Page 29 of Intoxicated
But she’s been in my dreams. I wonder if I’m in hers?
Why would I care?
Don’t ask me why she haunts me like this. I think we can agree that she’s a toxic lay, and that’s beingnice.Cher must not think much of either. I can’t believe I was made. Not only does she know who I am, but she might tell other women about me. Whatever she did to find out about my company? Props to her. Usually, most women chalk up my dirtbaggery to me being the privileged asshole that I am deep inside.
Privilege my grandmother loves to smack out of me.
“You want this nice, cold ice water?” I hear my grandmother’s voice before I feel the freezing cold water on top of my head. I leap up, hooting like a man who has pressed his hand against a hot stove. Instead of fire, however, I’ve got ice cubes going down the back of my shirt and drenched bangs pressed against my forehead. My hat is so soaking wet that I rip it off and toss it onto the sundrenched porch. My grandmother chuckles before turning her back on me. “Then get back to work!”
There’s always something to be said for a cold shower.
I finish the fence shortly before dinner. Grandma serves up chicken fried steak, potatoes, and steamed corn that quickly finds its way into the depths of my potatoes. She’s generous with the gravy, and loves to call me her “growing boy” although I’m an age where I should be watching what I eat instead of chowing down like I’m fifteen again. Irene Benton has the best home cooking this side of the Canadian border, though. She often fought with my grandfather’s cooks to get more control in the kitchen. Sunday dinners were always cooked by her. That was how I came to appreciaterealfood made of grit and sweat. My parents prefer their personal chefs to be Italian superheroes, and while I love me a mean lasagna, I’m not as big of a fan of oysters cluttering up the pasta sauce or “freshly picked oregano” getting stuck between my teeth. I’d rather have a big pot of simple spaghetti and meatballs. I don’t care if the meat is beef, pork, or turkey, nor do I care if someone named Mrs. Dash helped season it.
“I’ve got that cherry pie I promised you for dessert.” Grandma is all smiles as we eat dinner. She lives for me chowing down like that boy she helped raise. Meanwhile, I’ll forever remember her pouring ice water on top of my head. To be fair, Henrietta the hen wasquiteappreciative of me fixing the fence so she doesn’t have to worry about imminent death. When I fed the chickens shortly before dinner, she came right up to me and clucked against my leg.
Chickens are adorable. I’d take one home with me if I thought my mother wouldn’t have a cow, instead.
“Not sure I’ll have room for pie after I finish one of your amazing dinners, Gram.” Props to me for saying that with a full mouthandnot choking. Water washes down whatever I can’t immediately swallow. “This is really good.”
She’s never minded the fact I’ll speak with my mouth full. The only one in my family. People wonder why I love her so much.
“Growing boys need food. You’ll find the room, son. Besides,” my grandmother takes a small bite of her own cooking, “you’ve clearly got something on your mind. You usually finish your work in record time. I tell you, in another life, you would be a helluva contractor.”
I’ve thought about it. I’m much happier building things than tearing people down.
“Work’s been a bit nuts lately,” I admit. “My most recent client has sent me on an impossible mission. I’ve gotta figure out a way to let him down and refund his money.”
My grandmother doesn’t know what I do. She only knows what the rest of my family does, which is that I have a “consultation” business in Seattle. Grandma never had much to do with her ex-husband’s businesses, so I can get away with vague statements and using business jargon to make her eyes glaze over and the questions stop. That doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally have a good rant about what I put up with, though. Especially if that something includes an impossible woman named after an old pop star.
“What makes it so impossible? Thought you said there wasn’t anything you couldn’t ‘conquer.’ Your word, by the way.”
Thanks for the reminder, Grandma. “Sometimes you get so good at your job that they throw you a crazy curveball.” Ah. Yes. Crazy curveball. Excellent way to refer to Cher. “Anyway, it’s not going to work with the current client. I have to figure out how to let him know. I rarely fail, you know. So it’s hard on my ego.”
“At least you can admit it. Unlike your grandfather, who saw his failures as the perfect opportunity to invest more money into hair-brained schemes. Did I ever tell you that he took my inheritance and squandered it on a horse at the racetrack?”
“Yes, Gram.”
“Still haven’t forgiven him for that, and he’s dead now.” Her cackle startles me mid-swallow. You wouldn’t guess that my grandmother is twenty years younger than my grandfather, but then again, you wouldn’t guess that my mother is in her sixties. Has nothing to do with plastic surgery in my grandmother’s case, though. She simply has the best genetics you’ve seen. The woman is well into her seventies and not about to quit the farming, country life. “So if you can admit that you’ve failed and it’s time to step back and move on… well, maybe there’s hope for you yet. By the way, I take credit for that.”
“I definitely think you play a part in it, Gram.”
“So, you’ve got a decent girl yet?” Boy, does she know how to jump right to the next topic sure to neuter my mood! “Last time I asked, you were seeing some blondie who could barely string a sentence together. One of these days you’re going to want to settle down and realize you’re surrounded by idiots, because that’s all you’ve attracted in your life.”
I chuckle. Naturally, my thoughts turn to Cher, who is somewhere in Portland right now picking her next mark. It’s Friday night, after all. She’s got my dick out of her system and is ready to shine her deadly star onto some poor sod who won’t see her meteorite coming. “I saw someone real briefly. Lasted about a week. Last week, actually.”
“She must be special if you have the balls to tell me about your most recent hookup.”
I want to rebut that she wasnota hookup, but I would be lying. I’m not sure if I would call what happened with Cher ahookup,per se, but we definitely had sex. That was definitely my dick pummeling her against my bed, and that was definitely her humping her hips against mine and her voice daring me to do the nasty.
I shovel more food into my mouth before my grandmother can see me blush.
“She was definitely beautiful,” I mutter. That’s the second thing that will haunt me about Cher for the rest of my life. That raven-black hair was as silky as I imagined it. Her figure was both impossibly perfect and carrying enough realism that I could tell she never had anything done. Those tits! Jesus! Have a pair ever bounced from the force of my hips like that before?No!I can’t decide what was hotter. Cher unable to hold back her orgasm, or that defiant face she gave me every time I suggested we might be enjoying it. “Even for my standards.”
“You dating beautiful women isn’t new. I keep telling you it will get harder when you’re older, but by then those lovely ladies will only be dating you for your money. Right now you’ve got good looks and that smarmy charm going for you. It’ll be slimmer pickings and more obvious floozies flipping through your pocketbook soon enough. Trust me, once you hit thirty, the rest of your life starts coming at you like you’ve never believed. I’m still convinced that I was thirty-eight only last November.”
“I wasn’t born yet when you were thirty-eight…”
“Uh huh.”
