Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

  “A pocket knife? Anything?” she snaps.

  “I have a pocket knife in the glove box, Ms. Inger,” the driver tells her through the partition.

  “Great.” She smiles excitedly. “May I use it?”

  “Of course.” He comes to a stop at the end of their drive and leans over to open the glove box. He then hands it to her.

  She snaps it open and takes a handful of her dress at the thigh. She pulls it up off her skin then places the point of the knife to her dress. “What are you doing?” I ask in a rush.

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she slices through the fabric and cuts a slit about three inches long across the fabric at her thigh. Then she sets the knife beside her on the leather seat. She takes the now cut fabric in both of her hands and yanks. The sound of the thin material tearing fills the silent limo as she splits it into two.

  “Pristine?” I go to reach for her, but she bats me away.

  “I can do it myself,” she growls, pushing her back into the leather and lifting her hips up off the seat. She reaches behind her, grabbing the fabric and yanking it to tear it across the back.

  It’s one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. The tearing of the dress, her breathing picking up as she yanks on it. The way she bites her bottom lip as determination takes over her features to rid herself of the unwanted material.

  I stare wide-eyed as she holds more than half of her dress in her hand before sliding it down her long, lean legs and tossing it onto the seat beside me. She places her silver glittery high heel up on the little wooden bar in the limo in front of me and bends over. Wrapping her hands around her ankles, she slowly runs them up and over her smooth calves and thin thighs. “I think I need some lotion,” she states with a frown.

  “I think you look amazing,” I say in awe.

  She smiles brightly. “That’s what I was going for.” She reaches over and picks up the knife. “Your turn.”

  “You want me to cut my pants in half?” I ask, finally peeling my eyes from her legs and looking into her blue eyes. The lights in the limo have them looking a little purple. They’re beautiful.

  She shakes her head. “I want you to cut my sleeves off.”

  I take the knife from her and look down at it as she sits on the floor between my legs in front of my seat. I grab the soft fabric on her shoulder and lift it up. I take a deep breath before pressing the knife into the fabric where the seam is, making a small slit. Then I use my hands to yank it free. It slides down her arm, and she tosses it next to me, revealing a slender tan arm. I take a deep breath and repeat with the next one, trying to avoid my cock growing in my pants.

  “Now, we need to fix you up,” she says, coming to sit beside me.

  “Fix me,” I say without thought. Hell, if she wants to cut my clothes off, then I won’t stop her. She grabs the sleeves of my jacket and manages to get me out of it. Then she unbuttons my cuff links before rolling them up one at a time. Then she undoes my tie before throwing it to the floor. Last, she undoes the top button to my shirt and places her hands in my hair. She messes it up and looks at me with a drunk smile.

  “Better,” she says happily. “Now, we’re ready for a club.”

  Chapter Six

  Pristine

  I look over to the mini bar and see the bottle of champagne sitting there. I thank my driver for keeping it stocked. I pick it up and hand it to him. “Will you open this?”

  He takes it from me without question and rolls down his window, popping the cork off. He hands it back to me, and I drink right from the bottle.

  My ears are ringing, and my lips are numb, but I want more.

  “Are you gonna tell me what happened back there?” Chaseyn asks me as his eyes linger on my legs. I like the way he looks at them. He holds his hands in his lap as if he were to let them go, they would land on my legs.

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head and taking another drink. “I left that party for a reason.” I don’t wanna discuss my love life. Or lack thereof. I don’t wanna tell him how I was in love, but he wasn’t. No one wants to talk about their failures, and that’s exactly what Malcolm was. A failure.

  “Okay. So what is the plan tonight?” he asks.

  “To get as drunk as possible,” I state.

  “Aren’t you already there?” he asks with a laugh.

  “When I can no longer stand, I’ll be there,” I say, giving him a wink.

  He leans back in his seat, letting his left arm rest on the back of the seat next to him. My eyes linger on his exposed muscular forearm before I return to his eyes. He smiles, one of those come-and-get-me smiles that not many men can do. But he can. “So is that your hint that I’ll be carrying you later?”

  I look at him, and a part of me that hasn’t been touched for six months starts to awaken. I lean forward and scoot my ass to the end of the bench seat. My dress is so short now that I can feel the coolness from the leather on my ass. “Depends?” I say, licking my numb lips. My eyes drop to his, and he smiles as if he can read my mind. If he kissed me, would I feel it? “Do you plan to cut what’s left of this dress off me later?”

  He leans forward in his seat; his hand comes out and cups my face. I barely feel it, but I imagine it being warm. His face is now inches from mine. I breathe heavily as I imagine him ripping my dress off me right now. Those hands in my hair. Those lips on my skin. His tongue in my mouth.

  I know nothing about this guy except that he will be family soon, and in my drunken state, I truly don’t care. All I want is to feel wanted. To be devoured. “I’d cut what’s left of that dress off you right now, sweetheart. All you gotta do is say the word,” he whispers, which makes his voice even sexier. As if he just told me a secret.

  I feel my pussy tighten. Six months. It’s been six months since I’ve had any kind of sexual activity. I lick my numb lips again and wiggle my ass against the seat to feel the friction against my now throbbing pussy.

  He smirks as he watches me squirm. He knows I’m horny, and I will be an easy lay.

  “Come here,” he orders as he leans back in his seat. My body follows him of its own accord with his hand still on my face. I pull up my dress as I straddle him, placing the champagne bottle between us. I know my driver can see me, but right now, I don’t mind giving him a show.

  I place my hands on his smooth face. His eyes look up at me, and his lips part. His tongue slowly peeks out and runs along his white teeth as he lets out a chuckle. “You think this is funny?” I slur, arching a brow. The alcohol’s hitting me harder by the second.

  “No,” he says as his eyes drop to my lips. I smile. “Nothing about this is funny,” he says, his voice getting serious. His eyes lift back up to mine.

  I lean in, unable to wait. My body is screaming to kiss him. He doesn’t make me wait as he leans in and presses his lips to mine. He removes his hands from my face and grabs my ass. I grind against him as if I’m gonna get paid for this. His already hard cock makes me even wetter and impatient. He wants me too.

  He deepens the kiss as his tongue enters my mouth, and I pull away at the taste of him. “What?” he asks breathlessly, his hands still on my ass.

  I reach up and place my fingers on my lips. “I can taste it,” I say, trying to swallow the lump that instantly forms in my throat.

  “Taste what?” His blue eyes search mine, dark brows pulled together in confusion.

  I climb off his lap, and he allows me to go back to the bench seat as he grabs the champagne bottle to keep it from falling over. “The wine. You had some,” I say roughly.

  He nods. “It was great—”

  “Don’t,” I snap, interrupting him.

  He readjusts himself in his seat. “What’s wrong?”

  Maybe it’s all the champagne I’ve consumed tonight. Or maybe I want someone to understand why I’m literally shaking in anger right now at the mention of my wine. “That was my wine.”

  “I know, and it was amazing.”

  I shake my head at his praise. “That w
as my wine. It was supposed to be a present.”

  His frown deepens. “I don’t understand.”

  I run my sweaty hands down my thighs, and he watches the motion before his eyes return to mine. “It was a wedding present to my fiancé.” It takes everything I have to get the words out.

  He just stares at me; his blue eyes wide and his lips parted. He runs a hand through his disheveled shaggy brown hair. He doesn’t know what to say, and I don’t blame him. To say he was sorry would be pointless.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I broke off our engagement six months ago.” I look down at my hands in my lap, not wanting to look at his face. “That wine was supposed to be his wedding gift from me. And I stopped production on it.” I grind my teeth as I shake my head. “But my mother obviously wanted to release it at her stupid party tonight and never told me. Until the moment she wanted me to go in front of everyone and introduce it.” I laugh, but it holds no humor. “God, she can be such a bitch.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I hear him say.

  “No need to be sorry. It’s not your fault. I said yes to him. Not your fault I wanted to give him a stupid wine for a wedding present. And it’s not your fault that my mother is a selfish bitch who only cares about appearances.” Each word makes my blood boil as I voice them out loud. I may be a bitch to my family, but I never told them just how much Malcolm hurt me.

  “And him being married doesn’t help, I’m sure.” My eyes snap up to him. “No wonder you left the party.”

  “What”—I clear my throat—“are you talking about?”

  “The woman he was there with. She was wearing a ring…” He stops talking as his eyes widen, and he closes his lips.

  Married? No, he can’t be married. I know his mother, and she wanted us to have a big wedding. She had over three hundred on just her list to invite. There’s no way that he would be married and I wouldn’t know about it. A ring? He could be engaged, and I not know that! “Let me see your phone,” I demand.

  He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a cell phone. He hands it to me, and I slide it to the side. “It needs a password,” I growl, the phone shaking in my hands.

  “5683,” he says in a rush.

  I quickly press the numbers, but it takes me two tries for my shaking hands to type in the right numbers. I search his name on Google. Sure enough, the first thing that pops up is his proposal.

  “Malcolm Myers has proposed to new girlfriend, Jacelyn Coats, after only a month of dating. The biggest surprise is that it comes after only a six-month breakup from previous fiancée, Pristine Inger.”

  “This isn’t happening,” I whisper to myself. The phone is snatched out of my hands seconds later, and I fall back against my seat as the first tear falls. I thought calling off the wedding was hard, but this? This is like a hundred knives to my heart.

  Chaseyn

  I sit back and watch as a tear runs down her face. I hate that I even said anything. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I don’t even think she hears me. She sits there staring off into nothing as this look falls over her face. Total defeat. I’ve seen it before. I’ve felt it before. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, but I lost mine to someone who was supposed to be my best friend.

  “Change of plans,” I tell her driver. I give him a new address, and he nods his head before taking the next exit on the freeway for him to make a U-turn.

  She stays silent, and I just sit back and watch her as we head in our new direction. Fuck the club. I’m gonna take her somewhere more private. Where she can cry on my shoulder if need be. It’s my fault she’s so upset. She would have found out sooner or later but not like this. Not by me.

  I look down at my phone, and she still has the screen of her ex pulled up. It shows two pictures. One of him and the “new” fiancée, and the second one is of him and her. He stands dressed in a black tux, and she is in a champagne-colored evening gown as they stand on a helipad. A helicopter sits behind them, faded by the image focusing on them. The headline for that picture reads:

  “After being engaged only three months, Pristine Inger calls off the wedding.”

  I run a hand down my face as I look at her. She looks so happy in the picture. She’s looking up at him, wearing a big smile on her face, and he’s looking at the camera with no emotion on his face. They say a picture says a thousand words, and this one says enough.

  I exit out of the article and lock my phone before placing it back into my pocket. I look over at her, surprised to see that she is already staring at me. No tears in her eyes and her cheeks now dry. Her shoulders are back, her lips thinned. All I can think about is how could he not want this? She was the one who called it off. What could he have done to her to make her call off a wedding to a man she loved. She’s still hurting, even after six months. Mine has been longer than that, and the pain still comes and goes.

  “Have you ever failed at something?” she asks, surprising me.

  I know failure well. “Haven’t we all?” I answer with a question of my own.

  She doesn’t respond; she just looks at me as if she can see through me. I’m not like my brother. I didn’t graduate from an Ivy League school. I dropped out of several. I don’t have multiple degrees. I work at a car repair shop. And I don’t make millions. I refuse to touch my trust fund. I didn’t earn that money. To my father and brother, I’m the fuck up in the family. To my mother, I’m the baby who’s allowed to do anything, and that’s exactly what I did. Anything I wanted.

  The limo comes to a stop, and she looks around. “Where are we?” she asks.

  “My place,” I say, opening the door and getting out. I stand in the cold air without my jacket, and my sleeves still rolled up, holding the door open for her. She finally crawls out and has trouble standing on her heels. “Here, let me help you,” I say, wrapping my right arm around her thin waist. In my left hand, I’m still holding the champagne bottle.

  “You live under a bridge?” she asks, looking up as the bridge vibrates from the cars driving over it.

  “I live next to a bridge,” I tell her before I thank her driver and help her forward.

  “You live in a garage?” she asks as she comes to a stop and looks up at the dark blue garage door.

  “Sort of,” I say, trying to urge her forward.

  We make our way to the black door that sits off to the right of the garage door, and I open it up. We walk in, and I flip the switch on the wall. Light bathes the one large open room, and she looks around my bachelor pad. It has a black leather couch in the middle of the room, which I have made the living room. A TV hangs on the wall in front of it. A Nintendo sits on the floor with games spread all over the place. A long countertop on the other end acts as a bar top. My kitchen is behind it. I have a bed back in the right corner next to the small bathroom and closet. There’s not much here, but it’s all I need for me.

  “Here,” I say, grabbing her arm and helping her over to the bar area. I gesture for her to sit on the barstool and walk behind the counter. “What would you like? I got it all.”

  Chapter Seven

  Pristine

  I sit at the bar and watch Chaseyn take a few drinks from my champagne bottle. As he sets it down, I look over his kitchen. There’s a sink, a stove, and a microwave. He has a Monster mini-fridge that is as tall as I am with a glass door. All I can see inside the fridge is glass bottles full of alcohol. Much better than the champagne I’ve been drinking all night.

  “I need a shot,” I admit, getting up off the barstool. I’m afraid if I stay sitting there, I may fall off it.

  “What would you like?” he asks, turning to face the fridge.

  I walk up to it, and he opens the door for me. Closing my eyes, I reach out and grab the first thing my hand touches. “This’ll do,” I say opening my eyes to see a bottle of Crown Royal Vanilla.

  He turns to a cabinet and opens it up to grab a shot glass. When he turns around to hand it to me, I already have
the lid off and am taking a drink out of the bottle.

  I gasp as he pulls it away from my lips, causing the dark liquid to cover my chin, dress, and the floor. “You said a shot,” he says, his blue eyes wide.

  Turning back to the fridge, I close my eyes and repeat the process. As I take a shot from the second bottle of liquor, he closes the fridge and stands in front of it. “How much do you plan to drink?” he demands.

  “Enough to erase all the memories,” I say truthfully.

  He sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “How long were you two together?” he asks softly as if talking about my ex is going to hurt. I refuse to admit it does.

  “Seven years.”

  He shakes his head. “You’ll die before you can get past the first year.”

  “Then so be it,” I say, reaching out for the glass door. He pushes me away. “Hey,” I snap.

  He grabs my upper arms and pushes me backward into the countertop. His blue eyes drill into mine. “I’m all for being a belligerent drunk to block out memories, but you obviously need a limit.”

  My brows arch. “You gonna tell me how much I can drink?”

  “No.” His hands loosen. The alcohol already swimming in me makes my body heat up faster than it would if I were sober. “But I can suggest a better idea.”

  “And what would that be?” I ask, licking my lips. The short kiss we shared earlier keeps running through my mind.

  “I suggest instead of drowning your memories, and possibly killing yourself in the process, how about we make new ones?”

  “Is that why you brought me here?” I place my hands on his chest. I can feel his hard muscles underneath his white button-down. “Wanna make memories with me?” I lick my lips. “Who says I’ll remember them in the morning?” I’ve been to the point of blackouts before. No memories ever resurfaced.

  He tilts his head to the side as his eyes search my face. He removes his hands from my arms and reaches up to undo the tie that holds my hair up. It falls down over my shoulders in waves from being wrapped into a tight bun.