Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  Stella shuffles through more papers. The fact she hasn’t cracked a single joke, when she usually can’t help herself, must mean that she agrees with me about one thing: Drew Benton is beyond an asshole. He’s a dangerous slip in society, and he was this close to getting his claws in me. If I had been anyone else, someone less cautious than the devilish beauty you see before you, I would be in a world of fucking hurt. I may be continuing to fall for Drew’s charms, like so many women before me have fallen for him. Women who were left standing at altars. Women who probably had their bank accounts cleared out. Women, I later discover, led to believe they were pregnant with Drew’s baby because that was one of their nightmares come true. The cherry on the shit sundae is the woman who was put on a train to Amarillo, Texas, without any money or a change of clothes. The police report Stella dug up says that the woman was too intoxicated to know what she had been doing, but I know now.

  Drew got her nice and fucked up, dumped her, and sent her on her way.

  “Jason Rothchild,” Stella finally says. “According to what I can find in his website’s database, that was the last so-called client to be in contact with him. Well, one who has any connection to you, anyway. I remember doing a search on him for you last summer.”

  “Jason,” I hiss. “That rat bastard!”

  My voice carries from the patio into the streets below. A small fleet of tourists looks up at us as if we have single-handedly corrupted their young children’s minds. Oh, the things I could tell them about the men of this world!

  “I can’t 100% confirm that it was him, of course, but if it makes sense to you…”

  “It does. Jason took our breakup particularly rough.” It’s been months, though! Months since he sprung a last-minute marriage proposal on me at his family’s Christmas party! I can still feel the horror bubbling up inside of me when I think back on that awful moment. Jason had been a lot of things, but impulsive wasn’t one of them. This was a man who read every Yelp! review before taking me to dinner somewhere. He also refused to buy me clothes from department stores when he had a “qualified tailor” to make me whatever I wanted. When we went on a weekend trip somewhere, he planned it down to the last second, including where we would stop for me to pee.

  So imagine my shock when we were having a semi-nice time at his family’s house and he springs that on me! Got down on one fucking knee and showed me his grandmother’s engagement ring from Germany. His whole family fell into a hush of premature thrills. They really thought I was going to say yes.

  Jason thought I would say yes.

  In what world would I say yes when put on the spot like that!

  That night was our breakup. He took it about as well as you would expect. While I hadn’t been planning on breaking up with him yet, I thought I had at least a few months left of playing his young girlfriend who put up with his weird pottery hobby and read his awful, awful poems. The man seriously thought he was Yeats. More like a fifth grader starting to come into their pubescent emo phase.

  Jason ruined a good thing when he asked me to marry him. I could’ve continued to be that girl who sat in his lap when he watched the news and pretended his aftershave was the greatest shit in the world. I would’ve eaten his atrocious cooking he tried to pass as edible. I would’ve pranced around in his favorite color, forest green. A color that is so totally not me, but it always made him happy. When Jason was happy, he upped my allowance and paid my bills months in advance. Shit, he had paid for the first three months of 2019 by the time we broke up. The free ride was the least he could do after embarrassing me in front of his whole family.

  The thought of him hiring a professional heartbreaker – or, let’s be honest, a Pro-Pumper-and-Dumper – to get back at me is both hilarious and mind-numbing. If I’m reading Drew’s “menu” correctly, he charges thousands of dollars for different levels of services. If he’s meant to completely wreck me, it’s set Jason back a college education at a half-decent university. You can’t tell me Drew, the child of billionaires, needs that kind of money. So why the hell is he doing it?

  Besides, you know, being a terrible person?

  “Sorry I had to break this to you.” Stella sips her tea and hands me my copy of the files. I’ve already paid her half up front for her to do the work. Now she’s going to slip me the remainder of my invoice. “I really thought you should know about this. The stuff I unearthed about Benton Leveraging is… woof. It’s not illegal, but it should be. I wouldn’t be surprised if he posts revenge porn on the internet or is responsible for a woman getting seriously hurt. I know you don’t ask me my advice in these things but… stay away from him, girl. He’s bad news.”

  My hands are white from clutching everything like it’s about to strangle me. My eyes are wide and wild, searching the street for any sign of Drew so I can punch his fucking lights out. Every inch of my body craves to launch into the stratosphere and scream as if I am more wronged now than I ever have been in my life.

  And there you are, daring to think you can judge me!

  What I do is nothing like what Drew does! According to these papers, that guy sets out to hurt women. Whether by breaking their hearts, destroying them financially, separating them from what they love… Jesus, did he really cause one of his ex-marks to lose her dog grooming business because she was too depressed to pay her bills? The only reason this guy hasn’t been taken to court is because he has his family’s Teflon all over him.

  I may not be the shiniest example of outstanding women, but I don’t set out to hurt men. Most of them are angry or annoyed when I break up with them. Few lash out at the world and hurt themselves in the process. Shit, Jason is the first one I’ve heard of going to these extremes. Ask me what happened to most of my exes, and within a year they have totally moved on with a new love on arms. Even the guy I thought I hurt the most, a former boss named Preston Bradley, is now going strong with a new woman he’s utterly smitten with. To the point that every time I see them around, either in real life or in the social blogs, I want to gag from how lovey-dovey they are.

  I am nothing like Drew Benton.

  I am also most definitely not going to see him again. Our date tomorrow is off, and he can consider himself refunding Jason’s precious money.

  After thanking Stella for her outstanding work, she takes her leave with drink in hand. I’m left sitting at my table, but instead of perusing embarrassing college transcripts or stupid letters to the editor, I’m beholding the nastiest guy I have ever almost slept with.

  Blocking his number should be enough for me, but it isn’t. The need to give him a piece of my fucking mind is heavy on my shoulders. Trust me, I know that I shouldn’t do things when I’m angrier than a cat whose territory has been treaded upon, but I don’t think you understand. You’ve never been in a position like this before. You don’t know what it’s like to be at this level of mind games and manipulation.

  This guy thought he was going to play my fucking game! Only I stand to lose way more than he ever would had I played him like I play all the other men in my life!

  I chuck the rest of my tea into the garbage and bring up the Lyft app on my phone. I pity the driver about to drive me down to the South Waterfront. He’s about to feel my rays of rage beaming from my eyes the whole ride down there.

  Because while I may have blocked Drew’s number, I still have his address stored in my notes. He never, ever should have played his hand so soon.

  Eat your heart out, Jason Rothchild. You thought I was cruel to you? Wait until you hear about what happened to the man you hired to ruin me.

  Chapter 7

  DREW

  “Depends on how serious this guy is,” I say into my Bluetooth as I survey my South Waterfront apartment. “I’m not coming back up to Seattle for a meeting until I’m well underway with the current mark.” That’s right, I don’t say their names over the phone. A man never knows who might be listening. “If you hear from the guy in Vancouver again, tell him I could do a teleconference to go over a
ny questions he may have, but I may be a bit delayed in getting back to Seattle. I also have a feeling this current job will take me until the end of June to complete.” That’s being generous. I’ll get into Cher’s panties right quick, but don’t expect her to fall in love with me. Let alone get her heart broken by me. Yet.

  I said yet!

  Brent shuffles some papers in the background. No doubt he’s currently in our high rise office at Benton Leveraging, where from 10-3 he’s answering emails, cleaning the office, and flirting with God knows who on his personal cell. When I’m accepting new clients or in need of backup, Brent is the man who dives deep into research. The man used to be a reporter, for fuck’s sake. He knows where to scoop up information like a guy working at an ice cream parlor. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. You know how these guys are.”

  “Yes, I do.” For every twenty inquiries I get, maybe one guy actually follows through. That’s the nature of the game. If it’s not the money that freaks them out, it’s knowing that I’m about to seduce their ex – whom they probably still love… probably – and fuck her up with my cock and attitude. Then out of the men who actually go for it, there’s that one weird guy who I’m pretty sure gets off on it. As long as he doesn’t send me pictures… well, Brent intercepts those things for me, anyway. “Like I said, keep me in the loop. Depending on how long this one takes me, it may be a while before I head up there.”

  “How’s it going with her?”

  I have a second date with her tomorrow. Here in my apartment, no less.”

  “Sly dog,” Brent says with an audible grin. “Not a record, but dang fast.”

  No, my record is a woman whom I convinced to marry me by the end of our first weekend together. We drove to Vegas, I left her at the altar, and had a very happy client on my hands. He didn’t care that his vengeful ex got over it within a couple of months and probably considers herself lucky for dodging a bullet now. He only cares that she got played by a professional player.

  “Breaking her heart will take a miracle, honestly. She’s more closed than the North Korean border.”

  “You always say you love a challenge. Especially a hot one, bro.”

  “Yes. She’s definitely hot.”

  “I know! I’ve seen her pics!”

  I shake my head. “Are you about to head home? Let me know if Mr. Vancouver gets back to you. You know I don’t like leaving potential clients hanging.” Even if it goes nowhere, I’ll be damned if they go around badmouthing me for delayed communications.

  “Heading home in T-minus ten minutes. I’ll tell Rick that you said hi, though you never do.”

  “You’re not lying if I’m saying it in my heart, bro.” I lean against my kitchen counter, hand slapping against my chest. “Tell your husband I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to his wine tasting fundraiser. Busy with work, as you know.” I’m not entirely sure Rick knows what I do. Does his husband share everything with him? Like how I’m the master of bedding women and making them regret it?

  Hm. There’s something to put on my dating CV.

  I hang up and consider my planner, currently spread open on the island counter. My Tuesday – today – is largely free. Tomorrow, I have in big, red letters CL. I think we both know what that stands for.

  The current plan is to wine and dine her with some of my delectable cooking, not that I’ve decided what to make yet. Second? Start putting on the smooth moves while coming off as non-threatening as possible. I assume she’ll be doing much of the same. I have to look like I’m putting in effort, though. This is a woman who wants to play me. Suck me dry. Make me regret the day I ever heard her blasted, ‘90s throwback name. Don’t ever fall for her façade, though. Cher is no main character of a popular Shakespearean rewrite. She’s not inane enough to think “poor people just need more money,” although she probably would date her older stepbrother if he had enough money to beguile her.

  I wonder how she looks in plaid…

  Allow me to confess something to you: I don’t really enjoy my career. It’s something I’m good at. I feel like I have some moral obligation to follow through, and since I don’t need the money, most of it goes into breaking even on overhead and ensuring Brent gets to keep his high maintenance house-spouse. The rest goes into charities, some of them I’ve started in the Portland and Seattle areas. Homelessness, job corps, food banks and the like… if there’s one thing I’ve witnessed in these two cities growing up and striking out on my own, it’s that rising real estate costs mean more people in trouble. Good people, I suppose, although I don’t ask the people who benefit from my money to pass any bench tests. I occasionally have the urge to buy up otherwise empty apartment buildings and drop the rents on them so people can scramble for a place to live, but every time I start making a move, I’m reminded of how much I hate real estate.

  Look at my family. Half of them are running around with dozens of properties beneath their belts, and they’re always complaining about it.

  You know who else is always complaining, I bet?

  The woman who never has enough money or victims beneath her belt.

  So, no, I don’t enjoy what I do. Although it means I sleep with a lot of beautiful women. Half of them are flat-out crazy and I seriously risk my life with my neck sticking out around them. In a natural setup, I would not touch half of them. I might admire them from across the room, but it takes a rare mark for me to almost risk my own heart in the deal. That’s only happened once before. The only woman who truly did not deserve what I did to her. Of course, I didn’t discover her actual innocence until after the deed was done.

  I often wonder what happened to her.

  Cher intrigued me from the moment I saw her. It’s not hard to understand why she’s so good at what she unfortunately does. Even me, me, a guy cynical about love and aware of a woman’s soul-sucking machinations, looked at her and instantly fell into lust. It helps that she’s amazing at playing the vixen of your dreams. Within five minutes of meeting me, she had switched from girl-next-door chic to sexy, up-for-anything cool girl. That’s what she sensed I wanted. To be fair, I find it highly amusing.

  And damn sexy. Like her.

  Cher Lieberman intrigues me unlike any of my other marks. She’s whip-smart and can make up shit on the fly. One minute she’s an innocent waif in need of a savior, and the next? Ready to rip off my dick and dine on my balls for dinner.

  Guess which one appeals to me more?

  She’s a woman who has never been tamed, not that I believe women can be tamed. But let’s assume we’re living in a fantasy world where everyone is a romance trope and sexual desires always occur in a sweet, safe vacuum. In that world, Cher is a rabid, feral she-beast prowling the streets searching for her next victim. She does it to survive, you know. She can’t help it. She’s like a prodding panther who prowls the night. A succubus, if you will. One who, for some unknown reason, has had to earn her living sucking it out of men.

  What does that make me in this silly scenario? A beast hunter? A supernatural detective? A dog catcher? (Leave the bitch jokes at home, please.) The pussy police?

  Nah. I’m only a guy who happens to cross her path and strikes her fancy.

  Yet we know how this ends in a romance novel. I catch her, claim her, and tame her with my ridiculously huge and powerful cock. My dick is the balm that soothes her crazed soul and makes her end her terrible streak of vampiric tendencies. We’ll settle down in a little Portland bungalow. I’ll pump ten babies into her and she’ll water the garden while all ten fat little lumps tug on her skirt and gnaw off their own feet. The dogs will prance in jovial domesticity, and I’ll bestow my growing family with all of my family’s riches.

  We’ll have so much sex, of course. Because that’s what you do in a romance novel. IN, OUT. IN, OUT. COCK, PUSSY. COCK-A-DOODLE-MEOW. Bam. Marriage and babies.

  What a beautiful life. One that sounds really stupid.

  This isn’t a romance novel. (Don’t tell me otherwise. I have enough st
range dreams as it is, and if I smoke the wrong stuff, I’m convinced that This Is A Simulation. Let’s not feed into the reefer-induced-paranoias.) This is life. A really fucked up life of mine, but Cher has a really fucked up life for herself. If you think about it, we’re almost perfect for each other. If I weren’t out to destroy her, and her out to kill my soul, we could have an almost-romance-novel-like relationship.

  We would definitely have a lot of sex. Also, if this really were a romance novel, it would be the kind where my cock does all the taming and she’s never been more sated with her lot in life.

  Think we should hold off on the babies, though. Maybe a dog?

  I glance back down at the calendar I’ve abandoned to my thoughts. Unfortunately, I also catch sight of the tent pitching in my pants. Great. Thinking about Cher – and the fact we’ll probably have really hot sex tomorrow, because what I need right now is a mark I want to bang into the horizon – has me hot and bothered. I’ve already taken care of things once today. Oh, oh, guess who I was thinking about in the shower! Guess whose pouty lips, pretty fingernails, and scintillating cleavage was in my mind? My brain is convinced she’s as tight as a vise and loves to throw herself on some dick. She probably growls and power bottoms while she’s at it. Ah, yes, power bottoming. My favorite. And a phrase I’ve learned from Brent and Rick and I’m sure I’m using incorrectly by applying it to my heterosexual life.

  Geez, it is Wednesday yet?

  My phone rings and brings with it a much-needed cold shower. That’s my grandmother’s number flashing on the screen.

  “Hey, Gram,” I greet. “How’s the chickens?”

  I saunter to my fridge to get some ice water. My grandmother, Irene Benton, immediately jumps into conversation. “Don’t get me started on the chickens. Dolly has been on my shit list ever since she broke into the house and made a mess of my fine linoleum.”