Intoxicated Page 3

  “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 into my façade. “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’t always get my real name, though. Only the ones who need to be impressed by my background and family name. Trust me. Cher Lieberman knows The 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 getting my attention. “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 caught her off 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 thrown so far off 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 you that!

  “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 boy not be 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 a little bit 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 mother can’t be seen driving herself around now. It’s sooooo unbecoming!

  “You sound like a playboy, Mr. Benton. I’m another hot girl to notch on your bedpost. If you bother keeping track now. You didn’t care about my name, because you think I’m an easy slut, not that it matters to either you or me.”

  “Yet you keep bringing it up.”

  “A woman is always concerned with her image around town.”

  Are you really sure about that, Cher? Because that line might work on a man who knows nothing about you, but I’m not such a man. It’s taking as many reserves as the bartender has to not crack up laughing right now. You! Caring about your image! When you’ve made a lifestyle out of breaking men’s hearts to the point one of them has hired me to break yours! Whew. I need a handkerchief. I’ve got tears in my eyes from laughing so hard.

  “I could be a playboy,” I say. “Or I could be a guy who dates around in the futile hope of meeting the right girl. You know, that fabled right one?”

  “You might as well scream at me that you’re a man-ho.”

  “If a slut and a man-ho enter a room at the same time, does it create a disturbance in the puritanical force?”

  “Great,” Cher glibly says. “He’s making Star Wars jokes now.”

  “The fact you get it’s a Star Wars reference makes you hotter, by the way.”

  This time she gives in to the eye roll. What a dramatic one it is, too! Every muscle in her face goes along with it, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. This pivotal, crucial moment in which she finally lets me see a sliver of who she really is.

  “I’m not asking you to go steady with me, Cher.” I stress her name to prove that I’ve remembered it. “I’m asking for one date. As much as I would love to keep chatting with you here, I’m afraid I have an early morning with my family. You know. The Bentons of Beaverton.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to say no if all you’re interested in is my body.”

  “I have no expectations, beyond some nice conversation. We could talk about Star Wars for a few hours.”

  She snaps her head around, that fragile disbelief now pure, uncut Are you fucking kidding me? “You’re lucky you’re rich and good looking,” Cher snaps. “Because those are the only reasons I’m considering it.”

  “Hey, at least you’re considering it.”

  “Give me one good reason to go out with you on Sunday.”

  I mull over my options. Do I continue to play the unlucky in love heir who stupidly keeps dating hot girls, thinking one of them will be his perfect bride? Or do I try to lay on a little romance? For a woman like Cher, who always has dollar signs in her eyes, I can think of only one thing to win her over. Me. A rich guy in a sea of available men who think they’re hot shit and give her what she really wants.

  “Because,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning closer to her, “unlike every other guy in here, I can actually make you come.”

  If you’re expecting her to slap me, you’re about to be disappointed. Because Ms. Lieberman is the kind of woman who wants to hear that outlandish promise. This is a woman who has slept with so many mediocre men she’s not even attracted to, that she’s forgotten what it’s like to have great, blow-your-top-off sex. She hasn’t hidden her opinion that she thinks I’m attractive. We’ve got this chemistry sizzling between us, th
e one begging me to rip open her dress and dive right into that crazy-hot body. She’s been glancing at my pants every five minutes since I sat down. You think I haven’t noticed? Oh, she hasn’t only been glancing at whatever bulge I may be packing. She’s been daydreaming about fucking me since I sat down.

  It may or may not be mutual.

  Can you imagine us if we actually fooled around? We would make a pretty good looking couple. I bet she’s a real tiger, too. The kind that acts like she can’t be contained, and will definitely go down clawing and biting until you finally turn those growls into howls of pleasure. She’s gone so long without caring about sex that she won’t know how good it is for her until it’s slamming her between the legs. Using my cock as its conduit, preferably. I wouldn’t mind shoving my face in that cleavage, either. Would she like to keep the fashion tape holding those breasts up? I bet I can fuck her so hard it comes undone and, boom, say goodbye to your “natural” lift, Cher.

  I won’t care, either. There isn’t anything we could do that wouldn’t be as hot as the sun.

  “That’s a bold claim,” Cher purrs. I shouldn’t take that sound lightly. She’s not looking to kitty-cat against my arm and beg for scritches. She’s getting ready to arch her back and slash me across the face. She’s that cat rolling onto her back, exposing her stomach, daring me to think we’re close enough for me to touch her most prized spot. “Would be absolutely terrible if we put that to the test and you couldn’t deliver.”

  “You make it sound like I couldn’t.” I grin. “Or that I would care I didn’t. Getting you in my bed is reward enough for me.”

  “You’re a cad.”

  “Yes, a cad you’re going out with on Sunday.” I pull a pen out of my back pocket and write my private number down on a napkin. “Text me when you decide you’re ready to go out with a man who will actually take care of your needs for once.” I slide the napkin over. She does not look at it, nor does she touch it. “I’m not promising you the moon, Cher. I’m promising a nice date that could lead to something you’ve been desperately searching for.” I leave that open, assuming she’s looking for good sex. Or, hey, maybe she’s looking for love. That would be better. Would certainly make my job easier.

  If she’s only looking for sex, though? My job got better.

  Trust me when I say I’ve stuck it in some batshit crazy before. Believe me when I tell you that my dick has plundered the depths of some truly reprehensible women. I knew they were when I fucked them. I wasn’t always paid to bed them, either. It wasn’t always about making them fall in love with me so I could absolutely wreck them. You want to know one of the reasons I got into this gig? Oh, you haven’t realized it yet?

  I’ve been doing this since before I realized I could turn it into a service.

  I can’t say no to pretty girls who aren’t afraid to bite your dick while they blow you. Living on the edge with a volatile woman has its… advantages. Especially in the bedroom. Maybe a lot of guys fantasize about it, but few of the ones I talk to actually have the guts to get wrapped up with a chick they know is a huge piece of work. After a certain age, anyway. Teenagers and young studs in college tell themselves it’s worth it ‘cause she’s hot. Maybe the sex is fantastic. (It usually is.) But the fallout that results in stalkers, used tampons sent in the mail, and your mother calling you up in the middle of the night saying your childhood home has been burgled quickly puts an end to those fantasies.

  Unless you’re me. Unless your name is Drew Benton, professional rake.

  Cher no longer hides her interest in my cock. After giving it a critical look, she slips her hand between my legs.

  She doesn’t squeeze anything, though. She’s content with staring ahead, boring a hole into the back of the bartender’s skull and feeling how long my cock is. Naturally, it’s happy to have her there.

  “Jesus,” she mutters, snatching her hand out like my thighs are about to detach it from her arm. “And that’s soft, huh?”

  “I’ll be honest with you.” I finish my drink. “It’s only a little bigger when it’s hard, but I damn well know how to use it. So, what do you say?” I nod to the napkin with my number on it. “Sunday?”

  She slips off her stool, steely eyes never leaving my gaze. My napkin is left behind as she slowly walks away.

  Oh, well. At least I get to watch that delectable ass sway in that slinky black dress.

  “Nice try, buddy,” the bartender says when he rounds the center island. “You’re telling her that she’s dodged a bullet? I could say the same thing to you. That woman’s like a viper, man. She’s always in here looking for some rich dick to plow her next.”

  I shrug. “Now I know.”

  As the bartender sagely shakes his head and turns around, a familiar face reappears.

  It’s Cher, and she’s raced back to claim my phone number. The way she snatches it off the bar before scurrying away again tells me that it’s going to be a great weekend.

  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 at least a 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. Then I 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 to nine 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 of any caliber would be a bad prospect. Honestly, I should be salivating to sink my teeth into his money and his cock into my greedy, greedy cunt. 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 better not be 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, rich guy 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.