Page 36 of Intoxicated
“Yes, what if I’m coming to terms with my old,oldage of twenty-five and realizing that I need a better long-term plan than letting my tits hang out and spreading my legs for every millionaire who walks by me? Yes, let’s trap some fuckers with a baby. Child support for the rest of my life. I’ll be rolling in the dough.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You assumed I was on birth control. Well, I assumed you’ve had a vasectomy.”
I remain silent.
“Aw, did I freak you out by being right?”
This margarita is pretty good. Maybe they kicked it up a notch with a little more vodka than usual. God knows I need it. “You would only freak me out if you knew the doctor who did.”
“Dr. Redding.”
Alcohol shoots out of my nostrils. It burns sobadlythat I hunker over the bar, pinching the bridge of my nose as my eyes water and I gasp for air. Cher swings one leg over the other and continues to chuckle as she sips her margarita.
“How the hell do you know that?” I demand.
“It was a lucky guess. Figured I had a 50/50 shot.” She puts her glass back down and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. How sad is it that I’m instantly alleviated of my burning woes? I look at her sleek lines, the lovely hue of her complexion, the silky hair… and I want to kiss her. I want to put my mouth all over her. Give her a hundred hickies that will mark her as mine for at least a week. Slip my tongue right into her ear and make her squirm so hard she’s spreading her legs and begging me to fuck her, right here, right now. I’m gonna fondly remember the perfection of her pussy for the rest of my life. If nothing else, I understandthatdrawing in her victims. She’s the kind of woman who can treat you like absolute shit and you’re begging for more if it means fucking those depths.
She cocks her head. That smarmy little smile has my knees buckling.
“He’s the guy most of my exes in Seattle went to. He has a wonderful reputation, or so I hear. Very discrete and makes it as painless as possible. I’m told he’s the one to go to if you want a quick recovery time. So, since you live in Seattle now, I figured he’s the one you’re going to for a snip. I’m not a mind-reader. I’m simply observant.”
“What else do you know about me?” I ask.
“I know you went to Lewis & Clark.”
“I told you that.”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me you almost had enough credits to minor in gender studies.”
I snort. That was one thorough PI she must have hired. “Call me curious about the world of gender equality. It’s kind of amazing how much history hides from us about the accomplishments of women. Did you know that we have your sex to thank for beer? Rock on.”
“Ididknow that, actually.” Her grin is dazzling enough to make me kiss her, but I don’t dare fall into her toxic trap. For all I know, she’s still playing me to get to my money. Or my dick. Hm. I might not mind one of those.
But when a woman looks at me like this, it’s hard for me to hold back from throwing a little money at her. Spoiling her, we’ll call it. I buy all the meals. I get her that dress she’s always wanted. Bedeck her in jewelry of her favorite color. Get her car fixed or buy her a new one. Damnit. This is why we’re marks. At least I’m on to her!
It’s rather weird how easily we settle into conversation filled with light – but not fake – banter. We play a game ofDid you know?that results in, yes, we could actually guess that about the other person. We’re both professional players, after all. We’re good at reading people, let alone the opposite sex. She calls me out for sleeping with my family’s older housekeeper long before I offer the information. I accurately pinpoint that one of her parents is a narcissist. (I’m still not unconvinced that she’s not one too, though.) Together, we’re a giant psych evaluation that we could package and pitch to pick-up artists.
“Was Rothchild your last boyfriend?” I ask her.
She leans her elbow against the table and wistfully gazes into the street. A flock of bicycles ride by. Beat-up cars and Mercedes share parking spaces. For every old, decrepit building full of character, there’s a Soviet-esque “luxury” apartment currently in progress. It’s what this part of Portland now looks like. A fury of old and new constantly fighting for a presence. Sometimes I barely recognize it anymore. These are my old stomping grounds, but I couldn’t point out the place where I had my first kiss or almost crashed my car because I cruised a little too quickly through a certain intersection. All my old friends have moved away because this place has either priced them out or depresses them too much. Guess I’m not much better. Which begs many questions about why Cher still hangs out around here.
“He was my last ‘real’ one, I guess you could say.” She shrugs. “I liked him well enough, honestly. His sin was moving the relationship way too quickly. If he had waited another year, I might’ve said yes to his proposal.”
“So why didn’t you tell him that instead of bailing on him in front of his whole family?”
“Because it was a giant red flag. Once men push you to get more serious out of the blue, there’s usually an ulterior motive. Like suddenly wanting babies or finding out they might have cancer or dementia. Now they need someone to take care of them. That’s not me.”
“Maybe you should stop dating men who are so much older than you.”
“Excuse me, they’re the ones with money and mid-life crises. Sooo much easier to seduce than someone your age. For the long-haul, anyway.”
Something she’s said has piqued my interest. “Do you actually love them? Or are they marks?”
“You ever love the women you’re paid to fuck over?”
“Not really, but I’m also told upfront about every dirty and cruel thing they’ve ever done. Kinda hard to fall for a woman you know once cuckolded her husband. Without permission.”
“Ouch.”
“Or threatened to kill a guy’s dog. Or actually did.”
