Page 9 of Intoxicated
Chapter 4
CHER
Don’t. Say.Anything!
It’s bad enough I’ve got you breathing down my neck again. I don’t need your thoughts, thank you. Remember the ground rule I laid when you insisted on tagging along whenever it struck your fancy?
No judgments. If you’re a judgmental prick, you’re outta here.
So what if I took Drew’s number? You would have too, if you saw him! The guy is atleasta nine on the scale. Maybe a nine and a half. It would be ridiculous to call him a ten, because my poor, feeble pussy would explode and I’d be worthless, both to myself and to anyone else who feels like using me. I thought he might be an eight when he first walked up to me. A very respectable eight. Then he had to go and say all the right things.ThenI had to go and feel him up for myself. I wasn’t being hyperbolic when I called upon our Lord and Savior after touching that thing. I’ve never been Catholic, but I felt the sign of the cross coming upon me when I realized Mr. Drew Benton had ascended tonine and a half.
I mulled over my options in my sleep, where I’m a much more logical entity, particularly when I have my essential oils diffusing and a sweet spring breeze blowing through my window. Except I spent more time having a sex dream – the infuriating kind where nothing actually goes anywhere, but you wake up horny as hell, anyway – than deciding whether or not I should accept Drew’s offer for a date. I couldn’t tell you if he was my intended in my dreamworld.
Actually, I can. I’m pretty sure it was him I desperately chased into a hotel room and begged to bone me like the slut I am.
Slut. Man-ho. What a pair we make.
Sure enough, Brian texted me Saturday afternoon and asked if I wanted to grab brunch on Sunday. I almost accepted his offer based on principles I had no idea I actually had.
Except I kept staring at that crumped up napkin, knowing that Drew was the better deal.
What’s kept me from accepting his offer for a date? I’ll tell you what. Chemical attraction. Desperation. A sinking feeling that he’s bigger trouble than I usually want. Every rich guy is a certain level of trouble. Either he’s got an addiction, he’s an abusive dickhole, or his mommy issues are out of control. In the worst case scenario, you get a mixture of all three. (I’ve been there. I could write a book about Frank Griffin III. To this day, I’m grateful I never actually slept with him. He was one of the few obsessed with “purity,” and although he was a multi-billionaire, I knew it would be over as soon as we got married and he finally defiled me. Goodbye, the only thing attracting him to me. Can you believe he thought I was a virgin?)
Benton, though. Do you know who the Bentons are? Of course you do. Even if you don’t immediately recognize the name, you know what they do and who they hang with. All you have to do is hop a MAX train from Hillsboro to Gresham to see how much real estate they’ve developed, how many businesses they own, and how many financial institutions boast their investments. The Bentons go back four generations in the Portland area. Great-granddaddy Benton got his start in the fur trade, Granddaddy Benton got into banking, and Daddy Benton is a whiz at real estate development. Makes me wonder what Drew contributes to the family’s coffers. Based on the semi-thorough Google search I did, he’s one of the youngest of his generation, but he’s a direct descendent. His older sister will be inheriting a bulk of the company. That doesn’t mean a Benton ofanycaliber would be a bad prospect. Honestly, I should be salivating to sink my teeth into his money and his cock into my greedy,greedycunt. He has CHER LIEBERMAN’S FUTURE HUSBAND written all over him. In calligraphy, no less. That’s how fancy my flair is.
So why aren’t I blowing up his phone? Am I playing a long game? A little hard to get? Not trying to look too eager? A little aloof? Like he’s nothing to me.
Well, yes, but I’m also wary of any man I legitimately have the hots for, because it probably won’t end well.
It’s too easy to lose my head when I’m in lust. If my long term plan is to be an independently retired wealthy woman by forty, then I betternotbe falling in love with a handsome idiot. I don’t need a divorce mucking things up, let alone the heartbreak that could come from a young, sexy,richguy I might actually convince to put a ring on it. It’s much easier to cut a man loose once I have what I need if, you know, I don’t actually care about him. I learned my lessons early on in this rambunctious plan of mine. Remember Frank Griffin III? I didn’t like him, but I almost married him. Now imagine what could happen to me if my feelings actually get involved?
Luckily, I’ve shut down most of those pesky bastards since then. My eyes are always on the prize. The monetary prize. I want to travel. I want a nice place in an expensive city. I want dinners out, new clothes, and the ability to sit in a teahouse at two on a weekday afternoon reading fine, aged literature. For that, I need more money. I need boyfriends paying my rent for me now so I can stash away his allowances and gifts in the bank.
I don’t want to hear that I could accomplish this with “honest” work. The hell do you think I’m doing? Being a professional sugar baby and girlfriendiswork! Maybe not the most honest work, but I’m not going to jail for it anytime soon. Not when I’ve got dirt on some of the biggest cats in Portland. And Seattle. And a few places in between and around.
Drew Benton. Yeah, I text him. I don’t ask him out, though. I give him a time and a location. A trendy wine and tapas place not too far from my apartment in Northwest Portland. We’ll see if he goes along with my requests. If he’ll respect my neighborhood. If he’ll actually show up.
Either way, I’m getting wine, cheese, and fruit. Three of my favorite things.
I don’t dress up for him. I dress up forme.This flowy jumpsuit made of white silk and patterned with bold, purple flowers will keep me from tearing up a skirt and riding Mr. Benton into the next week. Platform shoes that make me stumble every few steps ensure I’m not going anywhere with him, unless it’s back to my place or in his car. I’m wearing my favorite sunglasses, which also happen to be so huge and “tacky” (don’t you dare call them that) that so many assholes can’t help but inform me that my face is much too small for them. My makeup is minimal and my jewelry refined. I could be browsing the stacks at Powell’s or sipping coffee in whatever place people think is hip now. Maybe I’m making a bank run. Maybe I’ve off to meet my friends for tea. I could be leisurely shopping for better, more walkable shoes. You won’t find me in Goodwill, but youwillfind me in every shop on 23rd, because that’s where the suburban girls come into the city to shop.
I want Drew to know that I’m willing to push a cart in Fred Meyer wearing this ensemble. That’s how little his presence means to me. Really, I’mdeigninghim with my winning personality and body. I’d assume I’d also be in the wine place without his ass sitting at the same table as me.
I make sure I arrive first. My reservation is honored by a dowdy young woman in a uniform. She doesn’t look at me twice as she shows me to a corner table, where I consider the seasonal wine list and the tapas of the day. I think I’ll pull out my tablet and peruse the last George Eliot novel I mulled over a few days ago. I told you, I love my wine. And my classics.
