The Man I Hate
Scott Hildreth
It was anyone’s guess on which side I’d land.
Braxton Rourke’s cell phone number was included in the contacts of Hollywood’s A-List actors and actresses, successful musicians, and professional athletes. When a problem arose, Braxton fixed it. Receiving an “I need help with—” text from Selena Gomez, Ryan Gosling—or the police—was a common occurrence.
A well-dressed protector who appeared like an actor himself, he was sickeningly handsome, confident, and spoke with an educated authority.
I met him while settling the estate of my deceased parents. Enamored by his tailored Italian suit, bravado gait, and undeniable charisma, I suggested the unthinkable.
A one-night stand.
He agreed, but only because I was leaving in three days. His life, he explained, couldn’t include a woman.
For the three days that followed, I watched him come and go, knowing we’d never be anything other than two people who shared a magical moment in the front seat of his Range Rover while parked outside a trendy Hollywood diner.
Then, the unthinkable happened. A bizarre of series circumstances forced us to be neighbors.
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