by Cynthia Dane
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Keep Up
INTOXICATED
Chapter 1 - DREW
Chapter 2 - CHER
Chapter 3 - DREW
Chapter 4 - CHER
Chapter 5 - DREW
Chapter 6 - CHER
Chapter 7 - DREW
Chapter 8 - CHER
Chapter 9 - DREW
Chapter 10 - CHER
Chapter 11 - DREW
Chapter 12 - CHER
Chapter 13 - DREW
Chapter 14 - CHER
Chapter 15 - DREW
Chapter 16 - CHER
Chapter 17 - CHER
Chapter 18 - DREW
Chapter 19 - CHER
Chapter 20 - CHER
Chapter 21 - DREW
Chapter 22 - CHER
Chapter 23 - CHER
Chapter 24 - DREW
Chapter 25 - CHER
Chapter 26 - DREW
Chapter 27 - DREW
Chapter 28 - CHER
Chapter 29 - DREW
Chapter 30 - CHER
Chapter 31 - DREW
Chapter 32 - DREW
Chapter 33 - CHER
Chapter 34 - CHER
Epilogue
Intoxicated
Cynthia Dane
BARACHOU PRESS
Intoxicated
Copyright: Cynthia Dane
Published: August 8th, 2019
Publisher: Barachou Press
This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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INTOXICATED
Chapter 1
DREW
Tonight, I’m wearing Armani.
The woman I’m after appreciates a man with fine tastes. That’s why I’ve raided my closet for the kind of clothes I usually only wear to weddings, funerals, and the charity galas in between. The kind of events my family “forces” me to go to, on pain of my mother’s heart breaking. I’m more of a flannel and jeans kind of guy. A real Oregonian just give me a hoody and some decent boots man. For the right person – the right mark – I’ll don the Armani and pretend that I love being a high-rolling son of a bitch.
Not like I can’t afford it.
I can afford a lot of things. Then again, most of the men in this ritzy lounge can afford a lot of things, some of them wealthier than me. That’s why I usually avoid places like these. I’ve spent enough of my life parading around lounges, nightclubs, and uptown bars in search of validation and career prospects. I don’t need that shit anymore. Don’t believe whatever my family tells you. Drew Benton is a self-made man now.
Part of the career I’ve built for myself means meeting women of a certain… caliber.
Ooh, I can see the look in your eye now. That question lurking on your lips. You want to know if I’m a sugar boy? A hustler looking for his next mama? Or maybe I’m looking for a daddy. Hey, I may be straight, but I know what I’m worth. Most guys have a price. Mine is pretty steep, but I’m cheaper for a lovely lady who wants to ride this ol’ stallion for a night.
Nah. That’s not me, although I’ve dabbled in that before. Instead, my job usually sees me hired to sleep with other women. Well, I don’t have to sleep with them – that’s usually a side benefit, and often complements what I set out to do. You see, I offer a unique service here in the Pacific Northwest, a playground for the newly rich and old money fools alike. Tech bros and lumber dynasties are always getting their hearts broken by gold diggers and angry ex-wives. Some of these men are salty enough that they call me up to soothe their wounds.
No, not like that. My job is to locate the ex and make her life hell.
That takes different forms, of course. I offer three tiers of services. Heartbreaker. Credit Destroyer. Self-Esteem Bludgeoner. There are dozens of women in this fine world who have had their twenties or fifties utterly ruined by yours truly. For the right price, I’ll either be the sugar boy of their dreams – until I legally con them of all their money (which I usually donate,) wreck their embittered hearts, or cast them so low in self-worth that they cry themselves to sleep every night for years.
Hey! Don’t look at me like that. Don’t go crying over these poor, poor women, either. I’m discerning when it comes to taking on clients. I only toy with the truly deplorable. The dregs of feminine-kind. Women who have already ruined the men who are hiring me. My last mark was a first wife who abused her husband’s loyalty by sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who would have her in the neighborhood Hilton. Her husband couldn’t get proof, although their pre-nuptial agreement stipulated she got nothing in a divorce if it was proven she was unfaithful. Didn’t take me long to sidle up to her and get the proof. Granted, that’s my naked ass forever emblazoned on some investigator’s phone, but I work out. My ass looks fantastic.
Tonight’s mark is a real doozy. The reason I’m in a swanky, five-star lounge in the middle of Portland is because my research tells me my mark comes here once or twice a month to scout for new victims. You see, I’m up against one of the nastiest witches you’ve ever heard tales of, and that’s saying a lot when you have my resume. I’m talking about a woman I’ve heard of before her latest victim called to ask about my services. That’s how legendary she has become around the Pacific Northwest.
Being a professional sugar baby or trophy wife is one thing. Hell, I admire the people who recognize their skills and go for it. Two people consenting to that kind of arrangement doesn’t faze me, and I’ve turned down my fair share of clients who wanted me to go after perfectly fine women because they were a little bitter about the breakup. Some guys are vindictive fucks. I get that, and take it into consideration when I judge whether or not a client is right for me.
Cher Lieberman, however, is in her own category of holy shit what is wrong with you?
She’s also extremely beautiful. Which is why it’s easy to find her in this half-crowded lounge on a sleepy Friday night.
A woman tries to gain my attention. A server, I believe. Yet I’m too awestruck by the bewitching beauty perched atop a barstool and swirling her tiny straw in a whiskey on the rocks to hear anything else but the sudden thunk of my heart.
Oh, be still, you bastard. Pump some blood to my cock if you must, but let’s keep things in perspective. That raven-haired Aphrodite sitting alone at the bar, quietly scouting the room for her next rich boyfriend? She isn’t to be won over for our own delightful gain. We’re not here to seduce her into bed and show her who’s a real man.
We’re here to destroy her.
I sit at a nearby table, careful to stay out of her sight. My extensive background check into Cher Lieberman – who she is, what makes her tick, what her favorite brand of hot sauce is – can only tell me so much. I must observe the woman in her natural element. Before I make my move and expose myself to her willful wiles, I must become fluent in her body language and hear her voice say a few arsenic-laced words. Better if they’re flung at an intended target.
Oh, see? I’m not the only one with a mark tonight. Cher may look like she’s here enjoying a drink by herself after a long, hard week of being tragically beautiful, but I know her game. She’s shopping for a new rich boyfriend. That’s why her gaze is cast like a spindly net. It’s why she slings one leg over the other, exposing the slit in her flowy blac
k dress and drawing a man’s lascivious eyes right to her thighs. It’s also why she constantly repositions her silky black hair, so we all see the white of her throat and the cleavage that plunges down the generous bust of her dress. Bold, sultry makeup and a judicious amount of plain jewelry accentuate a woman who knows how to dress herself to make other women jealous and men hard in the pants. If her goal were to simply get laid, she’d have her pick of fine young men looking to get their precious rocks off. Looking for a husband? Turn on the charm and get a first date out of an elderly man for the hell of it. Except looking for a sugar daddy, a man who will fall in love with her without any reciprocation? It’s not as easy as it looks.
And she makes it look easy.
A server asks me if I would care for a fresh Bacardi. I note the whiskey in Cher’s hand and ask for a Sazerac. It might be my in later.
It’s a good thing I’m willing to take my time, though. Hell, I might not talk to her tonight. Consider this reconnaissance, if we must. If Cher leaves before I’m ready to make my move, or she gets the attention of the man of her dreams? I might be leaving alone as well.
Or not. That server keeps making eyes at me from across the room, and she has a mighty fine look. Shit, it’s no good that I’m swimming in a pool of beautiful women tonight. It’s been five weeks since I last got laid, and I was too drunk to remember it. Merely looking at my intended target sends a rush of heat to my loins and tells my heart to go for it. My heart is a stupid bastard. Ask anyone in my family.
Fuck me, ask my grandmother!
Shit. Behold this poor sap over here. Some middle-management tech bro, old enough to be employed during Dot Com Boom but still young enough to garner sexual attention, waltzes up to the circular bar and sits a few stools away from Cher, who immediately glances in his direction. I see the same things as her. No wedding ring. Tucked-in shirt, but the top two buttons are unbuttoned because he’s relaxing. (And wants to show off his fine collection of chest hairs to all the ladies in the room.) I can’t smell his cologne, but I bet my bottom dollar that it’s sandalwood. His hairline hasn’t started receding yet, but he’s got those worn lines on his face that suggest he’s been around long enough to have some funds. A single guy making as much money as he does? Even with Portland rents the way they are right now, he could afford getaways and shopping sprees for a new girlfriend.
Let me guess, Cher. That’s exactly what you want.
She pulls the lemon wedge off her old-fashioned glass and squeezes a little juice onto the tip of her tongue. The way her head rears back, spine curving and thighs pushing out of her skirt, has me glad that I’m not too buzzed. Trust me, if I had no idea who she was or what kind of woman she could be, I’d be shouldering Mr. Tech out of the way and seducing Ms. Lieberman into my Portland loft. She looks like the kind of woman who wants it hard every time.
Hm? How can I tell? Trust me, why don’t you.
Trust me when I say I know these kinds of women well. You might call me a Cunt Whisperer, but that’s not a name I’ve adopted for myself. That’s what my secretary tells everyone he wants for my business. I prefer to not use such words, but you get the picture. I understand the personality. I also understand the body part.
Cher replaces her lemon wedge so precisely that you can’t tell she’s moved it. When she slides off her stool, it’s with the intoxicating movements of a Muse. The Grecian kind. My God. I knew she was gorgeous from her photos, but in motion? Cher should be a model. Or an actress.
She should be in my bed. Ahem.
In due time, however. Tonight might be Mr. Tech’s chance to bed and wed a woman of this seductive caliber. I’ve been getting sloppy seconds ever since I started this career. You think I mind it? For the right women, it’s more of a point of pride than if they were totally available.
Seducing a woman who was just seeing someone else is as good as saying, “I’m so desirable that such women can’t say no to me. Sorry, bud. Grass was greener over here. Enjoy your ex, Palmela.”
The server brings me my Sazerac. She lingers behind, asking if I need anything else. Her hand is on the back of my chair. Her hips cock in my direction. I give her what I want – a long, appreciative glance up her body. Yes, she would do as well. Would probably be enough fun to satisfy me for the weekend. She also looks the type who wants it a certain way.
What can I say? Certain women are drawn to me, because they sense that I deliver the goods.
We’ll see how things go with Ms. Lieberman, who has made her move on the new guy. I take a sip of my drink. The absinthe is stronger than the cognac. Or perhaps that’s my sweet tooth reacting to the sugar. Either way, my pursed lips are primed for kissing. Or sucking a girl to orgasm. Whether I’m supposed to destroy her afterward? Let’s see how lucky this guy is and check back in later.
Chapter 2
CHER
Another Friday night spent looking pretty in someone’s bar. The people in this place are lucky I’m not bloating, because I am not cute in this dress when I’m hormonal or have accidentally inhaled some take-out.
Don’t look at me like that. I don’t care what you think about it. If you’re along for this ride – God knows why you’ve picked me out of every bitch in this sty of a city, but I digress – then we’re going to lay down some ground rules. 1) Don’t judge me. 2) Don’t flirt with me. 3) Don’t give me advice. Number three is the most important rule in this agreement. Suppose you can judge me all you want, if you do it silently and keep your poker face. Flirting? You can try, but it’s never going to happen. All you’ll do is greatly annoy me. I’m irked enough that you’re following me around while I have mediocre sex. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re there. I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?
Got it? Good.
The last thing I need is advice. I’ve been doing this shit longer than you’ve been aware of my existence, and I don’t care if you’ve been around since my Preston Bradley days. (Yeah, I know that you know about that. Thanks, Preston. Thanks to you and your buddy Julian, everyone knows about what a bitch I am. How lovely.) When you have a delicate existence like mine, you get good at it. This is what I excel at. This is who I am.
Actually, I’m this fucker’s worst nightmare.
I’ve seen him around before. Oh, I don’t know his name, but I know what company he works for and how much he might be worth. Enough to pique my interest, but I’ve been going through a consequential dry spell since winter ended. Sometimes I take purposeful breaks between relationships, but my funds are running low. I haven’t had a proper job in so long that my entire income originates from men’s pocketbooks and the few odd-jobs I do online. Pretty soon, I’ll have to go back to camming. Do you know how demoralizing camming is? You put up with assholes wanting to see your pussy for free, all while they tell you what to do and how to do it. You ban more guys than you get tips from, and then where are you? Buying a coffee at Starbucks with your so-called tips?
I need some money. This guy has enough to keep me fed for a few months, if I play my cards right. Hopefully he won’t ask me to marry him before I’ve completely milked him for all he’s worth. Nothing ends a relationship early like some poor sod asking you to marry him.
It’s a tenuous game I play. These men must be in love with me to the point they throw their money at me. I’m quite good with money, honestly. I know how to spend it while squirreling away the rest for these dry spells, but they can’t be so in love with me that they want to elope in Vegas next weekend. That’s when shit gets really messy. I would only say “I do” for a man made out of a billion dollars and a foolish prenup. Beyond that? It’s not worth it. I’m not wife material. I’m your fantasy girlfriend who has carved a niche out for herself in this region. Portland, Seattle… they’re both the same. Tech bros and old-money snowflakes who want me to suck their dicks while paying me in food, lodging, and trips around the world. My closet is full of dresses I didn’t have to pay for, and my feet are always covered in shoes
that make other women seethe in jealousy. My expensive beauty regimen comes at the price of half my sanity, but when you reach the ripe old age of twenty-six and don’t have many other skills, well… you do what you must to stay alive. Women like me have been doing it since the dawn of time.
How did I get into doing this? Hm… let me see where things go with this guy before I potentially tell you about that.
He’s not too bad looking, I suppose. A bit pudgy in the middle and two years away from losing his hair, but I’ll be out of his life before that happens. The most important thing is that he doesn’t have a ring on his finger. Seducing married men is a disaster I should not like to do again. It’s never worth it. Enough guys in this town are single, though. Commitment is a foreign word in Portlandese. Any guy with a collared shirt and enough money to rent a two-bedroom in the Pearl isn’t looking for a serious girlfriend. He wants a toy. A hot girlfriend he can brag about to his buddies while chasing other tail on Tinder. I know my place.
I also know my worth. That’s a big reason I don’t let them marry me. I may be sad, but I’m not pathetic enough to go into a marriage I know will be rife with unfaithfulness. Give me some credit.
“Good evening,” I say, turning on the silky-smooth tones that have seduced half the collared shirts in this city. “Couldn’t help but notice you’re alone. Are you waiting for anyone?” Say, a girlfriend? I’m not going to waste my time unless it’s a first date or he’s not serious about a girl he’s casually seeing.
This guy almost drops his phone when he sees me in my full glory. That’s right. For my perusal of the lounge tonight, I brought out my slinkiest black dress. I call it the Morticia Addams, although it’s definitely more cocktail party than sexy funeral. Fantastic way to make guys think I’m a classy lady, though. They go nuts for the plunging neckline, the slits on the sides, and cinched waist. If I pair it with some stilettos or sheer pantyhose… well, I only bust out those guns if I’ve been scoping out a man with a known fetish for either.