Page 67 of Intoxicated
Rothchild studies me, as if searching for the truth beneath my words. He already has the truth, though. Idon’tthink I can seal the deal. Not with Cher. Maybe not with any other woman in the future, if I dare believe my own worries.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asks. “You’ve said so yourself, she’s taken in with you, Mr. Benton. Now, do what I’m paying you to do.” Great. He’s gotthatlook in his eye. The one that acknowledges I’m banging the woman he was so in love with. I’m not dumb. I know Cher was sleeping with this man. I can almost imagine them doing it. Can he imagine me on top of her. Behind her? Does he know how hard she bit my sheets a few days ago, as I roared like a mighty beast and came so hard that I had to immediately go at her again?
If he couldn’t see it before, he definitely sees it now. Some of my clients go into minor fits of rages when they realize they’re paying me to seduce their exes. It’s part of the deal. Adding sex to the mix always makes it sweeter when the women realize what I’ve done.
Except, in this case…
“Cher is unlike anyone I’ve encountered in my few years of doing this, Mr. Rothchild.” Jesus, isn’t that the truth? No woman has killed me the way she has started to, and I’m about to smash my face into my desk to make the memoriesgo away.“She’s quite possibly a sociopath. The only way I could do what you’re asking me to… well, I’d probably have to find a way for her to commit a crime and go to prison. I’m sure you can understand how difficult that would be. My usual tactics aren’t going to work. I can’t ask her to marry me, obviously. Nor can I make her fall madly in love with me without dedicating a few more months,at least,to this endeavor. Even then, it wouldn’t be a sure thing. Usually, at this point in my process, I’ve all but put the final nail in their coffins.” Then again, most women aren’t Cher Lieberman, professional sugar baby from hell.
“You’re right in that she’s probably incapable of feeling the usual assortment of feelings a human being is expected to harbor.” Rothchild leans his elbows against the arms of his chair and steeples his fingers before his face. I feel like I’m inhisoffice, not the other way around! “But I’ve seen some of your work for myself. That’s why I felt so confident in hiring you, Mr. Benton. If there’s anyone in this sorry world who can give her a taste of her own medicine, it’s you. I don’t care how you go about it.” He leans forward, the madness in his eyes now clearer. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how much it costs me. That woman’s crimes go beyond my own… unfortunate moments. Do it on behalf of all the men out there who can be spared her cruelty. Do it for the young women who might want to emulate her.”
Whelp, now I’m thinking of that business idea I pitched to her.“Hey, Cher, how about you train me some sugar babies to pair off with some rich bastards? We’ll get rich on our own!”
“That requires manipulating emotions we’re not sure are there, Mr. Rothchild.”
He leans back again, his knowing smirk unnerving me. “Tell me, Mr. Benton. How much does the woman fancy you? Don’t worry about offending me or making me jealous. I’m past such petty things. Spare no details of how you’ve ensnared her, if you must.”
Before I struggle to think of anything to say, my phone buzzes beside me. Normally, I’d turn it over or tuck it into my drawer while I’m in a meeting, but I instantly see Cher’s name on the header of a photo attachment.
While Rothchild watches on in mild amusement, I hold my phone up to my face so only I can see what my supposed girlfriend has sent me.
It takes a few seconds to register what it is.
“Tell me…” The only thing I can do is swallow my pride and act like the scuzzy asshole I usually am when talking to a client. That’s who they want to see. A guy who isn’t afraid to stick it in the crazy, to pump and dump them on his way out the door. Maybe make them think they’re in love. Humiliate them in public. Ruin their reputations, drain their funds, and break their hearts until they no longer know who they are. That’s who I am, after all. A professional heartbreaker. “What does this look like to you?”
I show him the intimate photo Cher has sent me. While she’s savvy enough to know anything she texts or emails could end up in a cloud dump somewhere, she still assumes that I won’tmaaaaybeshare it with others. Let alone her ex-boyfriend.
That’s why she had the confidence to send me a candid photo of her in her apartment. She’s fresh from the shower, her makeup-less face glowing. The bathrobe barely clings to her body, but it’s not supposed to. The eye may be drawn instinctively to her cut-off face, but you’re soon staring at her supple cleavage and the water droplets left behind. While it’s an artistic,veryaesthetic shot, we’re all thinking the same thing while looking at it.Sex. With her.
Now, what if I also told you that there’s a little something inked on her right breast? In elegant script font, the French wordje t’aimebursts from her skin.
Rothchild glances away. Whatever he’s thinking – personally, anyway – is lost to the moment. Because what he soon says is, “Do your worst, Mr. Benton. Destroy her while she’s in your clutches.”
I do not let my gaze waver.
