She pulled out a business card and gave it a quick look. “They’re all pigs.”
We agreed on one thing, at least. Men were pigs. I reached for the card. “I like your way of thinking.”
She pulled away. “I’ll take the listing on the home, but only if you agree to keep me apprised of your progress.”
“Do you really think this will work?”
“I know it will work.” She smirked. “It’s how I got my husband. It sounds like he and Braxton are—well, were—a lot alike.”
“You’re married?”
“Very much so.”
I gestured toward her hand. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“It’s better for business if I don’t. More proof that men are pigs.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” I said, reaching for the card. “But I have my doubts about this mission’s success.”
“My husband was a single thirty-five-year-old multi-millionaire who had no interest in being in a relationship. We met one night at a restaurant, of all places. We had an instant connection. He left the two men he was meeting with and took me out for drinks. The attraction was undeniable, so I agreed to sex. In the weeks that followed, I couldn’t get him to do so much as answer my calls. Then, I saw him at a showing of a high-end estate. Based on the advice of a coworker, I fucked him like I was trying to kill him. The next day, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“It was that easy?”
“I ghosted him for a week or two, afterward.” She grinned slyly. “Men want what they can’t have.”
“Well,” I said, pocketing the card. “I guess it’s time for a hate fuck.”
I waited for Braxton to return from work. Upon seeing his SUV drive past, my heart raced at the thought of implementing Giselle’s plan.
With my fourth glass of liquid courage cradled in my hand, I nervously paced the living room. Eager to see him—but not wanted to seem so—I sipped my wine and wondered how long I should wait before I meandered to his door.
If I waited too long, he might leave. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and go throughout the evening and well into the night. If I went too soon, it would make it seem like I was staring through the window waiting for him to return.
Although my drunken face was plastered to the glass as he drove past, I didn’t want him to realize it. I hoped to portray myself as someone who cared little about what happened between us, even if that wasn’t necessarily the case.
I finished my drink and contemplated pouring another. After a lengthy mental battle, I set the glass in the sink and meandered to the bathroom. I checked myself in the mirror. The pants suit I was wearing was unflattering. I changed into a pair of micro-shorts that I’d mistakenly purchased from a local clothing store. I could never wear them in Oklahoma. They were only suitable for tweens, prostitutes, and 1970’s roller-disco queens.