Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  We’re the same exact brand of toxic.

  In reality, I’m thinking something totally different form Brent. I’ve met my match. The woman who might be the one. Absurd, isn’t it? Cher isn’t looking for a boyfriend. She’s made that clear. She wants hot, rough sex and then nothing for days. She doesn’t care if she bleeds all over a guy’s bed and he goes out of his way to make her feel okay. (Yes, I noticed.) This is a woman who envisions a world of her, herself, and she. There’s no room for me. Maybe for my money, and my cock for a short period of time, but not me.

  She’s using me. All I can hope for in return is getting to use her, too.

  “Earth to Drew.” Brent is sitting on the edge of my desk, coffee in his hand. He doesn’t seem to be drinking much of it, though. “You thinking about that hottie, huh?”

  “Thinking about a lot of things, honestly.”

  “You better think about what you’re going to tell Rothchild. He’s not going to be happy that the deal has fallen through.”

  Considering this doesn’t happen hardly ever, I’m not happy, either. I’m a professional businessman. I’ll be upfront and honest when I can’t come through on a deal. Rothchild isn’t getting his deposit refunded, but I also won’t be charging him for more of my services. With any luck, he’ll keep the yelling to a minimum and not bad mouth me to every Tom, Dick, and Larry David in Seattle.

  Maybe I deserve it, though.

  What is this? Some kind of epiphany? Am I realizing that it’s wrong to treat women like disposable trash, even if the exes they’ve wronged pay me for the pleasure? Do I feel some regret for what I’ve done to women over the past few years? Am I growing?

  Jesus. When did I become the hero of a fucked up romance novel?

  Brent goes back to his desk. I study my all-in-one for a few moments before grabbing my work phone and looking up Rothchild’s number.

  Now’s my chance to call him and tell him the deal’s off. I’ll tell him the truth, in that Cher has made me. He should be pleased, really. It means he was taken in by a woman who is that good. So good that she got me, too. He shouldn’t feel bad. If anything, this will give him a chance to move on! Get a new girlfriend! Someone a little closer to his age and not only after him for his money…

  I dial his area code. The phone is in my hand. The receiver leaning against my shoulder.

  My finger hovers over the last number.

  Chapter 16

  CHER

  My cramps felled me for two days. Two days of lying on my couch and watching reruns while the sun blazed outside. People jogged by, walked by, and drove by with the tops of their convertibles down. Another prime night for going out and finding a real boyfriend blew by. I tortured myself with my financials, looking at both how much money I have in the bank and how my investments are doing. I’m far from my goal of being a multimillionaire by thirty. My plans include at least three more rich bastards fawning over me before that can become a reality.

  I’m almost a millionaire, though. Granted, I don’t get to touch most of that money if I don’t want to prematurely lose out on better gains in ten years. (Assuming the American economy hasn’t completely collapsed by 2030. You honestly never know.) If I cashed in some of the smaller investments, I could buy a nice little place somewhere around here. I’ll have to go closer to Slabtown, though. I can’t say I’m a big fan of Slabtown.

  Call me greedy, but I want one of the old Victorians. A Victorian like my ex owns only a ten minute walk away from here.

  I don’t seem around that much, honestly. We have different haunts. He hates the stuck-up, high-society lounges that I frequent, but there’s always that chance that we’ll be in the same place at the same time.

  Like the first day I come out of my apartment, feeling better now that the worst of my period is over. I put on a flowy sundress and don a straw hat on my head. I deserve some wine after everything I’ve been through lately, yes?

  Of course I torture myself by going back to the wine bar where I had my first “date” with Drew. Not the first guy I’ve taken there, but he’s become the most memorable. Damn him.

  “We currently don’t have any tables available,” the server tells me at the door. “It will be about a fifteen minute wait, but you can sign in here.”

  I survey the room. It’s impossible to tell who might be leaving in this wine bar, but I see a lot of empty dishes and people looking antsy. I probably wouldn’t have to wait more than five minutes. If that couple in the corner is really speedy, I could have my favorite spot…

  I take a closer look. Two blondes. One in nice shirt and slacks, and the other wearing a fashionable dress like mine.

  Don’t blame me for not recognizing my ex and his new woman right away. Preston Bradley looks like so many basic guys from the back of the head, and his girlfriend is painfully… Portland. Not in the ear gauges, dyed hair, and anarchy-themed shirts kind of way. I mean the hippie kind of Portland. Long, flowing skirts, wavy blond hair, and entire wardrobes purchased from thrift stores. Yet she looks like a million dollars, because Preston wouldn’t be with someone who looks any less.

  “That’s okay.” I turn around before either of them see me. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  In the end, I’m saved by a full wine bar. Otherwise, I might be seated next to Preston and What’s-Her-Name. (What is her name, again? Penny? Penelope? Feeble-Minded? Wait. I had a way to remember so I wouldn’t come off as a total bitch should our paths cross. Something about Friends. Who was I watching on TV at the clinic, again?

  Phoebe. That’s it.

  Preston and Phoebe. What a pair.

  I step out onto the warm street and decide to go to a nearby Mediterranean brunch spot that has good wine. It has to be better than nursing my anxiety as it flairs up in the middle of a crowd. It’s not usually the kind of place I go to by myself. I’ve taken a hundred dates there, of course, but when you go alone, you tend to get a few looks. Never mind the woman reading the paper while her dog sleeps at her feet. Or the young lady on her Kindle, guzzling every word she sees like it’s the wine in her hand. The only men you see here flying solo are over the age of seventy and have nowhere else to go at this time of day.

  Dutifully, I fill those ranks. As soon as I’m seated in a small booth, I order the wine of my desires and a cheese plate to go with it. My fingers drum on the table. Usually, I’d crack open a paperback I carry in my bag, or at least browse my phone, but…

  Something’s in the air.

  No, I swear it has nothing to do with Preston and his woman yucking it up like it’s their first date. I’m so over him that it’s amazing I remember his name. Although I can’t say I’m proud of how things ended with him. So what if I had been using him for his money? So what if he was technically my first “mark,” one I picked when I saw how good my coworker got it when she started dating Preston’s business partner? My backup plan had always been to breakup with him and sue him for sexual harassment should it come to it. Sure, the whole world paints me as a terrible bitch for it, but the man was so gullible that I had no doubts he harassed half the women on our staff. Once I gave him an opening, he took it. No dawdling. No moral hem-hawing. I barely cocked my hip and licked my lip in his direction. I can only imagine what happens when he misreads a woman’s intentions.

  Does it matter? I was younger then. Far dumber. I’ve apologized to him and moved on with my life. He’s certainly moved on with his. The money he paid me as settlement lasted me more than a few months. Long enough for me to find my next so-called boyfriend and establish my mid-twenties career of being a serial sugar-baby to Portland and Seattle’s wealthy men. To think, some of them have asked me to marry them.

  Suppose those facts go to a woman’s head. When you’re always getting guys, getting attention, and getting money, you know you don’t have to work hard at a mediocre date. I go on Tinder and have five men asking me out by the end of the hour. Actually, one of them accuses me of “not being as hot in real life as I am in my photos,
” but I take it as a compliment. Because, you know, I actually am that hot.

  So, maybe my weird feelings right now have more to do with self-reflection cringe than anything else. Nobody likes to be reminded of how they acted before their brains fully developed. Just because I was good at using my body to lure in whoever I wanted into my bed doesn’t mean I had the finesse I now do. Then again, who knows? Maybe I’ll be looking back on this moment ten years from now and cringing so hard people think I’m having a seizure.

  I’m content to chalk up my strange feelings to such things. Then, I hear the conversation going on in the booth behind mine.

  “My son really is an idiot,” an older woman bemoans. I can’t see her face, but I imagine the type who always has a martini in one hand and a little yippy dog in the other. She sounds too refined to go with the fake spray tan and hot deals from TJ Maxx. No, this is a woman who goes to the nicest, most secret salon in some high rise on the waterfront and dons herself in simple designer dresses she picks up in LA, New York, London, and Hong Kong. She’s the “effortless” rich woman. She’s who I aspire to be when I am fifty-five. “He spends all his time up in Seattle. When he does come home, it’s usually to go out with women I’m never allowed to see. Take this last time he was finally back in Beaverton. I told him, just once, I’d like you to bring by a girl you’re seeing. I’ll pretend that I don’t care she’s utter gutter garbage with no pedigree or her own decent career to speak of. Well, I leave that part out. You know how sensitive my son can be when I bring up how poor people are in this town.”

  “To be fair,” a woman with a whinier voice says, “the property taxes in this area have been going nuts. How much more can they tax us before the guillotines are brought out?”

  “Uh, do you know who they’re going to behead after they’re done with the politicians?” She was met with another snort. “Anyway, my son tells me that he’s not actually seeing anyone. Except I see the stupid look on his face. When he thinks I’m not looking, he’s got the goofiest grin of a dumb man in love. Can you believe it? Thirty years old and getting all slack-jawed about a woman he won’t let me meet.”

  “Is that unusual?” asks the whiny woman.

  “Hmm. I suppose. The boy gets around to the point that if I didn’t already know he had a vasectomy… well, never mind. Point is, I think he may think he’s in love.”

  This is the part where we acknowledge what we’re all thinking. This woman I overhear? She’s obviously talking about Drew. Or, if she’s not, then the guy I’m boning has some doppelganger out there who is also thirty and spends most of his time in Seattle. Oh, and he has this kind of woman for a mother. We don’t have to debate that, however. I know exactly who this woman is after scanning my memories and recalling meeting her once before when I dated a so-and-so who ran in her social circle.

  Cindy Benton. The Cindy Benton, current matriarch of all things Beaverton Benton.

  Maybe you can’t tell from listening to her for two seconds, but she’s not actually some tactless rube from the sticks. Nor is she a native of Portland (if you also could not tell that.) Cindy is as east coast as the blood flowing through her veins. Her Virginian origins aren’t well known around here, but I like to think it adds to her sophisticated smarm that straddles the line between Southern Hospitality and Yankee Abominations. No wonder she fits in so well around here – and hates it.

  I could also tell you how Cindy became a Benton, because that’s how well I’ve immersed myself into that world. I’ve heard every version of the story, of course, but the real truth is boring if you’re a gossip-monger. Alexander Benton met his future wife through a mutual acquaintance while they were both attending college in Southern California. One thing led to another, and before you knew it. Drew’s older sister was cooking in the oven and Cindy had to decide between becoming an early Mrs. Benton or aborting that kid so fast she would forget all about it after one night of partying.

  We see what she chose, hm?

  Oh, it was plenty gossip back then, I’m sure. I wouldn’t know. That was about ten years before I was born, depending on who you ask. Drew was their Band-Aid baby meant to save their marriage, and it worked, but only because he was a boy. Joke was on the Bentons, I suppose, because their daughter is still the one due to take over the company one day. Meanwhile, spoiled, bastard Drew is out there cavorting with whores like me.

  Whores like Mrs. Benton is apparently talking about right now.

  “You need to hire someone and figure out what’s got him grinning like a fool,” the whiny woman, someone I don’t immediately recognize, says. “It’s only a matter of time before he starts telling you about her, and before you can get excited about grandbabies, you need to know what you’re dealing with.”

  “On one hand, I’m simply excited he might be serious about anyone,” Cindy says. “Especially if it keeps him here in Portland. You know how much I miss my baby boy. Our housekeeper Opal also remarks on his absence. You ask me, he used to have a crush on her.” Cindy chuckles. “Typical. Boys falling for their pretty housekeepers and nannies. No wonder they’re always trying to marry them, let alone actually marry them.”

  “Watch out for boys in love,” the other woman says. “If I had a dollar for every boy who ends up with someone taking him for a ride, I could make my yearly donation to the WHO.”

  “Why are you donating your hard-earned cash to a band that has enough money?”

  “No, no, Cindy, dear. The World Health Organization. Number three on Carol Cruz’s list of Charities to Watch Out For?”

  “I can’t say I’ve received this quarter’s newsletter yet.”

  I thank the server for bringing me my cheese plate and wine. While Cindy and her friend switch topics to some inane shit I can hardly stand to follow, I mull over what she has said about Drew. He’s in love with someone from around here, huh? Recently, you say? I don’t believe for two seconds that it’s me. Oh, they might be talking about me, but Drew is absolutely not in love with me. Maybe he’s enamored with my pussy and how my mouth looks bobbing on his dick, but he’s not in love with me. Not Cher Lieberman, a human being with her own thoughts and personality. He might be in love with sex with me, though. I have to admit, it’s been on my mind much more than the sex I usually have, even for fun, whatever that means anymore. I’m not about to think I have some magical pussy that’s roped in a guy like Drew, though. I don’t want to rope in a guy like that anymore. He’s not worth the drama. He’s barely worth the occasional date and screw.

  I’m still in the middle of my snack when Cindy and her friend pay their bill and step out. A baby blue dress swishes against my arm as Cindy absentmindedly bumps against me with absolutely no regard for my personal space. No sorries. No apologies of any kind. Her friend merely tugs on her arm as Cindy turns around and barely acknowledges my presence.

  Wine is on my lips as we briefly see one another. In her eyes, I see a middle-aged woman who has given up on many things. Not because she has spent most of her life struggling against an impossible system built to keep her down, but because she’s had everything handed to her so easily she has no idea what to work for anymore. She doesn’t see me because she thinks I’m so far beneath her. She doesn’t see me because she sees nothing but her inane existence.

  Well, there’s a small flicker of a spark in her eyes now. I tend to have that effect on people. They see me and instantly feel alive.

  I better mind myself, though. I’m not working Drew’s mother like I might work some of my sugar daddies’ mommies. I have nothing to gain by making myself memorable to this woman.

  I do, however, have a lot to lose if Drew decides he’s in love with me. For one thing, I might lose my damn sanity trying to shake him off my leg.

  Chapter 17

  CHER

  Surprised to see me again so soon? Aw. Sometimes I do that. Completely bust expectations because I have nothing better to do.

  Like when I surprised Drew by texting him and asking him to buy me a tr
ain ticket up to Seattle so he could spoil me. He offered to buy me my own chauffer for the ride, for the sole purpose of avoiding the chaos that is the meth-fueled mess outside of Union Station (Portland or Seattle? Pick one.) I declined, however. Told him that the locals don’t bother me. I can hold my own, even when I’m wearing flowy sundresses and wedge sandals that hobble half of my steps. Union Station is nothing. Amtrak is nothing. I don’t need him to pick me up at the train station. Tell me where to go and I’ll hail my own Uber to get me there in no time. He acts like I haven’t done this a hundred times before for other men.

  He acts like I haven’t done so many things for other men. I don’t believe he thinks I’m as naïve as I sometimes portray myself. For God’s sake, this guy knows how I screw.

  So why would he be surprised by how I deep-throat?

  “Holy…” That’s right, Drew, look me in the eye as I draw my teeth all the way up your shaft and suck your salty tip like my favorite lollipop. I live for you looking me in the eye as I make you come undone. Because you’re the kind of guy who likes to pretend he’s got it all figured out. We know the truth though, don’t we? You and I… ah, I tickle your balls, you rub my clit, together we have this grand ol’ time that nobody else compares to, because why not?

  The only question I bother myself with is… do you act like this with every woman you’re with? Or only the big slutty sluts you thought you were wrecking with this cock I could bite off at any moment?

  Maybe that’s what gets him off. The uncertainty of whether or not I’ll end his reproductive viability with one bite. I’ve met my share of women who wouldn’t touch their mouth to a guy’s dick for a million dollars. (Trust me, they’re out there. Easiest million I could make, assuming they’re good for the money.) You ask me? It’s one of the only times I feel like I’m truly on top of the world. I’m not witless enough to call it empowering, though. That’s silly. Sucking cock is more like reminding the guy I’m with that I could either be his greatest source of pleasure, or his worst fucking nightmare.