Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

Sometimes I wish I could pick her brain. Other times, I’m content to swim in my blissful ignorance.

  “What do you really want to do with the rest of your life?” she asks me.

  My man Drew picks a helluva time to return with our drinks. I don’t engage in any jokes this time. Just a simple “Thank you” that turns into me wishing he’d get the hell on with it already. Come on, man. I have to plot out my future here!

  “That’s a loaded question,” I say. “I could easily ask you that.”

  “I’ve been pretty open about what I want to do. Travel the world, read every book that’s ever interested me, drink tea in the most interesting nooks and crannies around Portland.”

  “Is that really a whole life, though?”

  She shrugs. “Fine. I want crazy-good sex, too.”

  “There you go. That’s what I want for my life. Let’s build an existence around it.”

  “Says the guy wearing a trucker hat in a high-class lounge?”

  “This is high-class?” I look around. I’m far from the only guy in here wearing a hat or jeans. Hell, there are guys in open-toe sandals. Women in short-shorts and tank tops. For every person dressed at least business casual, there’s another treating this place like the local taqueria. I didn’t think anything of it until Cher said something. When you’re as loaded as I am, you don’t question dress codes. Not when you go out to eat. Not unless you’re trying to impress somebody. Say, like a date. “Huh. The more you know.”

  She levels a rueful gaze on me. “You know what I meant. For the average person, this is classy. Maybe it’s not the place where we met, but…”

  “I think that might be one of my favorite places.” I pick up my glass and wink at her. “’Cause I met you there, baby.”

  I set out to make her groan, and I have succeeded. Score one, Drew.

  It’s only a matter of time before she reminds me of her question. Maybe I’ll score some extra points if I go ahead and try to answer it now. “Anyway, I’ve actually been thinking a lot about what I want to do with the rest of my life. The era of Drew Benton, Professional Avenger, is over. I’m only keeping my business open and my assistant employed because I’ll eventually turn them both into something else. Start over. Maybe I’ll go into real consulting like my grandmother thinks I do.” The sooner I do it, the better. If dementia doesn’t get my grandma, she’ll figure out the truth, and I’ll be in so much hot water I’ll boil alive. “But I’m also thinking about my drunk-high idea to do a matchmaking service. Of course, that would be a serious rebrand. Do you think my old, happy clients would go for it?”

  Cher tilts her head. I can’t tell if that look is intrigued or pure disbelief. She has yet to touch her drink; meanwhile, I’m over here already half-finished with mine.

  “You mean, can you go from being that angry, bitter guy who gives them that glimpse of vengeance… to the guy who tells them, ‘Yeah, bro,’’ she adopts a stance, mannerism, and tone of voice that is nothing like me at all, “I totally got the right hot chick for you. She’s got a Master’s in Physics with a Minor in Blowjobs. When can I hook you guys up?”

  “Come on, it wouldn’t be like that.”

  “I seem to recall me helping you find hot women willing to learn the sugar baby life.”

  “I mean, I’m not guaranteeing they’ll find the life partner of their hearts and loins. Just the loins of the moment. I would do my best to match compatible people, all right?”

  “Right.” Cher sips her drink. Is that sour face from the taste, or what I said? “You can’t fix stupid, though. Or people with impossible standards. Or men who don’t realize they need to be marrying a woman they see as a human being first, hot piece of ass second.”

  “And the women? I’m doubting most of my female clients will be hot young heiresses looking for rich old daddies.” I might get a few, though. There is always that occasional gal with serious daddy issues. Can’t be helped. Well, I can’t help it. Society isn’t my problem. “What do they need to realize?”

  Cher shrugs. “That they’re disposable, unless they play it safe the whole way through. Even then? Disposable.”

  If I needed anything to completely kill my enthusiasm, that would do it. Disposable. She’s not saying that she thinks women are disposable. No, what she’s implying is that it doesn’t matter how much a woman thinks highly of herself, lowly of herself, or anything in between. The rich man she’s with isn’t going to see her as anything more than a convenient toy to move on from the moment she gets a little too old or opinionated.

  I wish I could say that’s ridiculous, but I’ve known my fair share of guys, both my age and older, who have fallen into the trap of always needing younger and prettier girlfriends. Once their first wives start to show their age, let alone have children they don’t immediately bounce back from, guys are already thinking about the next honey to catch their attention. I grew up in a house where youth and beauty fade, but smarts don’t always improve. My sister seems to be an exception to both rules, but she’s still not yet thirty-five. Give her a few more years, and we’ll be grateful she turned out to be the smart one.

  “I love men,” Cher says with a sigh, “but they can be so dumb about love.”

  “Doesn’t really help if the women they’re seeing are playing them for fools.”

  She snorts into the back of her hand. “It’s a chicken and an egg conundrum, Mr. Benton.” That husky tone she adopts is awfully familiar. I heard it the first night we met. Combined with Mr. Benton, it’s clear she’s pretending to play me. Or this is her default state when she begins to dissociate. I probably know her better than most of the guys she’s dated in the past few years, but there are still aspects of her brain I cannot fully comprehend. I doubt I ever will. “What came first? Women playing men to the point the men no longer took us seriously? Or the men disposing of us to the point we picked up these games for our survival?”

  “Is that what it is, Ms. Lieberman?” I lower my face across the table. “All the odds are stacked against you, so you either go for the financial gold while you can or go completely independent?”

  “No money.” Her drowsy eyes lull me into their web. If I’m not careful, I’ll never untangle myself again. “You grow up without any money and find out you’ve got two choices in life. Do you work your ass off in the capitalistic grind to maybe retire in relative luxury one day? Or do you use what God gave you to make the most of your youth?”

  “Sounds like either way you lose that spark that made you so attractive to begin with.”

  “You mean like you did?”

  Ouch. Ouch. I could pretend that I don’t know what she means by that, but I do. It hits me so hard that I’m almost awestruck at her gall. So, what can I do? I’m the one who willingly told her what happened to my friend and how it affected me. She knows what I do – did – as a way to bide my time until I figured out what I really wanted to do with my life. Now here we are. She’s calling me out for being no better than her. I’m acknowledging that, yes, she truly is the closest thing to a perfect match I have ever met.

  I have no idea what to say. To admit defeat? To challenge her?

  Or maybe I should take her hand on this table as a reassurance that I get her.

  We exchange no words as I finish my cocktail with my other hand and Cher gazes at the view. Conversations continue around us. My namesake shows another couple to some seats a few tables away. My eyes glaze over as I focus on the touch of Cher’s fingers – and the fact she hasn’t yanked them out of mine. She has such delicate, ladylike fingers. Nicely buffed and painted. Does she do her own nails? Or does she go to one of the many salons in her neighborhood? Like most young women who haven’t worked outside of an office or a schoolroom, her skin is soft and her knuckles softer. I could get lost in the way her skin stretches across her bones. Shit, is that weird to say? It made more sense in my head. Because if you could stare at her hands like I am right now, you’d get what I’m saying. Beautiful. Perfection. Like her, if she woul
d damn well admit it.

  Yup. I’m that fool who has stumbled into her web. Am I going to deny it any longer? I’m falling in love with her. I may already be in love with her, but I fear regrets. This isn’t a woman you knowingly give your heart to, not if you know who she is and what she can do. Look at that expression on her face. Can you call it that? Or should you admit that she’s an unfeeling wraith who bides her time until she has you in her snare? For all I know, she’s thinking about what to have for dinner. With or without me.

  Has she learned that she’s so disposable, that she’s now made me the disposable one?

  Whether you know you’re getting into shit with her or not, you can’t help but embrace the chance that you’re disposable. I get it now. That phrase, “It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.” I’ve never really been in love before. Not like this.

  Something startles Cher to the point her hand falls out of mine and she whips her head toward a man coming up to our table. It’s not the other Drew. It’s a man who looks a bit older, and with blond hair and a black shirt that goes with his tan trousers. He has the air of respectability while retaining a hint of playboy charms. I know this type well. Aside from the retirement aged men who hire me, this guy is in my key business demographic.

  God help us all. These two obviously know each other.

  “Preston,” Cher says with an indifferent façade. “Funny running into you again.”

  The man glances at me before giving his full attention to Cher. “Thought I’d pop over and say hello so we didn’t have to pretend to awkwardly ignore one another. Phoebe’s here, too, but I waited until she went to the little girls’ room to say hello.”

  “I’ll be sure to hold it in a while longer so I don’t bump into her there.” Cher glimpses in my direction, a diabolical smile tugging at her mouth. “By the way, do you know Drew Benton? I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re seeing each other.” Yeah, we hadn’t exactly been hiding the hand holding. Now I’m roped into this. “Do you know Preston Bradley, Drew? He’s one of my many, many ex-boyfriends.”

  “I believe we’ve been acquainted a time or two over the years.” I offer to shake Preston’s hand. I’m always impressed when a guy has a good handshake, and today is no different. I mean, if I have to imagine Cher having sex with this guy, he might as well have a strong handshake. “Although I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of a conversation.”

  “Preston’s a venture capitalist, from Bradley & Marcus,” Cher continues, in that silky, haughty tone she adopts when impressing rich guys like us. “He’s dating a yoga instructor.”

  “My Phoebe is also quite the accomplished, bestselling romance author.”

  “Slide that in there, why don’t you, Preston?” Oh, here it comes. Cher’s unable to let him get away with humbragging like that. “Drew owns his own business up in Seattle, but he’s from those Bentons. The Beaverton ones.” Why, I wasn’t aware there were other Bentons. I learn something new about my own family every day.

  “I’m well acquainted with your father, Drew,” Preston says to me. “We’ve done business together.”

  “I don’t doubt it, if you really are an investor. My father loves asking for money.”

  “As long as he does good things with it.”

  “Doesn’t he always?” I reply.

  A lean blond woman in a floor-length sundress cautiously approaches us. From the way she looks at Preston – and the way she frowns at Cher – I surmise she is the new girlfriend, Phoebe, bestselling romance author and yoga instructor. “Hello,” she coolly greets Cher. Instantly, I feel like I’m in the middle of an awkward divorce battle. It doesn’t help that Phoebe then looks at me, nothing but pity in her bright, observant eyes.

  I wince. Not my smoothest move in front of affluent strangers, but I can’t help it. They might as well have shone a spotlight on my naivete.

  “Take care. Enjoy your drinks.” Preston turns to Phoebe, arm encircling her waist, and escorts her back to their table. Drew the server looks on at us like we’re about to start a blood bath.

  Nah. Nah.

  I don’t order another drink. As soon as Cher’s finished with hers, I think it’s a good idea to get out of here. Her demeanor has suffered to the point that I’m not sure I can salvage it. Not even with my cock.

  Guess there’s only one way to find out. Wish me luck.

  Chapter 27

  DREW

  Much to my pleasant surprise, Cher transforms into a hearty little minx once we’re back in my Camaro. The valet has barely tossed me the keys when Cher hops in, the slit in her kimono showing off an enticing thigh. I only notice because her knuckles gently rap against it. As soon as I’m in my seat and putting on my safety belt, that flirtatious hand reaches over and grabs the inside of my thigh.

  “Hello!” She has taken me by such surprise that my seatbelt instantly snaps back into place. The valet looks over his shoulder. There’s no doubt he’s caught my girl making a lunge for my cock. He’s probably jealous. I’m more concerned about getting out of the parking lot before I rear-end the parked car a few yards ahead of me. My foot turns more into lead the harder I get in my pants. “Get home, mother fucker!” both scream at me. “You’ve got pussy to plow! Pussy! Plowing! Lots of coming! Ready to burst already! Get us in there, buddy!” I have to inhale a deep breath and pull her hand off me to regather my bearings. Hell, to even think about my lost bearings.

  “Do me a huge favor, would you?” Cher coos into my ear. “Stop playing your cute little games and take me somewhere. I don’t care where. Fuck me wherever we go.”

  We’re stuck behind a car waiting to pull onto Broadway. My brain attempts to calculate how long it will take me to drive us back to my place. It might be faster to drive up to her place, but mine offers more discretion. As much as I’d like to announce to her neighbors in Northwest that I’m fucking her brains out, sober me in the morning would appreciate the privacy. Come on, how long until we get there?

  “You want me to fuck you here?” I growl.

  Cher’s fingers tip-toe across my thigh, ready to plunge beyond it again. “Bend me over these seats and make the valet watch.”

  Ten minutes. It takes ten minutes too long to get to my parking garage.

  Let me tell you, the amount of restraint I practice getting her ass up to my apartment before I rip her clothes off is unprecedented. I’ve always wanted her, of course, but not so badly. Not when we’re this far from my bedroom. That wanton gleam in her eye tells me she’s up for anything. All I have to do is ask for it, and she’ll probably do it. Right here in my fucking car.

  I lift the hood on the Camaro. Cher is already out, pulling back her hair and making sure I get a great view of her cleavage. Should I go ahead and stick my dick in there, or is that where I’m finishing? I really wish she’d tell me. I can’t tell if she’ll only get off if we do it in public, or if I’m looking at a long, nice night of sticking it in every hole I can find.

  Should I ask which one to start with? Because I’ve got enough virility in me to go multiple rounds. We can take a break in the shower. If we must.

  “Seventeen floors,” I mutter, hitting the elevator button. “Then your cunt is all mine.”

  The doors haven’t closed before she pushes me against the wall and kisses me.

  Actually, I’m not sure it’s a kiss. More like an oral hit to the face. Cher grabs my T-shirt and almost yanks my flannel down my arms. Her kimono falls open as my mouth follows suit, and I can’t tell if I’m less of a man for letting her lead this moment or stronger for it.

  All I know is that I’m so turned on that I don’t think twice about her getting on her knees and unzipping my jeans.

  “What the hell…” My voice trails off into breathy nothingness as I close my eyes and knock my head against the wall. The elevator continues to lurch upward, and her hand continues to stroke my cock until it’s too hard to turn back. Every drop of blood in my body has gone down there. If she sto
ps now, I’ll have the worst case of blue balls. You know what? I wouldn’t put it past her. “You’re fucking crazy.” I say that as she sucks my tip like a damned lollipop. Oh, shit, I should not have looked down. Her gaze is set to destroy, and I’m the blasted warship sitting like a duck on open waters. Cher means business. She’s going to swallow me whole. “Somebody could try to catch this elevator at any moment.”

  I don’t know how I got those words out. Took a damn miracle, because my chest is tight and my erection is hot. Cher only takes her mouth off long enough to say, “Let them watch, then.

  Or join in. I don’t care.”

  I might care. I don’t say that, though. Because no guy I know is going to pull his dick out of a hot girl’s mouth when she’s going at him like that with promises for so much more. I’ll simply pray that this elevator stops to pick up another hot chick on my way up to my apartment. Cher seems down for a threesome with another woman.

  Actually, how about the elevator doesn’t stop at all? I needed to come five minutes ago, and the closer we get to my floor, the more likely that’s about to happen.

  “Fucking crazy,” I repeat under my breath. I’m lulled into heady bliss as the sounds of her sucking my cock echo. “You wanna get caught, don’t you? That shit turns you on.”

  A purr erupts around my cock. Fuck me, I’m getting a hummer, and I’m about to explode in her throat. Too bad Cher pulls off two floors shy of mine. “I get turned on by lots of shit, Benton. Like when you call me your slut.”

  “You sure are acting like it right now.”

  I don’t think about what I say, and her reaction proves it. Yet instead of taking offense to it, her cheeks flush a deep, intoxicating pink, like a flower that could poison me if I come too close. “Am I your slut?” she sweetly asks. “Or am I just a slut?”

  Shit, shit, I’m confused. Which is the right answer? Should I deny either? How can she ask me these trick questions when my brain has shut down to send blood to my fucking dick?