Page 6 of Intoxicated
“You’ll tell him no, right?”
“Depends on what I’m doing this weekend. He seems like the kind of guy who wants to go on Sunday brunch.”
“Oh, you’ll be busy on Sunday.”
“I will be, huh?”
She knows exactly what I’m going to say. I’m basically a pick-up cliché right now. Does it matter, though, if it’s working? I exude so much confidence thatIshould be teaching those classes. Instead, I see ads for them all over Portland and Seattle. And the local guys wonder why women gasp in disdain when they put on their “smooth moves.” Even Cher would be disgusted. Gentlemen, don’t do what I’m about to do unless you’ve got the pedigree and confidence to back you up. Because it isnoteasy to pull off.
“You’ll be busy with me. Because I’m about to ask you out, and you’re going to say yes.”
Cher is impressed by my bold statement, but that doesn’t mean she’s about to agree to everything I’ve said. Oh, no, now it’s time for her to poke some holes intomyfaçade. “Give me one good reason, Mr. I Don’t You.”
I extend my hand. “Drew Benton.” It’s important that I give her my real name. My marks don’talwaysget my real name, though. Only the ones who need to be impressed by my background and family name. Trust me. Cher Lieberman knowsThe Bentons.
“Hmm?” Her fine eyebrows arch in surprise. “Benton, you say? I know that name.”
Told you.
“Then you’re a woman of solid tastes.” I hail the bartender who, despite the professionalism he must entertain working in a place like this, can’t help but gawk at Cher Lieberman gettingmyattention. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy you another.” I’ll be shocked if she wants me to buy her anything, let alone more alcohol, but I have to offer. She expects it.
“Honestly would be happy with a ginger ale.”
I don’t verbally – or mentally, for that matter – judge her, although a ginger ale in a place like this costs as much as the whiskey on the rocks. Except it doesn’t matter to me, right? I’m a Benton. Names and prestige may not mean as much on the west coast, but I still advertise my funds as I tell the good bartender to put her ginger ale on my tab. Oh, and put her unpaid tab on mine as well.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“I insist. It’s the least I could do for barging in on your evening like I have.”
“How nice of you to acknowledge it. Most men assume I’m graced with their presence.”
“That, too. You seem like a woman who could use a little gracing.”
“I believe you were asking me out on Sunday, Mr. Benton?”
Do you hear that? It’s the sound of this little fishy biting my bait. Now, all I have to do is yank on my hard rod and drag her into my embrace. Whether she comes docilely or makes a big splash, one thing is for sure – it’s going to be wet. “That reminds me. I didn’t catch your name.”
Have I caughtheroff guard this time? Because that might be a genuine smile of fragile disbelief on her face. “Do you make a habit of asking out women whose names you don’t know?”
“You were ready to jump into that guy’s second-hand Lamborghini before knowing his name.” More like a secondhand BMW, but I’ll give him a benefit of a doubt. “I thought my chances were pretty high.”
“Are you saying I’m a slut?”
I had a glass of water halfway up to my mouth when she said that. Now, I’m spitting out a chunk of ice and hacking on the cold water burning in my throat. Cher primly sits in her seat, thanking the bartender for her ginger ale, while I am thrownso faroff my game that I think she’s scored the first touchdown of this match.
“No!” I gasp. There’s no wit to respond with. Not when a woman is asking youthat!
“Uh huh. You only imply that you think I am. Otherwise,” she sips her ginger ale, “you wouldn’t think I’m so easy that I’d go out with you without giving you my name first.”
The bartender is on the other side of the circular bar, attempting to contain his laughter. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what all the dramatic coughing is about.
“It’s Cher, by the way.” She tucks her silky black hair behind her ear while I attempt to rein in my embarrassment. God, if my client knew she had me by the balls like this… well, he could probably relate. Then fire me. “Cher Lieberman. Unfortunately, my name isn’t as nice as yours. I’m not related to Senator Lieberman, as far as I know.” She wistfully gazes into the distance, but I know that’s no daydreaming lady inside of her. “I’m just a girl from Portland.”
Now’s my chance to gather my bearings and seal the deal. “A beautiful girl form Portland.” Please, congratulate me on my ability to not choke out those words.
“Yes, and you’re a handsome Benton boy who has asked me out in this nice bar.”
“Would a handsome Benton boynotbe in a bar like this?” It fits my family’s image of being wealthy but acting like they’re upper middle class. Or until my mother remembers most upper middle class people don’t have personal drivers on their payroll. Moving out to Beaverton has really fucked with her head now that a dollar stretches alittlebit farther. A whole ten cents farther, maybe, but that’s thousands of dollars in Benton talk. Enough to hire a part-time driver to take her to appointments and out for brunch with her wealthy lady-friends. Last I heard, she’s befriended someone whose husband owns one of the pro NW teams. My mothercan’tbe seen driving herself around now. It’s sooooo unbecoming!
