Page 35 of Intoxicated
Chapter 11
DREW
Yes, I knew I was good, but I didn’t know I wasthisgood. Cher clearly detests the ground I walk on. She would rather take a shit on my grave than say a nice thing about me. I mean, it’s not exactly like I’m smitten with her, either. She’s an asshole. A hypocritical one, based on how she thinks she has any room to talk about making former lovers depressed enough to take drastic measures. At least I admit what a piece of shit I can be. Watching her bend over backward to claim any moral high ground? Priceless.
Maybe that’s why I ask her out for a drink. I’m not out to get between her legs again, although the way she keeps huffing and puffing and biting her words at me makes me fondly remember how good it was to nail her against my bed. I suck in my cheeks as I walk beside her. It’s my foolproof way of keeping a hard-on from springing in my jeans.
We don’t need that. I definitely don’t need that, although I know what I’m thinking about later when I’m in the shower.
Again.
We don’t say much as we walk. Granted, it’s a short one since we’re literally going two blocks from the clinic, but conversation would be normal between two people, yes? Funny. Normally I’d be Mr. Talkative. Cher just makes me…think.
About the kind of woman she is.
About the kind of manIam.
About why I keep coming back to her, although it’s clear we’re too toxic for one another.
Besides, what would be the point? We can’t have a real relationship. A friends with benefits situation would be too volatile. Our mutual attraction is fueled by our dislike for one another. I mean, sure, before she knew what a “scumbag” I was, she may have genuinely thought she was attracted to me. But I have a theory, and that says Cher is incapable of actual love and a decent relationship. She doesn’t know how to do anything but use and manipulate people. Even when we were having sex, she was telling me what to do by making it sound like I didn’t have the gall. We both knew I did, but she had to make it sound like it happened because ofherwill.
If she’s not the narcissist… there’s definitely one in her family. That’s shit you either discover within yourself, or learn it from someone almost as toxic.
We sit at the bar overlooking the sidewalk. Mariachi music blares from the speakers, but this isn’t a Mexican place. Never underestimate a Portlander’s love for tacos and margaritas, though. That’s one that hasn’t changed from my childhood, God love it.
I order us a large plate of chips and salsa to share as we drink our watered-down margaritas. Cher props herself up on a stool and shivers as the air conditioner blasts against her bare shoulders. One must wonder what drives a woman to wear an off-the-shoulder color-block dress to the STD clinic. Is this the most casual thing she has in her wardrobe? Was she off somewhere fancier after her vaginal swabbing? Or is this how she must dress every single day, regardless of the weather?
How does Cher Lieberman dress in the winter, I wonder?
I mean, she’s gorgeous. She’s always so well put together and postures herself like a woman who knows her worth. It’s attractive. And intimidating. I’m drawn to women who intimidate the balls off my body. It’s not that Iwantto change them to be more submissive and demure. Some of that kinda happens naturally? Bringing that out of a woman, that is. Except that’s only possible if that woman is capable of such sensations. Others merely want to use their teeth when they blow you. They gotta make sure you know who has all the power, duh.
(And, yes, that is mad hot.)
“So…” Cher stirs the ice in her margarita. She plucks the olive and touches it to her lips. She doesn’t eat it, though. “You think we’re infected. If so, who gave whom what? Besides your dirty dick giving it to me, that is.”
I chuckle. “You ask the important questions, of course.”
“Don’t play coy.”
“How do I know you’re not out there poking holes in condoms and making men’s dreams come true by saying you don’t need them?” I can play this game. Iloveplaying this game. Even better if I make her cringe on her stool. “I swear to God, if they call me up and tell me to come in to get antibiotics, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“How nice of you to assume that I have a disease-ridden…” She snorts. “You know what? I’m surprised you’re not worried about me being pregnant.”
“Why? If you – yes, you, specifically – are gonna be paranoid about one thing, it’s pregnancy. You’re definitely on birth control. I’d be shocked if you said you weren’t, and I would assume you’re trying to trap men into…” I stop. “Fuck.”
Her chuckles nearly wreck me. Not because I’m suddenly embarrassed, but because thatcouldbe her game, and I’d be fucked.
