Intoxicated Page 2

  “I’m Cher.” I offer him my hand. He’s taking it before saying a single word. “Like the singer.” Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.

  “Brian,” he croaks, as if I’ve found the opposite of a prince turned into a frog. “No, I’m not waiting for anyone.” He welcomes the drink the bartender deposits before him. “Hanging out a bit before going home. Had a late night at the office.”

  “On a Friday?” I put on my best oh, no! face. Instantly play up my sympathy and hope he feels properly vindicated. “That’s not fair. You should be out having a date or something.”

  Lord help this man, for he is daft. Here I am, playing one of the oldest tricks in the book – a trick I’ve played a hundred times over for other daft men – and he’s falling for it. He thinks he’s special. He thinks I’m attracted to him because I’m a lonely soul seeing another lonely sod. Or because he’s handsome. Or has some innate charm that exudes from his whimsical soul. I’m not wrong about any of this, by the way. This is what he’s thinking about himself right now. That’s why I’m constantly adjusting my seduction style to cater to his reactions. The more he opens up – and he is, whether he knows it or not – the more I become his ideal girlfriend. His dream come true. His Manic Pixie Dream Bitch.

  I will change his life. I will suck him dry.

  “I don’t have a lot of time to meet women,” he says with a small, bashful smile. Aw. He’s almost adorable. Two seconds ago he was a mildly confident manager of one of Portland’s many software companies. Now he’s succumbing to the sweetness I sweat from my covered pores. “Especially this month. I’m a software developer, and we’ve got a launch happening with one of our clients next week and, ah… oh, you don’t want to hear this.” He sips his drink. It must be to his tastes, for he gratefully nods to the bartender.

  “I actually love hearing about that stuff.” Cheekbones, get higher. Chin, tip up. Bust? Lean the hell forward and make sure he sees your gorgeous clavicle. You’ve got this. If this guy isn’t asking you back to his place tonight, he’s getting your number and texting you a picture of his dick as soon as he gets home. (Trust me, he’s the type of dumbass to do that. Ask me how many unsolicited dick pics from guys are lurking on my phone, ready to be used to destroy a bastard’s marriage. Assuming he pisses me off enough, anyway.) “I don’t know a whole lot about computers and software, but I’ve always been curious to know more.” Yes, Mr. Stranger! Tell little ol’ uneducated me the same shit I’ve heard from the rest of your ilk over the years! Totally never met a software guy in Portland before!

  I pluck the lemon from my Old Fashioned and run it down my tongue, acting as if this is a totally innocent move. Brian’s eyes widen in confounded admiration. Oh, this lemon is absolutely sour as shit, but I pregamed this move a few minutes ago when I doused my tongue with lemon juice. I want him to think about my mouth on his cock. I’m not handing out the head candy tonight, but I want him fantasizing. Especially when I wipe a little smidge from the corner of my mouth and act like I hadn’t done anything sexual at all.

  “Besides,” I say, my demeanor perkier than my breasts, “you’re meeting someone right now, aren’t you? You only had to step out of your comfort zone for a few minutes.” I maintain my girl-next-door smile as I run my finger around the rim of my glass.

  I look beyond stupid. Except… it works.

  “Guess so, Cher.” He likes saying my name. “What do you do, exactly?”

  The glint in his eyes tells all. “Please say stripper. Or escort. Or model. Cam girl? I bet you’re a cam girl, honey.” No, I’m not going to give him any of those. For one, I don’t want him immediately treating this like I’m looking for a transaction. For another, I know his type. He wants the bubbly girl he grew up with. The one who was his first love at thirteen when he realized why his little dick always embarrassed him in history class. I’m the first girl he thinks about when he jacks off. I’m that unobtainable high.

  He knows he can buy a girl like that whenever he wants, but I’ll be the woman he’s charmed into a genuine relationship. That’s when the wallet comes out.

  “I work remotely,” is all I say. It tells him enough without piquing his interest. Then again, he might still think I’m a cam girl.

  Besides, I want Brian to talk about himself. All about himself. I’m the dream girl right now. The one who never wants to talk about herself, because he’s soooooo fascinating! Way more interesting than me! I’m only a boring girl who needs an exciting boyfriend in her life. One who will spoil her silly because she’s never had anything like that in her life, and now he’s the coolest guy on Earth. I’ll play up inexperience in the bedroom if he’ll fall for it. (I admit, that’s one of my weak spots. You get used to playing the near-virgin so you know how to act like one, but when you’ve slept with enough guys, you forget what it’s like to be a virgin. For real.)

  The more Brian talks, the more buzzed on his cocktails he gets… the more I learn about him. Every word he says, every mannerism he picks up? I’m adding it to my little spot in my brain reserved for this tech guy named Brian. I shall use this information to model myself more into his perfect girlfriend. I will chameleon myself until I’m completely unrecognizable from the last girlfriend I pretended to be. He’ll be so putty in my hands that I can ask him to pay my rent for the next three months and he won’t think twice about it. He’ll be grateful that I want to keep my own place instead of moving in with him right away. (Never move in with them, ladies. Don’t give up your cute one-bedroom in Northwest Portland for any man.) If he has other women who aren’t supposed to know about me, then we have a convenient crash pad. I will know about them, though. Either he’ll tell me, or I’ll figure out how many and how important they are to him in about three weeks. My next objective will be to decide if it’s worth becoming his #1 focus or moving on to the next guy.

  Remember, Brian. I’m not a woman who can be bought. Not the way you’re thinking about it. I’m a woman you’ve earned. You’ve been working so hard at your job, right? What has it gotten you? Mild respect? A few nice suits? Your favorite bars you and your buddies hit on a Saturday night when you’re done with brunch at the trendy spots on Hawthorne? (Or are we doing Broadway hotspots now?) Your cozy little apartment you pay way too much for, but you’re within walking distance of Powell’s Books? You take the occasional trip, but your work hates it when you’re gone for more than one day, so you stick close to Portland. Maybe Seattle for a business trip. You work so hard. You’ve got all this money. But you can’t get the hot girl you know you deserve. Where is she, huh? Is it because Portland is full of hairy feminists who call themselves Queer before they’ll call themselves your honey? Or is it because the hotter, richer guys in this town have plucked all the pretty girls for themselves? Oh, Brian. It must be so hard. Yet what if I told you it didn’t have to be that way anymore? I can soothe some of those ails. I can suck your dick when you get home from work and dinner still cooks on the stove. I can wear cute little outfits as the weather heats up and you prance me around sushi restaurants and boutique ice cream shops. Want to help me try on new bikinis for our trip to Mexico? Ooh, I bet you do, Brian. I bet you want the girl of your dreams.

  The one you deserve.

  We exchange numbers before he insists on heading home to get some much-needed sleep. It’s for the best. I want him to go to sleep thinking about how much he regrets not asking me out right there, but he’ll ask me out tomorrow. We’ll go out Sunday afternoon, kiss at sunset, and… well, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll give him a big preview of what he gets from me as his girlfriend. Depends how he handles himself, though. I may decide he’s not worth it by then.

  Brian slinks away, his gaze over his shoulder as he gets one last look at me. I twiddle my fingers and continue to smile in his direction. As soon as he turns the corner, I drop my exhausting façade and blow some air out of my cheeks. So ladylike. So beautiful. That’s me.

  “What?” I ask the bartender, who is judging me with the full force of his face
. “Can I get another one of these?” I shake my empty Old Fashioned. “I need it.”

  He moves out of the way to grab the bottle. I now have an unobstructed view of the man sitting along the wall on the other side of the room.

  Hello.

  I’ve never seen him before. Is that… Armani? A Blancpain watch? My goodness. That belt is made of real leather, isn’t it? What a mighty fine five o’clock shadow this gentleman, currently staring at his iPhone as if he has nothing better to do, has. I do love a little scruff on a hot guy. He’s quite… cut as well, isn’t he?

  Whoa. I definitely need that drink. Brian may have left me bored in the heart and loins, but one glance at this mysterious stranger has me thinking about all sorts of dirty things. That’s rare anymore. When you’ve had sex with as many boring, mediocre fools as I have, it takes the fun out of a casual roll in the hay with a “normal” guy. Anymore, I wonder what the point is.

  I’m kinda thinking about the point as I look at this man over here.

  He happens to look up from his phone and meet my gaze. Immediately, I look away, pretending to be sidetracked by the ice in my empty glass. The bartender brings me a fresh Old-Fashioned. I thank him. When I look back at the table, the man is already gone.

  Musk envelops me. My favorite scent. The most masculine scent alive, if you ask me.

  I look to my right. There’s the hot guy, glass in his hand while the other props himself against the counter. Muscles ripple up his arms and disappear into the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeve. The fine craftsmanship of his watch momentarily distracts me from the delicious abs cut beneath his white Armani shirt. His trousers are tailored, but that only highlights the delightful package he’s toting more.

  Careful, Cher. We didn’t come here to get laid. Although this guy speaks directly to the kind I’m usually after.

  He’s definitely… rich. Armani. Blancpain. Tailored clothes and spectacular grooming. A body he’s taken good care of, as if he has no one to impress anymore but himself.

  I could eat him for dessert tonight. Lick that hard stomach and gaze into those big blue eyes as I drive my cunt onto the length of his cock.

  “I know it’s not any of my business,” a cool, nonchalant voice says, “but I couldn’t help but notice the young man you were talking to.” He lowers his lips to my ear. Shudders claim me as his breath touches my skin. “He’d be a giant waste of your time.”

  I’m listening…

  Chapter 3

  DREW

  I’m far from the only man who’s attempted my line of work. Ruining a woman’s mascara because she’s ruined a hundred men’s lives is my specialty. Yet I’m one of the only guys who has survived this business for more than a few months.

  You wanna know why?

  Because I know genuine interest when I see it. I also know when a woman intends to play me like a fiddle.

  Most women don’t do it on purpose, of course. Only the ones who have perverted their morals to the point of no return. The ones who see every guy as either a mark, a threat, or completely inconsequential.

  The light sparking behind Cher’s devilishly brown eyes tells me I’ve ascended from inconsequential. That means I’m on her radar. It’s time to play this as carefully as I play a game of chess against my assistant. The guy is a worthy opponent. He knows how to strike my king when I least expect it, always keeping me on my toes and teaching me how to think far, far ahead. Don’t tell Brent this, but it’s definitely the reason I’ve kept him on after a slew of call-outs at the expense of my business. (The guy had eloped with some jock he met in a nightclub. That same night. Don’t ask me how they’re still married four years later. Also, don’t ask me how embarrassing their Christmas cards are.)

  Now that I have Cher’s attentions, however, I need to ensure I elevate to mark. Or, at least, she needs to think I’m a potential mark. Why do you think I dressed like this tonight? Everything I’ve researched about Cher suggests she’s a woman with delicate, refined tastes. She goes after men with serious means. She’s as likely to corner a freshly minted multimillionaire (easy pickings for someone as delicious as her, but they don’t usually have money for long,) as she is to go after her billionaire boss with a death wish. I’ve got being hot on my side. I know how to dress myself in the brands that mean something to her. Never mind the fact I genuinely afford them. I come from both money and have my own successful business that caters to men either as rich or richer than my family. Everything I do around her is 100% natural.

  I merely have an ulterior motive that’s not sex, all right?

  Well, maybe a little bit of my motive is sex. Like I said, this is a black widow on my hands. Women like Cher don’t leave so much devastation in their wake without having both the looks and the skills to back up the résumé. The only reason I’m looking at her without pitching a tent in my pants is because I’ve read about her torrid history. I’ve seen the embarrassing video my client sent me, ensuring I got the full scope of her wretched nature. She’s the kind of woman I’d hit and quit if the opportunity presented itself, but I don’t want anything to do with her beyond that.

  Except, you know, to make money off her misery.

  “I know that guy,” I say, splaying open my legs as I slump over in the stool I now occupy. My torso and arms say I’m keeping a respectful distance. My knee, which threatens to bump into her thigh every two seconds, says otherwise. Some part of me needs her thinking about sex the whole time I’m sitting here, laying on the charm and drawing her into a web so much like the ones she weaves every day. “You don’t want to get involved with that guy.”

  Cher sits up, checking her posture and her appearance. It’s a subtle move women make when I start to flirt with them. Cute, when it’s an innocent lady who simply strikes my fancy. Absolutely unnerving when I have a jerk on my hands.

  A jerk with fantastic side-boob, I might add. Is she using tape to keep them looking that perky? That’s totally tape – but I bet they look as amazing without the tape.

  “You know him, huh?” Cher has lost the girl-next-door air she adopted when talking to another man. She’s sizing me up right now, isn’t she? Debating what kind of woman I want for the night. Appearances aren’t the only thing she has going for her. If she decides she wants my money, she’ll have to play Perfect Girlfriend. I won’t ever see the real her. I’ll see a façade. A mirror reflecting my innermost fantasies back at me, until she decides it’s time to move on. The only thing I haven’t figured out about Cher Lieberman is why she’s so keen to break up when her rich marks propose to her. Is it because they’re not rich enough for her to go through with it? Does she have some insufferable code? Does she get cold feet once she faces a man hopelessly in love with her? In love enough that he flies to Berlin to get his grandmother’s engagement ring to bring back to a woman who doesn’t really deserve it? “Do you know what you coming up here to tell me that tells me?”

  I’m slightly taken aback by her direct approach, but I attempt to not let it show. Curiosity is okay. I must look perpetually interested, after all. Yet Cher can’t know that she’s surprised me enough to sit back in mild wonder.

  “What does that tell you?” I ask, smirk compensating for my brash response.

  “Either you hate the man and can’t stand the thought of him nailing a girl like me,” she plucks a tiny plastic straw from a bin and stirs the ice in her glass. The remnants of whiskey swirl with ice water. “Or you find him appalling and think it’s your duty to warn me.”

  Think fast, Drew. You may have to change course, but that doesn’t mean you drop your lead. You know what she’s doing. She’s judging you as much as you judge her. You’re playing each other, but that’s your advantage, Drew. You know you’re both playing each other. She doesn’t.

  So act like you’ve got this. Go with your gut, you suave bastard.

  “I don’t know anything about his ethics or what kind of lover he is.” My legs open wider. Man-spread is on my side as I “absentmindedly” rub my k
nee against hers. She doesn’t recoil from me. That’s a good sign. “All I know is what I hear in my line of work. The guy likes to throw his money around. A little too much, if you know what I mean.”

  Cher studies me, her mind working overtime to ascertain how much truth I tell her. Do I really know him? Is this so I can get under her skirt? How hot would I look on top of her, anyway? I dunno, Cher, you tell me. That’s the look you’ve got in your eye before you shake it out, sigh, and say, “Good to know he’s a total waste of time. You know, if I were a gold digger.”

  Subtle sarcasm. The real me likes it. The me working her over likes it more. Funny girls – the blacker the humor the better – are easy to seduce. “Didn’t mean to imply that.” I prop my chin up on my hand. Here’s to my fantastic profile. Almost as good as her side-boob. “I don’t like it when a lovely lady wastes her time on a man who can’t keep funds in his account. Every woman deserves to be treated with financial respect.”

  Your average woman would roll her eyes. Yet Cher is far from average. Her intense fixation on money, money, money means she merely snorts and says, “Thanks for watching out for me, kind stranger. I’ll keep that in mind when he inevitably calls me tomorrow.”

  “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 that I should 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 is not easy to pull off.