Page 16 of Intoxicated
Chapter 6
CHER
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when a man gets under my skin.
While attempting to get under my skirt, no less.
It’s early Tuesday afternoon as I sit in one of my favorite nooks of Northwest Portland. We don’t hurt for coffee shops, cafés, and teatime around here. We’re a freakin’ cornucopia of coffee, for fuck’s sake. Pick up a rock and throw it. Bam. You’ve broken the front window of the corner coffee shop. Probably got someone right in the face, too. Someone either working on their MacBook or doodling in their artbook.
Students? Oh, them, too. Although at this time of year, places are devoid of the O-Chem kids and wannabe computer programmers. It’s nice, really. You’ve got a few locals who come here to chill, and tourists who are tickled pink to see “real Portland.” (While you whisper to yourself that this place was on the front lines of city-wide gentrification.) I don’t mind either, honestly. When you lead the kind of life I do, it’s important to have your sacred spaces. Those corners of the city where you can take a book, your Spotify playlist, or a notepad full of ideas you’ll never fulfill. When the weather is a perfect eighty degrees with little to no humidity, you’ll find me at the far corner of the patio, where I nurse my favorite bubble tea of the moment and munch on cookies I’ve smuggled in from the Trader Joe’s two blocks away.
Or sometimes I don’t bother to smuggle them. I’ll brazenly pack my stack back to the patio while the baristas shrug, because I tip and they’re not paid enough to care, anyway.
A breeze tickles my cotton blouse that threatens to flutter in the wind. I have it tucked into my knee-length skirt, however. Nothing – and I mean nothing – will cool down my midsection if I can help it.
Fingers thread my hair as I peruse my playlist and think about that blasted Drew Benton. You know, the guy I’ve been touching myself to almost every night since I first met him? The guy I’m supposed to be having dinner with tomorrow? His address is written down in my phone, so I don’t forget. He’s texted to ask me what kind of food I like. I don’t believe for two minutes he’s actually going to cook for me. He’s going to order in, and I won’t mind as long as he doesn’t lie about it.
I also hope he doesn’t lie about his intentions. It’s obvious he wants to bang me into next week. Based on how much I keep thinking about it, odds are heavy I’ll loosen myself up with a little alcohol and go for it. After all, it’s been a good,longwhile since I last rode cock for the sake of it and not because it was part of the master plan. Do I remember how to do it? Come naturally, that is. Shit, I don’t remember what I sound like when I orgasm during sex with another person. I think I’ve blocked that obnoxious whine more than one ex-boyfriend complained about from my mind. It’s not like I get to hear it much dating the kinds of guys I do. I have, however, perfected my porn star moan. Men love that. Makes the act end quicker, too.
My fingers lower from my hair and drum upon the table. The soft hum of cars driving up and down the street lulls me into a half doze. My imagination instantly wanders to sitting next to Drew on his balcony overlooking the Willamette River, where we’ll sip wine and he’ll ask me to suck his cock.
Trust me, he will.
Ah, this is what blows about dating, isn’t it? Even when I approach it from a genuine mindset, I’m still spoiled by the realities of men. Specifically, men like Drew, who are dashingly handsome and grew up so privileged that they walk into a room and expect women to flock to them. I don’t consider myself lucky that he’s taken interest in me. Of course he did. I’m exactly the type of woman they go for, and I use it to my advantage. Not to mention, I really played it up when he came to my attention, didn’t I?
This is why I take precautions. This is why I call in backup.
Oh, you think I have friends. That’s quaint. Even if I did have the kind of friends I could call up and bounce some ideas off, I still wouldn’t trust them to give it to me straight about Drew Benton. They would be heavily biased. They’d want me to date him so they can live vicariously through me and hear the salacious stories about his body and how often he wants to do it. They’d want me to plunder his wallet and take them out for lunch at the trendiest place in town. I would do it, too, because I can be a pushover if I’m in the mood for attention.
Including negative attention.
The door to the patio flies open. Out strolls my contact, a woman who looks as equally glamorous as me when she puts her mind to it. Today, she has. It’s probably the sun that has Stella Moore marching in loud leggings, black pumps, and a flowy blouse that announces her to the entire room. Her big sunglasses almost detract from the healthy head of blond hair she currently has pulled back into a ponytail. The giant cloth bag hanging from her shoulder is full of her traveling private investigation business, something I throw money at now and again when I need her to dig into the men I’m dating.
The look on her face is damning, but she’s too busy catching herself before she falls on her stiletto pumps. When she finally regains her balance, she sits down at my table with me and begins pulling out her iPad and Moleskin notebooks.
“Afternoon,” she says, lifting up her sunglasses. “Absolutely lovely day, isn’t it?”
I lean back in my seat, arms and legs crossed. “What did you dig up about Benton?”
“Getting right down to it, huh?” Normally, the good-natured Stella would chuckle or chide me about my attitude, not that I pay her to do it. Except today she’s a little more guarded. Her demeanor suggests that the news in her bag isn’t good. I’massumingshe has news, anyway. That’s what I pay her for. What good is she to me if she does her digging and hacking and comes up empty? I still have to pay her for the time, but what skill is there to speak of? It doesn’t count unless I get dirty facts, like his diaper fetish or the ex-wife he’s been hiding from me!
Oh, the ex-wife one is my favorite. Right up there with secret baby mamas. Rather hilarious how many of these guys try to hide them from me, thinking I’ll be disgusted, but I prefer for Stella or another investigator to tell me long before my boyfriends come confessing halfway through our relationships. That way I can bequeath them a kind smile, a hand to the cheek, and the words,“I don’t care about that, baby,”on my lips. I come across as an absolute angel because I wasn’t shocked into tears or screams of disbelief.
Not that I would be, anyway, but I don’t like it when these men catch me off guard. Tell me your dirty laundry up front. Tell me what I’m getting into!
“Let’s start with the basics.” Stella pulls out a small stack of papers, both publicly searchable and the kind only she, a former FBI agent, can access. I really do love looking at my boyfriends’ college transcripts. I want to find out who took Gender Studies for the “easy A” but got a fucking C in it. I also want to know who padded their schedule with remedial math and science. Looking at you, millionaire plastic surgeon I dated for two months! “Drew Benton is the youngest child of Cindy and Alexander Benton, of Benton, Enterprises, based out of Beaverton. They’ve got their hands in every industry you can imagine. Collectively, they’re worth a few billion dollars, although your boy will probably only get a few hundred million.”
