by Cynthia Dane
It’s also the perfect excuse to see how he reacts to a few things.
Let’s start with how I get up and sashay – yes, sashay – toward the ladies’ room. These heels do amazing things for my legs. Behold as my ass hypnotically swishes my baggy pant legs. This jumper may not show off my thighs, but Drew is getting an eyeful of promises, promises, promises. I toss my hair behind my shoulder, exposing the white of my throat as I pretend to be checking my phone. I catch a glance of his face before I turn the corner. Sure enough, he’s watching after me, lust attracting the attention of every other woman in this room.
Oh, good. We’ve established that he still wants to fuck me. Now, let’s wait a good ten minutes to see how he feels when I come back out fixing my bra and smelling like my floral hand lotion.
Either he’ll be so famished for my presence that he chokes on his own spit to see me reemerge, or his boredom will be as plain as day because I’ve made him wait so long. At least then I’ll have an idea toward whether I should go for a second date. I don’t have time for men who mess with my head and are bored with me. If I decide to pursue Drew Benton because he tickles my fancy – instead of my wallet – then I better feel like it’s worth it. I could be giving up other prospects to spend some time with him.
Although I’m sure that time would be… well, you get the idea. We would be busy.
He’s writing something in a palm-size notebook when I reemerge from the women’s restroom. I smell like flowers and walk like I’ve dispatched a giant weight. (He’s not disgusted by a woman’s natural body functions, is he? Let’s find out.) When I sit down, he kindly looks up and puts the notebook and pen away. I’m greeted with a friendly smile. He’s put out that I took so long, but he doesn’t say anything. Nor does he act like he’s been setting up a date with another woman.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” I say. “There was an important phone call while I was in the other room, and…”
“No worries.”
No worries, hm? Who was worrying? Him? Me? The poor server who keeps looking at him like she’d want to eat him for dinner? Or that obviously gay guy on the other side of the room who is also looking at Drew like he’d eat him for dinner? Don’t think I don’t know I could be the one with the honors tonight. I bet if I performed a trick with a cube of cheese he’d be begging me to go home with him. Think I’ll keep him waiting. Make him think about the potential of Cher, the perfect girlfriend. That will give me more time to figure out who his perfect girlfriend is.
Does he want a girlfriend who “isn’t like the others?” One who has a blowjob ready for him every day? One who happens to hate being eaten out, whoopie for him? How about a girlfriend who works for her own money, or one that wants to be babied all day? A cultured woman he can take anywhere without fear of her embarrassing him around the locals? Or a girl who will act like Montreal is the most foreign place on Earth? Maybe he wants a woman who reads Chaucer and Psychology Today. We’ll discuss the latest research into global warming over Thai at the corner restaurant. Or I’ll let him be the smartest man in the room. One who can lecture me about whatever strikes his fancy. Whatever he wants to talk about, I’ll be completely ignorant toward. That’s the beauty of being a chameleon who is only in it for the benefits and not for love. I can be anyone. I can be anything. I’ll be his personal blowup doll if it means a million dollars to my name by the end of the year. Why, yes, Drew, you can stick your big dick in my ass on the first date! I really don’t know why other girls say no. Come on my face? Choke me a little? Handcuff me, though I barely know you? Oh, those other girls are so prudish, aren’t they? I would love to play out your porn fantasies! Because I’m a cool girl. I get that your addiction and misconceptions about real sex are a silly thing to think about. We can have all the threesomes with other girls that you want. Why, I would love to finger another hot girl if that gets your wallet out.
What, are you sickened? Appalled? Do you think I’m “nothing but a slut” now? You haven’t been paying very good attention if you’re only now starting to get it.
Because I get it.
Drew Benton wants a cool girlfriend. One who turns her nose up to other women who totally aren’t like her. Because I understand his love of beer, video games, cars, and porn. All his jokes are hilarious, and all the ones I make are at the expense of my womanhood and intelligence. I’ll play his game of “dibs” whenever we’re surrounded by other women. “Oh, Drew, I would love to claim that one, if you don’t mind.” I’m bisexual when it comes to threesomes and super straight when it comes to his dick. I get it, don’t you see?
Hmph. No. Neither do I. Guys looking for a “cool” girlfriend are often the most disingenuous and sometimes the most dangerous to get into bed with, but I know how to play it well. One might say it’s my most natural inclination. Geez, says a lot about my own dating history and how I ended up here today.
“I’d really love to continue our conversation and drink a little more wine,” I make sure to say this with a seductive smile that keeps him reassured that I’m still very interested in him and not about to ghost. In fact, how about I slide my hand over his on the table. Maybe I’ll rub my fingertip against his knuckle, knowing there’s a nerve traveling right to his cock. I’ll bite my red lip and tuck my hair behind my ear, as if to say, “I really wanted to suck your dick, Drew, but I’m afraid I must dash. My grandmother is on her death bed. See? A good excuse.” “But I have an obligation this evening I must get ready for. Shall we meet again soon, or…?”
The ball’s in your court, buddy.
He cocks an assured smile. He does not pull his hand out from beneath mine. “So happens I have other plans this evening as well. You’ve done me a favor by breaking that ice. Was spending that whole time you were in the bathroom wondering how I’d tell you I can’t take you home with me tonight.”
Uh huh. Sure. “Then again, since you live in Seattle, it might be a while before we can meet again.” Should he invite me up to Seattle? He really should. I’m a pro at Amtrak.
“I have a place here as well. I think I told you that.” Drew’s teeth are so white that he really should give me the number to his dentist. “It’s a lot smaller and not as impressive as my Seattle abode, no, but it’s cozy.”
“I’m sure it is. I should like to see it next time.” I stand again, this time with the finality that screams I’m heading home. “You have my number. Let me know what works for you, and… well, maybe we’ll see where it goes from there, shall we?”
I don’t give him time to answer. I do, however, give him ample time to gaze after me as I saunter out of the building. If I’m not giving himself something to fantasize about when he touches himself later, then all of this was for naught.
Since, well… have you seen him? I know what I’m thinking about later. Let this be a mutual exchange of the sexually perverted minds.
I have a lot of other things to think about, however. Drew Benton remains an unknown-enough quantity that I must seriously consider what I’m getting myself into. He could be a fun fling or my worst nightmare. I don’t hold out for love. Not with a guy like that. Definitely not a man like Drew.
One of the key decisions I must make is solidified when I get a text from Drew later in the evening. I’m fresh from the bath, patting dry some of my hair as I lounge across my bed and pick up my phone. I’m treated to an address that Google Maps really wants me to open. I don’t bother. The cue that he lives on the riverfront is right there in what street he calls his. I’ve had plenty of lovers and sugar daddies who live down on the South Waterfront. Drew probably lives in the same building as one of my exes.
Gee, hope I don’t bump into any!
“Wednesday evening. Let me cook dinner for you. My place. You tell me the time.”
It’s timestamped twenty minutes ago. Do you know what I was doing in the bathtub twenty minutes ago? I know you weren’t there, but I’ll tell you, anyway.
Oh, shoot. You’ve guessed it, haven’t you? Suppose I�
�ll save us both the embarrassment of confessing I was giving myself a nice, easy orgasm to thoughts of Drew’s stubble and those little hairs poking out of his shirt.
Shit. This really is dangerous. Being so attracted to a guy means I might lose focus of what’s most important. That’s it. I’m calling in the big guns to help me figure out, once and for all, what it is I’ll want from Drew Benton.
Instead of texting, I call one of my many contacts who is worth every dollar she charges.
“You’ve reached Moore Investigations,” says the recorded voice message. “We’re not in the office right now, but please leave your name and number so we can return your call the next time we’re in. Thank you.”
I wait for the beep.
“Hello, Stella.” My purr isn’t only effective on men. It works on women, too, and Stella is the kind of bubbly professional who responds to a hot woman purring in her direction. I may not be her butchy girlfriend, but I’m sultry. I can play those cards on almost anyone with a pulse. “It’s Cher. I’ve got someone I really need you to look into for me. I need results by Wednesday. I’ll pay the rush fee.”
I’ll wait for her to call me back before giving her the name. Hell, I might pop into her office tomorrow morning. It’s up in Slabtown. At this time of year, it’s a lovely walk, and I really do love my walks.
Not as much as I love thinking about Drew right now, though. To the point that I’m lying on my back and running my hand down my torso again, imagining how hard a guy like that can give it to a girl.
My imagination is so active that my eyes glaze over and I’m fishing for the first vibrator I can find in my nightstand.
I’d like some privacy now, thank you!
Chapter 5
DREW
With my target on lock, there’s no reason for me to travel all the way back up to Seattle before next weekend. I call my assistant Brent to ask how things are going in our office. I have no new messages, not even from my current client. Then again, I prefer to keep a loose line to them until the job is done and I receive the rest of my payment. Better if I can provide evidence of ruined lives and broken hearts in the form of newspaper reports. Before you ask, yes, I have gotten lucky more than once. It’s really handy when a woman you’re working ends up in the news for starting a drunken fight because someone looked at her wrong.
But this all means I’m stuck in Portland. It means holing myself up in my South Waterfront apartment, where the walls are made of glass and my “excellent views” are constant reminders of how much this town has changed since I was a kid. Every time I gaze upon the eastside, I get this knot in my stomach. I can remember when it was all single-family homes, low-income apartments, and industrial neighborhoods. Now it’s one high-rise after another. Progress is one thing. The entire decimation of a city and its culture is quite another.
Oh, and keep your opinions about how my family has contributed to yourself. I’m well aware of what my family has wrought. Especially the real estate side of my family. The whole reason I have this apartment is because my mother practically gave it to me.
Ah, yes, my mother! The third thing I have to face when I’m in Portland for more than a few days!
I don’t take the Camaro to my family’s house in Beaverton. Ha! That thing stays locked up tight in my personal garage. So does the Armani and Valentino. If my parents think I’m showing up in anything less than my real clothes and my beat-up truck that still gets amazing gas mileage, they don’t know me very well.
Actually, I kinda wish they didn’t.
“What is that wretched thing?” My mother already has the vapors as I pull up to her favorite sunning spot on the expansive property we Bentons calls “home.” I may have grown up here, but it has never, ever felt like home. That’s always abundantly clear when I park next to my sister’s Maserati and everyone turns their noses at a perfectly good truck I bought off an old friend ten years ago.
Before you go turning up your nose, I invite you to take a quick look around. See? It’s clean. No weird, funky man-smells. I have an air-freshener to go with my brand-new stereo and repaired upholstery. Sure, the truck itself is banged up and scuffed, but what good truck isn’t? Who cares about some rust on the bumper or a giant scratch on the side? It still works! It still gets me from place to place!
Trust me, nobody is in a hurry to steal this thing. The Camaro? I’m always on the verge of a heart attack when I park it anywhere. That thing has steal me! written all over it. I only own a fucking Camaro because it makes seducing women easy. Women like Cher. Who live and breathe their precious name brands and are convinced they’re what make a man.
“This is the same truck I’ve had for a decade,” I say to my mother a few yards away from my truck. She’s lying back on the settee wearing nothing but a sapphire blue one-piece swimsuit, a wide-brimmed hat flopped over and jewelry hanging from every limb. She’s nursing a drink. Looks like orange juice, but I bet my Camaro it’s got at least some alcohol in it. My mom likes to get the day drinking started early. Say, eleven in the morning early.
Mimosa? Probably a mimosa.
“I’m not talking about that awful truck,” my mother spits. “I mean that thing on your head! I could see it from the end of the driveway!”
I yank my ballcap off my head. Thought I had grabbed a brand-new Blazers cap before leaving my South Waterfront apartment earlier this morning, but it looks like I grabbed another one. Whoops. Instead, I have one of Brent’s caps. Probably one he left in the cab of my truck the last time I gave him a ride somewhere. The guy has a cap collection to rival my own, you know. This one’s a washed-out green with faded white text advertising some fishing tour based out of coastal Washington. Huh. Fishing sounds pretty fun right now.
The band is worn out and there are a few frayed threads sticking out on top of the hat. My mother looks like she wants to puke. I bet she’s worn that hat on her head all of two times, and that’s one time too many for her, usually.
“Why must you always dress yourself like a dirty, smelly lumberjack,” she scoffs. Her wrinkled hand picks up a small, black device from the end of her settee. A thumb jams into a button. Probably summoning Opal, the family housekeeper who has been around since I’ve been alive. (Yet somehow she barely looks a day over forty-five. Let me tell you about what young, pubescent Drew dreamed about when Opal used to run around in a short-skirted uniform that only changed when my mother realized both her husband and son enjoyed it a little too much.) Ah, there’s Opal now! Alacritous as always. My father once quipped that Opal was the kind of woman who responded very well to orders, if I knew what I meant.
Yeah, I did. Which is why I thought it a swell idea to sleep with her when I was twenty. Turns out I can’t give her the kind of orders she really likes, though. I daresay I disappointed her. I was pretty disappointed in my younger self, too.
Opal gives me a cursory greeting before standing at my mother’s side. She’s either really good at never once betraying who in this family she’s slept with, or she really doesn’t give a shit about me. I can take either explanation, honestly. “What would you like, Mrs. Benton?” she softly asks my mother.
“Bring me some Advil, please.” My mother pushes herself up, mimosa sloshing in its glass. “My son is here, and once again he’s dressed like a hobo.” She inhales that drink. I mean, really inhales it. I’m half-expecting orange liquid to shoot out of her nose. At least a very unladylike belch. Not that my mother ever would.
Opal barely offers me a glance before she shuffles back into the main house. My mother searches for an adequate pose for sitting on the settee. Me? I remove my offensive hat.
“If you’re looking for your father,” my mother begins, “he’s out golfing with some basketball player. Could be Phil Knight for all I know.”
“Phil Knight isn’t a…”
“I know that! You know what I meant.” My mother finally looks up at me. Do I look more to her liking without the hat? Hm. Maybe I’ll put it back on. I really hate mak
ing eye contact with my mother. It’s like staring into a vacuous black hole. “So, what brings you back home, my wayward son? Do you need money? Your father and sister pull most of the purse strings around here. All I have is a few hundred in cash. You can’t have it. I need it for my spa trip later today.”
“I’m fine with money, Mother.” She has a hard time accepting the fact I have my own successful business. Really grinds her gears that it has nothing to do with our family. Oh, and I won’t tell her what it is I really do. Nobody with the last name of Benton knows, and I intend to keep it that way. All they know is that I run a “consulting firm” up in Seattle. My mother loses interest after that. My sister furrows her brows and demands to know who and what I’m consulting. My father merely slaps me on the back and starts bragging about his friends. “Thought I’d drop by and make an appearance. You’re always badgering me to visit when I’m in town. Well, here I am. Will be here at least a week for work.”
“Oh, how benevolent of you to come see your old hag of a mother! The one who nags you to visit her when you’re in town for more than five days. So sorry we haven’t moved to Seattle. Not that I believe you’d come visit me there, either.”
Yes, Mother, it’s about you. Everything I say and do is an affront. We’re out to get you.
“Whatever. I’d much rather you come crawling back here because you feel some twisted obligation to the woman who had an episiotomy when she birthed you, and not because you’re announcing your marriage to some tawdry hooker who’s having your bastard baby.”
I yawn. Same shit, different day.
“I’m sorry. Am I boring you?” Mother flops back into her seat and motions for me to go inside. “Are you staying for lunch? Dinner? Be sure to let Opal know.” She picks up a magazine left open on the ground. After licking her fingers and flipping the glossy pages, she announces that she’s having some “me time.” That’s my cue to get out of her face before she loses her cool and I’m out a really nice hat.