Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  Suppose I can only answer honestly.

  “It was definitely memorable,” I say with a grin. “Top tier. Maybe not the best, but most men are gonna be all about the hot woman who storms into their apartment and begs to get hit hard. Between the legs, that is.” I set aside my glass, allowing me to lean in a little closer while still maintaining some personal space. “Now, you tell me. How was it for you? Thinking about round two right now?” Hey, a guy has to try when he has nothing else going on in his life.

  Cher pulls in her bottom lip and bats her eyes. “You’d love for me to say yes. Because you’ve spent the past twenty minutes thinking about how you’re gonna ask me back to your place so you can fuck me again.”

  “Maybe not right away,” I confess. “We could put off the sex. Ease into it this time. Maybe watch some movies. Order in dinner. You know, that stuff we were supposed to do on our date we never had?”

  She sighs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not hot to think about, though.”

  “So you liked it?”

  “You’re trying to tell me you think I didn’t like it?”

  “Now you’re playing mind games with me. I much prefer it when a woman I want to ask out for real doesn’t do that. I’m not your mark. You’re not my mark. We can be mature adults and have a casual fling, even if we think the other person is the scum of the universe.”

  “Isn’t that a kind of self-flagellation? Fucking someone who makes you barf outside of the bedroom?”

  “I make you barf?”

  “Some of the things I read about your exes…”

  “Could say the same about you, Cher.” It’s only now that I realize her name sounds like share. Sharing. Rhymes with caring. Wonder if she was absent that day in kindergarten when they taught “sharing is caring.”

  “There are a lot of things you could say about me,” she sighs.

  “Is one of those things an implication that you’ll come over to my place now? I’ve got my car in the clinic parking lot. Could get us there in twenty minutes.”

  “That’s generous, considering it’s almost rush hour.”

  “You still haven’t said no,” I say.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “If you have to think about it, that means you want to do it. Come on, Cher, go with your instincts. I am.”

  She turns her whole body to me, giving me a grand view of her little sliver of cleavage and the cinch of her waist.

  It’s that look in her eye that tells me I’m about to have my face in those tits.

  Chapter 12

  CHER

  Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing or something? Of course going home with Drew can only result in one thing. We’re talking about a man I can barely stop thinking about. Particularly in a certain way. He won’t shut up about what happened last Tuesday, so I’m assuming he’s obsessed with it, too. Short of my period coming three days early, I can almost guarantee that I’m getting into bed with him tonight.

  If I stay the night will be another matter.

  What? How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not interested in your judgments? I don’t care if you’re breathing down my neck, ready to wring it out in utter frustration. Or maybe you think I deserve it. We both know what kind of man Drew Benton is by now. He’s really no better than me. Hell, is it possible for him to be worse than me? I won’t push my luck that far. You’ll think I’m crazy, if you already don’t.

  Besides, it’s fate, isn’t it? Okay. So I don’t believe in fate. I believe in fathomable coincidences. Granted, it’s pretty unfathomable that I would end up in the same clinic at the same time as Drew. I’m also not convinced he actually got checked out since he was in and out while I was seeing a different doctor. He claims “it goes faster for guys,” but I’m not sure I believe it. What if he really is stalking me? What if he really is still trying to manipulate me?

  Then again, can you manipulate someone who knows exactly what you’re doing? What’s the point? This guy and I have given up the game. We’re probably gonna have one last bang and get each other officially out of our systems. Or, at least, I hope he’ll be.

  I really don’t need a boyfriend. Let alone one who makes his living wrecking other women. Even if he’s not sleeping with them, those women think they’ll get to touch his cock, and I’m pretty damn possessive when I decide I like a guy.

  He’s a bastard. I’m a bitch. What a pair we make.

  But when you’re not trying to impress a guy – let alone asking him to dump half his riches on you – you don’t worry about silly things like your clothes and your perfume. You don’t care that you had watered-down margaritas at a dive bar right after walking out of an STD clinic. When he asks you what you should order in for dinner, you don’t hesitate to suggest the best Chinese place you know. The one that’s sure to make you smell like a winner in a few hours.

  “I haven’t eaten at this place since they last sold it.” Drew munches on a spring roll as we sit on his couch, the TV blaring nonsense from Netflix. I keep my legs crossed and away from him as I stab chow mein and shove broccoli into my mouth. When I drop a large chunk of onion into my cleavage, I shove my dirty chopsticks down there and root it out. Into my mouth it goes.

  Oh! What a lovely little burp. By little, I mean loud enough to make Drew jerk in his seat.

  “That was you, huh?” he asks, one eyebrow raised as if he can’t believe I’m capable of such volume. “Impressive. Here I had been holding them in.”

  I pull my legs up onto the couch, bare feet pressed against his leg. My chopsticks stab what’s left of my dinner. Someone on TV tells a baking contestant that they’ll have a better shot at finger-painting a grand masterpiece than achieving their dreams in cake decorating. I have to agree. It really is atrocious what appears on the giant TV Drew has. “Why? Are you attempting to keep me from running off? I don’t see the point. I already know how nasty you are. Why shouldn’t you know how nasty I am?”

  “Indeed, why shouldn’t I?” He tosses his empty take-out box onto the coffee table and slumps down in his seat. The moment his jeans come undone, I know we’re not talking sexy. He’s pulling the old, “I ate too much and now I have a food baby,” move. Aw. Look. It must be at least five months along. “You already know how hairy it gets down there.”

  “That reminds me. My crotch really itches because I haven’t touched it up since we last hooked up.”

  “Aw, don’t tell me you waxed your little lady for me.”

  “I don’t do it for anyone but myself, thank you.”

  “That’s what you ladies tell yourself.”

  I shove another piece of broccoli into my mouth. Speaking of bloating… oof. I may be wearing a dress, but the cinched waist is going to kill me if I don’t adjust it. Got a food baby of my own cooking in there. I blame the fact that I’m eating chow mein and fried rice. When he asked me what I wanted from the take-out menu, I told him to fuck me up. I hear we have dumplings for dessert.

  “Being a woman is complicated,” I say with a sigh. “You like the feel of smooth, hairless skin on your body, but there’s no denying that the ones in society who benefit from it the most are the men selling us the products.”

  “Whoa. Feminism and anti-capitalism during my Chinese take-out dinner?” Drew laughs. “You really are from around here.”

  “Just because I take men to the cleaners every few months doesn’t mean I haven’t read any books. I also went to college and took some gender studies courses, juuuust like you.”

  “Wow,” he whispers. “This whole time the perfect woman for me has been in Portland. Who knew?”

  “How many blue armpits and ear gauges did you wade through to find me?”

  “How many manbuns and socks with sandals did you wade through to find me?”

  I chuckle. “Too many. Turns out I had to look to rural Oregon to find a guy in a trucker hat and old jeans.
” He took off the hat after we arrived to his place. I saw the closet he stuffed it in, though. The back of the door boasted a series of hooks that hung a wide, wide variety of hats he must have collected through his life. He’s like a woman with shoes and purses! “What’s up with that, anyway?”

  “You work outside enough, you learn to wear a hat to keep your face and scalp from burning.”

  This time I’m the one raising my eyebrows. “You work outside, huh?” Damn. I can almost see it. Imagine his shirt soaked in sweat and his brow glistening like a diamond as he chops wood in the sun. Ooh, those are some seriously rippling muscles. Muscles I know can move like a demon sent straight from Hell to punish me for my sins.

  Hot! (Just like Hell.)

  “I’m fairly handy. Spent a lot of time as a kid hanging out with the landscapers and handymen that came around our property. One of my best friends as a teen had a dad who owned a small construction company. Kind that builds custom cabinets, sheds, stuff like that. He taught me a few things. Combine that with shop and metal class in school… eh, I’m not going to change the world, but I can repair and build things for my grandma.”

  This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned his grandmother. That’s not something I’m used to with this type of guy. The only ones who go out of their way to mention their grandmas to me are those playing up her diamond ring collection (thanks, Jason) or pretending that she thoroughly changed their lives before she died. “Could you build me a doghouse?” I ask.

  “Sure. Why? You have a dog?”

  He’s surprised enough that I can tell such a fact would break his profile of me. Well, I don’t have a dog. Or a cat, for that matter. So he can rest assured that his profile is up to date.

  “No,” I say, placing my trash next to his. “Thinking about moving, that’s all.”

  He cocks his head, urging me to explain.

  “I hear I’m a big bitch.”

  It takes him a few seconds, but when he finally gets my stupid joke, Drew is hunched over laughing. I can smell his breath from here. Very, very Chinese food-y. I’m sure mine smells as pristine as an untapped water source, too.

  “That’s right. Yuck it up.” I snort into the back of my hand as I lean against the end of his couch. “I’m only saying what you’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, I’m not entirely sure you know what I’m thinking.”

  I don’t know where the serious tone came from, but he has my attention. Drew reaches into the take-out bag and removes two fortune cookies. I say nothing as I bite the plastic open and crack the spun sugar into two.

  “You’ll make a painful decision you might not regret.”

  Drew is looking over my shoulder. I crumple the fortune and maintain my nonplussed demeanor as I toss the trash back into the bag. He doesn’t hide his fortune from me.

  “You’ll go on a trip soon.”

  “Who do you think writes these things?” Drew’s mouth is full when he speaks, flecks of fortune cookie spewing across the floor and coffee table. I follow his lead, but keep my mouth closed, thank you. “Everywhere you go, they say the same freakin’ stuff. Do you know how many trips I’ve gone on because of fortune cookies?”

  “What do you want them to say?” I ask. “They’ll never be accurate. You need tarot cards for that.”

  I almost had him again. “They could at least try. Tell me I’m going to make a thousand unexpected bucks. Tell me I’m specifically going to Mexico.” He grins at me. Doesn’t take clairvoyant gifts to know what he’s about to say. “Tell me I’m gonna stick it in some dank pussy by the end of the night.”

  All right. I knew the gist of what he was about to say. Just not… that.

  “Dank, huh?” I slowly turn my head, foot rolling in the air as I air out my disappointment in his words. “Dank. Pussy.”

  He snorts up some snot, arms bent behind his head and food baby poking out of his pants. Drew is lucky he still has a sizable bulge in those jeans. Otherwise, I’d be outta here. “Yup.”

  “Dank pussy.”

  “That’s the word you’re hung up on, huh, Princess?”

  My palm meets my forehead. As my hand drags down my face, I groan. And burp. Couldn’t avoid that one. “My pussy is not dank,” I assert.

  “Do you not know what slang means? Maybe you’re getting old and behind the times. Pretty sad for however old you are. What? Thirty-five? Woof. Older than me.”

  “You know damn well how old I am.”

  “Do you know how old I am?”

  “Old enough to not be saying dank pussy to me.”

  “I had no idea that a woman who dares me to do dirty things to her would have a problem with my vocabulary choices. Aren’t you the one getting turned on by me calling it your cunt last week?”

  I push my hair out of my face and shrug. “Different context. I’m not about to start talking about your dank dick. Makes it sound like it’s old, cold, and musty.”

  “If anything, I’m comparing your vagina to the sweetest weed on the market. That’s a compliment! I’d love it if you compared my dick to dank weed!”

  “Stop saying dank, oh, my God.”

  “Did I discover one of your squicky words, Ms. Lieberman?”

  “Yes! Happy now?”

  “Oh, ecstatic.”

  Don’t know what I expect when I steal a look in his direction. His cocky attitude on full display? His lips moving across his teeth and his eyebrows waggling? His food baby now nine months along and ready to pop?

  He smirks at me, but it’s not a full-blown grin. Not the kind I anticipate. Drew would rather size me up and trace my reactions. Not that I will deign to give him any. He has to work harder than some bad jokes.

  “What?” he asks, as innocent as a little cherub about to bite off your tit. “I’m not going to say it again if you really hate it.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’m a man of my word.” Drew sits up. Before I dare imagine him coming in my direction, he gets a whiff of himself and declares that he needs to brush his teeth. And might take a shower while he’s at it.

  “If you think I’m joining you,” I say as he cleans up the garbage and takes it to the trash can in the kitchen, “you’re nuts. I prefer to marinate in my post-dinner perfume.”

  “You really are one of the guys, huh?”

  “In my skirts, heels, and big, generous cleavage.”

  Drew cocks his head on his way to the bathroom, his fly still down and his shirt crawling up his torso. “Was way bigger the other day. You’re not wearing a pushup bra today.”

  “Does that disappoint you?”

  He mimics a little with his thumb and forefinger. Typical.

  “I fully expect you to still be here when I get back!” he calls from the bathroom. Water sprays. A T-shirt lands outside the door. Before I get a full view of the goods, Drew slowly closes the door. I’d presume that he locked it, but considering the kind of relationship we have so far…

  This is my chance to run, isn’t it? Pick up my bag, mentally thank him for the free drink and Chinese food, and head home to sleep in my doghouse.

  That’s what I should do. Drew’s a jerk and doesn’t deserve my dank pussy.

  I think I’ll wait until my dinner settles a little more, though. Don’t want to get sick on my streetcar ride home, right?

  Right.

  Chapter 13

  DREW

  There exists a 50/50 chance that she’s still out there. Either she’s rooting through my things, or she’s stolen some of my money and I’ll never see her again.

  When I say 50/50, I don’t mean she’s either there or she’s not. I mean there’s an equal chance she’ll decide to stay. Or go. There’s no overwhelming feeling one way or another. Why would there be? We both know that she wants to ride me like cowgirl, but she also greatly dislikes me, so let’s not discount her growing a conscience. It really could go either way.

  The question remains, as I put my hand on my bathroom door…

  Is Cher sti
ll here? Or has she left?

  If she’s here, I know where this is going. I’m not going to wait anymore. I’m going to pack her off to my bedroom caveman style again. Ooh, yeah. That sounds pretty sweet, don’t it? Rile her up a bit, maybe get my face all up in those wet lips, and then manically torture her with how much she loves my cock.

  Because as cute as it was to share a drink and a meal with her, there’s no denying that, well… there’s nothing here. Nothing but sex. We’re not boyfriend-girlfriend material. Even if I could overlook her history of fucking over rich men, I doubt she’d look over my, you know, job.

  I’m not exactly thrilled to call her my girlfriend, either. She’s the kind of woman everyone gets me wanting to fuck, but would warn me away as soon as they recognize her name. “Ain’t that the Black Widow?” I can imagine someone saying. “Man, what are you doing? Besides getting killed like a fool?”

  I open the door.

  At first, I don’t see her anywhere. She’s not on the couch. She’s not in the kitchen. She’s not grabbing her bag and heading out the door. Naturally, I assume Cher is already gone. She’s taken my hospitality and left after I gave her one last opportunity to leave. She must know what kind of lover I am after last time. She knows I respond to her hedonistic calls for rough love. Few women draw that out of me, and it’s not because she’s a terrible shitlord who needs a few lessons coming her way. (All right, maybe a tad.)

  There’s something about her, okay? Does it have to be more complicated than that?

  Naturally, I’m disappointed to find her gone. Good thing I didn’t bother getting hard in the shower. If anything, I repressed it as much as possible. Thought about baseball, the most boring sport on Earth. (At least it’s good for killing hard-ons.) Instead of, you know, those beautiful breasts in that delicious dress she’s wearing. Or that ass. Or those legs. God, those legs!