Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  That’s what I should do. Grab my clothes, throw something on, and get the hell out of here! Never talk to this scrub again!

  I won’t be able to look him in the eye, that’s for sure. Not without turning the same hue as the shit that sloughed off my uterine lining.

  “Morning.”

  My head whips around without my permission. There, standing in the open bedroom doorway, is Drew. His tousled hair goes swimmingly with the stubble all over his face and the generous happy trail descending into his gray sweatpants. The same ones he had been wearing when he hauled me to this bed and fucked me for half the night.

  Words I intended to say come out in pitiful whimpers.

  His smile falls off his face. Is it too late for me to run into the bathroom and lock the door behind me? It’s not going to save me any face, but I’ll feel better for two whole seconds! At least my fright has shut off the downstairs pipes for two extra seconds. A girl can only stand here with bloody thighs for so long.

  “Uh oh.” Drew, who had been holding a plate of toast in his hand, stands up straight and looks right at the stained sheets. “What the hell happened? Are you…” We make terrifying eye contact. He’s about two seconds away from asking, “Do you need to go to the hospital?” and I’m about two seconds from running out of his apartment butt-naked. “Oh. Oh.”

  There are a million things I want to say. Each one wavers between standing my ground and being a bold, confident woman… and a startled thirteen-year-old who still can’t believe this shit happens every single month. I was definitely that girl who both boasted about getting her period to her female friends while simultaneously pretending it didn’t exist around her boyfriends. What can I say? Some things are so ingrained into your little, young psyche that you grow up to be that woman who would rather die than ever admit you get a period.

  Guess what comes out of my mouth. Go on. Guess.

  Have you guessed? Are you ready?

  Ahem.

  “I didn’t… it wasn’t… it wasn’t me.”

  Christ almighty! The fuck is wrong with me?

  Drew looks between my giant period stain and the waffling countenance I prance about his bedroom. I’m sure he’s looking right at my bloody crotch, too. Was that toast in his hand? Because it’s on the floor now. A billion crumbs begging to be vacuumed by whomever comes by to do his cleaning. “It wasn’t you, huh? Then who did that? Me?”

  He turns around, as if to look for a giant blood stain on his ass. I sigh, eyes closing and body sagging forward.

  Before tears can stream from my eyes, I pick up my things and dive into the bathroom.

  Lucky me, Drew has a detachable showerhead. Don’t think for two seconds I’m using it to get off, however. Not like last night, when he “surprised” me in the shower and made me fall to my knees from the judicious application of water spray to my fucking pussy. (If I thought that was the last orgasm I was getting from him last night, I was wrong. As soon as I announced I was clean, he showed me he had gotten hard again. Not ashamed to admit I thoroughly enjoyed one last pounding from behind, complete with another need to shower.)

  That ain’t cum I’m washing off my thighs, though. That’s the result of me effectively using birth control and avoiding what cum can do to a poor girl.

  “Oh my Goddd,” I whine, scrubbing my thighs and crotch as if I can single-handedly get rid of all the blood that usually takes four days to leave my system. I’m not sure if those are tears in my eyes or the steam playing tricks on them. I don’t care. I’m miserable either way.

  Trust me, the last thing I want to do is leave this bathroom. Yet I’m trapped. If I don’t leave now, at some point, Drew is breaking down that door and confronting me about ruining his sheets. Besides, this is a guy we’re talking about here. How many men have you dated who knew how to handle something like this? We women barely know how to deal! If I were home alone right now, I’d wash the crap out of my sheets and spray down my mattress while cursing myself for all the extra work. But I would suffer in silence, grateful that no one else was around to behold the mess my insides made.

  “Heeeeey.” That’s Drew knocking at the door. I’ve long since shut off the shower and now hang my head in shame while sitting on the toilet. “Got a fresh T-shirt for you here. Want me to make you some toast?”

  I peer through my fingers, as if he’s standing before me. “Leave me alone,” I moan.

  “Alrighty.”

  That’s all he says. I can only guess that he’s gone. I pick up the T-shirt I had been wearing, but notice it was long enough to be stained as well. Great. This T-shirt doesn’t look sentimental in the least, but hot damn, I shouldn’t be getting period blood all over the shirt of the guy who was hired to…

  No. Wait.

  This is brilliant!

  What better way to get back at the bastard than by rolling my Aunt Flo all over his expensive bed sheets? Yes, yes, this is perfect. Ha, ha! Suck it, Drew. You’ll have to buy a new mattress if you ever want to sleep in your bedroom again. Cher Lieberman was here, and she left behind a biological hazard to change your life.

  That’s what I think to puff myself up. Naked aside from my underwear, I throw open the bathroom door and march out, nearly tripping over the fresh T-shirt he left in front of the door.

  I snatch it up. Might as well wear something so he doesn’t get a free show as I walk around his bedroom.

  Drew isn’t looking in my direction, though. He’s busy ripping the sheets off his bed and leaving them in a pile on the floor. His own T-shirt, that he’s put on since I first saw him a hot minute ago, is baggy enough that it flutters with every strenuous movements. He doesn’t see me as he whistles some God-awful tune. Nor does he further embarrass me by spraying deodorizer. If I weren’t here at all, I doubt he’d be acting any differently.

  Suffice to say, I don’t know how to take this.

  I’m not saying I’ve never dated a guy who wouldn’t act nonchalant about me bleeding all over his bed. For all I know, I have. My most long-term boyfriends didn’t get to know a damn thing about my monthly visitor. Because telling your rich boyfriend, “By the way, sweetie, no touching downstairs because of you know what,” is a great way to remind him that you’re some kind of human. You’re talking to a woman who has made a living pretending to not be human. I’m a manic pixie dream girl. I’m the girl-next-door you first jacked off to when you realized boners could be great. I’m the seductive porn star who will get in any position and always tell you that your cock is “too big” for little ol’ me. I’m a caricature. Whatever one you need in the moment.

  I’m not sure what I am around Drew. Now that I’m no longer working him, I’m… me.

  I may have a T-shirt and underwear on now, but this is the most naked I’ve ever felt in front of a guy.

  “Hey.” He politely avoids eye contact as he kicks aside his dirty linens. “Everything okay? I’ve got some ibuprofen if you need any. There’s also a Rite-Aid on the corner. Need me to grab anything?”

  My jaw wants to drop. Instead, I decide to test these unknown waters. “What if I told you I need a very specific kind of tampon? You’re gonna go get that for me?”

  “I need to get some laundry stuff anyway. You should probably write down what you want so I don’t forget and have to text you. By the way,” he motions to the T-shirt gracing my torso, “your tits look great in that.”

  Unbelievable. One moment he’s acting like the best boyfriend in the world, and the next? A chauvinist pig. Am I really surprised?

  “I don’t need anything,” I say, turning away. “I’ve got medicine and tampons.” I say that word a little louder, gauging his reaction. Drew doesn’t flinch.

  “Cool. I can hold off the trip, then. I still haven’t had breakfast yet. You want anything?”

  I gaze at the faded splotch of my blood left behind on the mattress. Fighting back the ingrained shame, guilt, and embarrassment I’ve carried since puberty, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “It
’s cool. Really. Not a big deal.”

  “I… I should’ve known. It’s three days early, but…”

  “Hey.” He holds a hand up to me. “It’s cool. You don’t have to explain. Shit happens. Now, are you hungry?”

  My arms cross, as if to keep him away. “I guess. Can’t say I have much of an appetite right now.”

  “I hear ya.”

  That’s all he says. He turns to head back to the kitchen. I keep my eyes bored into the back of his head, waiting for him to gotcha me.

  He doesn’t.

  As nice as it is to have a guy who isn’t freaking out about perfectly normal biological issues, I’m not in the mood to stick around and find out about how tender and understanding he is. I’m getting the hell out of here before I’m so weirded out I look at him as if he’s grown a second head and a tail.

  While he’s in the other room, I squeeze into my dress, now one size too small thanks to the period bloat wrecking my body. Yet I hold my head up high as I step into the other room and make my intentions to leave clear.

  “So soon?” Toast pops out of the toaster. Drew leans against his island counter, checking out my cleavage.

  “I need to go take care of some things, if you haven’t noticed. If I leave now, I can catch the next streetcar heading home.”

  He sucks in his cheeks. “Hey, I’m not weirded out or anything about…”

  “Let me know how much it costs to fix up everything, and I’ll pay you back.” I approach the door, hand extended to dramatically open it like I’m about to leap off a cliff. “See you around, I guess.”

  “Cher.”

  I stop halfway out the door. The cool blast of the AC in the hallway makes my bare shoulders shudder. Or, perhaps, that’s his soft voice caressing me in ways he never did last night. Do you know how discombobulating it is to have a guy go from wham-bam-right-in-depths-of-your-cunt to I-would-love-to-play-some-Barry-Manilow-for-you? Because I do. I’m experiencing it right now.

  “I’ve gotta go to Seattle later today,” he says, “but I’d like to see you again next time in town. Or maybe you could come see me up in SeaTac.”

  I slowly turn my head. “What makes you think I want to see you again?”

  Finally, I behold a smirk that is much more like the man I’m used to hanging around in this God-awful-misery of a city. A man who wants to slap my ass and plunder my holes like he’s bought full-access to them.

  Great. That’s definitely a shudder from my memories of the night before. Great. Great.

  “You can’t get enough of me.” Drew bites his lower lip, as if the mere thought of doing me again has him suppressing his innermost desires – namely, a desire to get hard and ram his cock into any orifice I offer. “Like I’m kinda sure I can’t get enough of you.”

  Is this a joke? This man only went after me because he was paid to. His job was to fuck me like he does and make me feel bad about it. Is it the fact that I refuse to feel any guilt about rough sex? That I don’t care how hard he stuffs my throat with his cock? That he could ram me in the ass and I’ll scream how it was my idea all along? Am I a challenge?

  Do I have a problem with that?

  You see, I have no guarantee that he’s not still playing me. I keep telling myself that he’s not. That would be silly, since he’s been made and I’m onto him. Surely, he knows how clever I am. I’m a chameleon, for God’s sake. I can easily keep playing him, too!

  A part of me wonders what it would be like to keep seeing him. Casually, of course. See how far we can take a simple relationship that revolves around sex and nothing much more.

  But the other part of me doesn’t listen to my pussy. It listens to my heart. My gut. The two things that keep me on my path of greatest independence.

  They tell me to stay clear of this man. That he’s nothing but trouble. Nothing but heartache I never signed up for.

  I’ve never fallen for any of the men I’ve dated and fleeced. That’s not my style. My heart is as hard as the floor beneath my feet. Why should I let someone like him inside of my heart? He should be grateful he’s been inside my body. That’s no great feat, though. Many men have been inside my body. You can call me a whore and I’ll barely shrug. In reality, I haven’t been with half as many guys as some of the other women I know who live this kind of life, but I’ve been in more loveless relationships for the pure profit I receive. I’m basically a whore.

  Looking at him definitely makes me feel like one. I can’t say I asked for that.

  “Goodbye, Drew.” I don’t thank him for anything, least of all for being cool about what happened this morning. I’m not going to pat a guy on the head for doing the bare minimum. I don’t believe in positive reinforcement. That would imply he’s an animal. Most animals are better than most people.

  I close the door behind me. I don’t know if I should admit how hard it is to not look back.

  Chapter 15

  DREW

  “Sucks to hear that it didn’t work out.” My assistant carries my overnight bag into the office. The Seattle skyline is right outside the windows, and I stop to take it in before turning to the man who runs the place in my absence. “You were getting pretty good money for her, right? Now you’ve gotta refund it all.”

  I snort. “Rothchild isn’t getting his deposit back. It’s in his terms.” Deposits are only refunded if I don’t get anywhere with the girl at all. In Cher’s case, I got somewhere with her. Really somewhere. Not that I’ve told Brent. Until now. It’s heavily implied in what I said.

  “Dang, dude.” He’s impressed, but not surprised. This is me we’re talking about. I don’t exactly struggle to seduce women. Not when I flash my wallet or my name around, anyway. “You’re a rock star, man.”

  “I know.” I say that with a cheesy grin. Before long, I’m back at my desk, one I rarely sit at if I can help it. When I’m between gigs or playing a long game with my current mark, I’ll come back here and do some paperwork and fish for new clients, but it’s not something I look forward to doing. Brent mans the place. That’s all I really need. “She made me by the end of last weekend. She must have hired a private investigator who really knew what they were doing. Oh, well. I still got to tap that crazy ass.” Twice.

  “Before or after she made you?”

  Oh, this is the part I’ve been looking forward to telling Brent. “After.”

  “No way.” He laughs before grabbing us some coffee. “You’re that good, man!”

  “Yeah.” Why am I not reveling in this as much as I wish? The whole drive up here, I was thinking about how great it would be to brag about my sexual prowess to Brent, a man who totally gets it. Yet after a restless night’s sleep in my Seattle apartment, I concluded that what I have with Cher goes beyond her hotness and me wanting to make her come as some way to prove my masculinity. “Although there’s a reason it still happened, even after she figured out who I was and what I was doing. Shit, she figured out it was Rothchild who hired me! She’s way more clever than anyone gives her credit for.” I mean that, too.

  “Why’s that?”

  Brent places a cup of coffee on my desk. I steeple my fingers and swing one leg over the other. Although our equipment and furniture makes us feel like fancy rich bastards, we’re both in T-shirts and jeans. I’ve got my green forest ranger trucker hat on, and he’s got a gauge five miles wide in his left earlobe. We’re far from the usual professionals you would expect in a high-rise office. Especially when we’re not expecting anyone.

  “Hmm.” I tap my fingers together. “There’s something about her. Some je ne sais quoi that makes her hotter than your usual pretty girl. You feel me?”

  “I mean, I’ve seen her pic, dude. She’s hot.”

  If you’re wondering what a man with a husband is doing saying that, don’t. Brent is the first guy to tell you his door swings both ways. Before he met his husband, he wasn’t much better than me when it came to getting women to spend a night with him. Well, I have more finesse. And higher standards, but t
hat’s not a knock against my assistant, who has been happily monogamous – as far as I know – since his marriage.

  “Yeah. She’s hot.” I’m not above sharing details of my conquests with Brent, and I don’t doubt he’s waiting for some hot memories. I could tell him about how hard Cher’s cunt grabs my cock when she comes. Or I could share that her tits bounce like they’ve got somewhere to be. Does he want to know about her gorgeous snarls of depravity? Or how she sucks cock like a champ? I want to pull her hair and fuck her ass until she’s screaming in untold pleasure. I’d love to get her caught in a compromising position out in a fancy restaurant. She seems like the type to get off on a little humiliation. At the very least, she’d pretend that wasn’t happening. Like it was her fucking idea to get caught with dick in her mouth or elsewhere.

  Her insistence on acting like everything is exactly according to her plan, although I damn well know it’s not, is amusing. And hot. It makes me want to up the ante every time I take her for another spin.

  “Dude, don’t tell me you’re already catching feelings for an established playgirl.”

  “That would be as absurd as her falling for me.”

  “Especially since her ex-boyfriend paid you to fuck her up. How were you going to do that, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t sure yet. You know I usually take my time figuring that part out.” It’s true. Every woman is different. You may look at her file and guess she would be most devastated in this fashion or another, but after you get to know them and their little quirks, another, deeper truth usually comes out. I was about to approach Cher in the same manner. Go out on a few dates with her. Fuck her. Figure out what motivated her the most and use that to my advantage. So far I’ve fucked her and gone out on two dates with her – if you call margaritas a date – but not much else.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve met your match.”

  I consider that for a moment. Met my match, huh? I know what he means. I’ve come up against a woman who can dish it as well as I give it to her. We’re two of a kind. Two sides of the same fucked-up coin. Two peas in a cozy little pod made of despair and madness. We’re sad. Depraved. Assholes.