by Cynthia Dane
“There’s no correlation between me and that.”
“So you know?”
“Of course I know,” Drew all but snaps. “What? You want me to feel bad about it? Like I said, there’s no direct correlation between…”
“Shut up. You’re a scumbag, you know that?”
He dares to take one step forward. Here we are, standing in the parking lot of a sexual health clinic, about to have the kind of altercation that would get the cops called on us. He’s definitely about to get banned from the premises. If I’m lucky, I won’t be caught up in his storm.
The closer he gets, the more I shudder. Don’t tell me it has anything to do with how he makes me feel – sexually, that is. Because this guy doesn’t deserve that kind of response from me. He deserves a slap to the cheek and a kick to the balls.
“Do you really think you’re that much better than me?” he growls right into my ear. Okay. Okay. So I’ve got a few extra shudders from that, but I shall contain them. I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning me on again. “Besides, if I’m such a scumbag, what does it mean that you come storming into my apartment and fuck me dry?”
“That was…” I sputter, my throat as dry as his balls had been when I was finished with him. “That was different.”
“I mean, I get that we have this undeniable chemistry.” Although Drew doesn’t touch me, I feel his skin against mine. That’s how close he is. That’s how tactile my memory is. “But I would think if you found me so abhorrent, you’d run away from me instead of always coming soooo much closer.”
“What?” I snap back. “You think I want to still fuck you? You’re delusional. I’d rather be celibate for the rest of my life than hop on your dick again.”
“Who says you’d be hopping on it? I was thinking piledriver. You’re gorgeous on the other end of a piledriver.” His fuzz grazes my chin. I can smell his breath. Every drop of heat within me rushes straight to my pussy.
I hate him.
“Cupping your tits while I use your cunt all night long. I’ll let you scream all you want, too. I like it when you let me know how much you like it.”
My hand pushes his face away. I had meant to slap him. Instead, he gets a forceful nudge. Either way, there’s no way in hell he gets to see the color touching my cheeks. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I won’t.
“I’m not a conquest,” I hiss, fire burning inside my belly. I swear it’s not lust. It’s anger. Seething, reeling anger that wants to burn him alive. I feel like I did when I went to his place last Tuesday. Ready to kill him. Instead, I fucked him. I dared him to fuck me. I dared him to come inside me. In my defense, he didn’t exactly say no to either. He wanted it as badly as I did. “You don’t get to fantasize about all the sick shit you want to do to me. I don’t care if you’re the second coming of a sex god. You don’t get to do that with me.”
“So what do we call it when I do get to fuck you?”
“First of all!” I raise my voice. “You don’t get to do it again! Second, we can agree that it was something we should not have done and move on. Just… leave me alone, okay? I don’t need your shit. You clearly don’t want my shit. Go back to your job of driving women to severe depression because you’re a sick fuck who gets off on it. God knows you don’t need the money.”
“How do you know that?” he asks. “You don’t know anything about my personal financial situation.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“And I have a pretty good idea about yours, too. You’re not doing too badly for yourself, right? Sounds like you gleam a lot of money from your marks before you break their hearts and move on to the next one. Someone has to pay for your apartment in Northwest, right? You don’t have a day job, yet I see you in the trendiest, most expensive places around town. I hope you’re investing your money well, though. You’re only going to get older, and then what? It’s so much harder to get old men with money to give a fuck about your pussy when it’s not so…”
My heel meets his toes.
“Shut the fuck up!” Those words echo across the half-empty parking lot. Birds take flight from a nearby tree. Someone walking their dog looks in our direction. Cars slow down. Before anyone thinks to call 911, I take a large step back and hoist my purse up my shoulder. “Shut up and leave me alone.”
“So…” Drew grits his teeth, as if he can’t feel what I did to his toes. “Want to get a drink at a place up the street from here? They have great margaritas. After what they did to us in that clinic, I think we deserve a little alcohol. Hm?”
I fix my hair and grumble that I would rather suck Satan’s dick. When I speak louder, fully intending to verbally castrate him, I say, “Sure. Why the fuck not. I need a drink.”
Somebody please, please save me from myself.
Chapter 11
DREW
Yes, I knew I was good, but I didn’t know I was this good. Cher clearly detests the ground I walk on. She would rather take a shit on my grave than say a nice thing about me. I mean, it’s not exactly like I’m smitten with her, either. She’s an asshole. A hypocritical one, based on how she thinks she has any room to talk about making former lovers depressed enough to take drastic measures. At least I admit what a piece of shit I can be. Watching her bend over backward to claim any moral high ground? Priceless.
Maybe that’s why I ask her out for a drink. I’m not out to get between her legs again, although the way she keeps huffing and puffing and biting her words at me makes me fondly remember how good it was to nail her against my bed. I suck in my cheeks as I walk beside her. It’s my foolproof way of keeping a hard-on from springing in my jeans.
We don’t need that. I definitely don’t need that, although I know what I’m thinking about later when I’m in the shower.
Again.
We don’t say much as we walk. Granted, it’s a short one since we’re literally going two blocks from the clinic, but conversation would be normal between two people, yes? Funny. Normally I’d be Mr. Talkative. Cher just makes me… think.
About the kind of woman she is.
About the kind of man I am.
About why I keep coming back to her, although it’s clear we’re too toxic for one another.
Besides, what would be the point? We can’t have a real relationship. A friends with benefits situation would be too volatile. Our mutual attraction is fueled by our dislike for one another. I mean, sure, before she knew what a “scumbag” I was, she may have genuinely thought she was attracted to me. But I have a theory, and that says Cher is incapable of actual love and a decent relationship. She doesn’t know how to do anything but use and manipulate people. Even when we were having sex, she was telling me what to do by making it sound like I didn’t have the gall. We both knew I did, but she had to make it sound like it happened because of her will.
If she’s not the narcissist… there’s definitely one in her family. That’s shit you either discover within yourself, or learn it from someone almost as toxic.
We sit at the bar overlooking the sidewalk. Mariachi music blares from the speakers, but this isn’t a Mexican place. Never underestimate a Portlander’s love for tacos and margaritas, though. That’s one that hasn’t changed from my childhood, God love it.
I order us a large plate of chips and salsa to share as we drink our watered-down margaritas. Cher props herself up on a stool and shivers as the air conditioner blasts against her bare shoulders. One must wonder what drives a woman to wear an off-the-shoulder color-block dress to the STD clinic. Is this the most casual thing she has in her wardrobe? Was she off somewhere fancier after her vaginal swabbing? Or is this how she must dress every single day, regardless of the weather?
How does Cher Lieberman dress in the winter, I wonder?
I mean, she’s gorgeous. She’s always so well put together and postures herself like a woman who knows her worth. It’s attractive. And intimidating. I’m drawn to women who intimidate the balls off my body. It’s not that I want to change
them to be more submissive and demure. Some of that kinda happens naturally? Bringing that out of a woman, that is. Except that’s only possible if that woman is capable of such sensations. Others merely want to use their teeth when they blow you. They gotta make sure you know who has all the power, duh.
(And, yes, that is mad hot.)
“So…” Cher stirs the ice in her margarita. She plucks the olive and touches it to her lips. She doesn’t eat it, though. “You think we’re infected. If so, who gave whom what? Besides your dirty dick giving it to me, that is.”
I chuckle. “You ask the important questions, of course.”
“Don’t play coy.”
“How do I know you’re not out there poking holes in condoms and making men’s dreams come true by saying you don’t need them?” I can play this game. I love playing this game. Even better if I make her cringe on her stool. “I swear to God, if they call me up and tell me to come in to get antibiotics, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“How nice of you to assume that I have a disease-ridden…” She snorts. “You know what? I’m surprised you’re not worried about me being pregnant.”
“Why? If you – yes, you, specifically – are gonna be paranoid about one thing, it’s pregnancy. You’re definitely on birth control. I’d be shocked if you said you weren’t, and I would assume you’re trying to trap men into…” I stop. “Fuck.”
Her chuckles nearly wreck me. Not because I’m suddenly embarrassed, but because that could be her game, and I’d be fucked.
“Yes, what if I’m coming to terms with my old, old age of twenty-five and realizing that I need a better long-term plan than letting my tits hang out and spreading my legs for every millionaire who walks by me? Yes, let’s trap some fuckers with a baby. Child support for the rest of my life. I’ll be rolling in the dough.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You assumed I was on birth control. Well, I assumed you’ve had a vasectomy.”
I remain silent.
“Aw, did I freak you out by being right?”
This margarita is pretty good. Maybe they kicked it up a notch with a little more vodka than usual. God knows I need it. “You would only freak me out if you knew the doctor who did.”
“Dr. Redding.”
Alcohol shoots out of my nostrils. It burns so badly that I hunker over the bar, pinching the bridge of my nose as my eyes water and I gasp for air. Cher swings one leg over the other and continues to chuckle as she sips her margarita.
“How the hell do you know that?” I demand.
“It was a lucky guess. Figured I had a 50/50 shot.” She puts her glass back down and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. How sad is it that I’m instantly alleviated of my burning woes? I look at her sleek lines, the lovely hue of her complexion, the silky hair… and I want to kiss her. I want to put my mouth all over her. Give her a hundred hickies that will mark her as mine for at least a week. Slip my tongue right into her ear and make her squirm so hard she’s spreading her legs and begging me to fuck her, right here, right now. I’m gonna fondly remember the perfection of her pussy for the rest of my life. If nothing else, I understand that drawing in her victims. She’s the kind of woman who can treat you like absolute shit and you’re begging for more if it means fucking those depths.
She cocks her head. That smarmy little smile has my knees buckling.
“He’s the guy most of my exes in Seattle went to. He has a wonderful reputation, or so I hear. Very discrete and makes it as painless as possible. I’m told he’s the one to go to if you want a quick recovery time. So, since you live in Seattle now, I figured he’s the one you’re going to for a snip. I’m not a mind-reader. I’m simply observant.”
“What else do you know about me?” I ask.
“I know you went to Lewis & Clark.”
“I told you that.”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me you almost had enough credits to minor in gender studies.”
I snort. That was one thorough PI she must have hired. “Call me curious about the world of gender equality. It’s kind of amazing how much history hides from us about the accomplishments of women. Did you know that we have your sex to thank for beer? Rock on.”
“I did know that, actually.” Her grin is dazzling enough to make me kiss her, but I don’t dare fall into her toxic trap. For all I know, she’s still playing me to get to my money. Or my dick. Hm. I might not mind one of those.
But when a woman looks at me like this, it’s hard for me to hold back from throwing a little money at her. Spoiling her, we’ll call it. I buy all the meals. I get her that dress she’s always wanted. Bedeck her in jewelry of her favorite color. Get her car fixed or buy her a new one. Damnit. This is why we’re marks. At least I’m on to her!
It’s rather weird how easily we settle into conversation filled with light – but not fake – banter. We play a game of Did you know? that results in, yes, we could actually guess that about the other person. We’re both professional players, after all. We’re good at reading people, let alone the opposite sex. She calls me out for sleeping with my family’s older housekeeper long before I offer the information. I accurately pinpoint that one of her parents is a narcissist. (I’m still not unconvinced that she’s not one too, though.) Together, we’re a giant psych evaluation that we could package and pitch to pick-up artists.
“Was Rothchild your last boyfriend?” I ask her.
She leans her elbow against the table and wistfully gazes into the street. A flock of bicycles ride by. Beat-up cars and Mercedes share parking spaces. For every old, decrepit building full of character, there’s a Soviet-esque “luxury” apartment currently in progress. It’s what this part of Portland now looks like. A fury of old and new constantly fighting for a presence. Sometimes I barely recognize it anymore. These are my old stomping grounds, but I couldn’t point out the place where I had my first kiss or almost crashed my car because I cruised a little too quickly through a certain intersection. All my old friends have moved away because this place has either priced them out or depresses them too much. Guess I’m not much better. Which begs many questions about why Cher still hangs out around here.
“He was my last ‘real’ one, I guess you could say.” She shrugs. “I liked him well enough, honestly. His sin was moving the relationship way too quickly. If he had waited another year, I might’ve said yes to his proposal.”
“So why didn’t you tell him that instead of bailing on him in front of his whole family?”
“Because it was a giant red flag. Once men push you to get more serious out of the blue, there’s usually an ulterior motive. Like suddenly wanting babies or finding out they might have cancer or dementia. Now they need someone to take care of them. That’s not me.”
“Maybe you should stop dating men who are so much older than you.”
“Excuse me, they’re the ones with money and mid-life crises. Sooo much easier to seduce than someone your age. For the long-haul, anyway.”
Something she’s said has piqued my interest. “Do you actually love them? Or are they marks?”
“You ever love the women you’re paid to fuck over?”
“Not really, but I’m also told upfront about every dirty and cruel thing they’ve ever done. Kinda hard to fall for a woman you know once cuckolded her husband. Without permission.”
“Ouch.”
“Or threatened to kill a guy’s dog. Or actually did.”
Cher winces. Good to know she has some empathy. We’re on a roll here. “The men I date aren’t much better. They’re either raging sociopaths looking for a young, tight hole to fuck or are so blinded by their privilege they don’t realize how badly they’re razing the neighborhood around them. It gets tiring. Some of them are decent deep down. Some of them made me laugh. Some were good lovers. Some would’ve been great dads, or already were to the children they had. Except there’s always something, you know? At some point, it’s time to bail.”
The more I study her, the more the picture of Cher Lieberman comes toget
her. “You don’t want that at all, do you?”
She slightly turns her head in my direction. “What do you mean?”
“Marriage, family… a steady, long-term monogamous relationship with a guy who lives on the other side of town you see three times a week. That’s not your style. You’re too independent. All of your dreams of your future include you and only you. There’s no room for another person. Maybe not even a pet. You like your independence. You prefer to be alone.”
The cock of her head does wonders for my imagination. What is that look in her eye? Is she seeing a new side of me that she didn’t consider before? Am I alluring her with my insight? Or is she about to tell me how wrong I am? I finish my margarita and await her response.
“Yes, I don’t very much care for the thought of getting married right now. I don’t mind relationships so much, but I have very high standards for the people I spend more than a few weeks with. It’s not always about the money. I simply don’t want to be tied down to anyone for a long while. Maybe not ever. It’s hard to make men who are used to throwing their money at people and getting unbridled access understand that point of view.”
“Especially if you’ve been selling them a different image of yourself, I bet.”
She coyly smiles, as if I’ve dug too deep and must learn to mind my manners. “You play a game long enough, you start to forget what your real personality is like. I’ve been doing it for so long that maybe that is my personality. I love the game of seduction and watching a man completely give himself over to me. The first time we have sex is supposed to be one of the greatest moments of his life. Never mind everything else that comes before or after.” She narrows her eyes, but that smile does not fade. “So?” she asks. “What about it? Was that sex some of the best of your life?”
I can’t tell if this is part of her game, or if she’s asking in earnest. How should I respond? Making her think it really was would simply be playing into her hand. Refuting it would either get me called a liar, or she’ll be so offended our conversation will come to a premature end.