Intoxicated Read online

  When I say I get a cold shower, I mean I get a frigid blast of icy proportions. In the best way. Because my grandma Irene is the only person in my whole family I like. She’s not my blood grandmother, though she raised me like I was. My grandfather went through three or four wives before dying a bachelor. Irene was his wife when I was a little kid, and instead of hiring on nannies to raise me like my sister had been, my parents agreed to let my step-grandmother do most of the rearing. Her divorcing my grandfather when I was a teenager did nothing to stop me from following her to Eastern Washington, where she bought a farmstead and set out to accomplish her dream of being a self-sufficient woman. Not a bad way to use her alimony, if you ask me.

  Nobody else in my family acknowledges her anymore, but I consider her to be the coolest person I know. I still spend half my down time at her house. I help with the maintenance, such as building the chicken coop that’s supposed to keep dolts like Dolly inside where it’s safe. There are coyotes and mountain lions all over the Pacific Northwest, and they love snacking on chicken as much as the next meat eater.

  “When are you getting your ass back up here?” My grandmother’s no-nonsense personality is one of my favorite things. I wish more people were like her in my family. “I need help with the fence again. Damn deer keep knocking it over trying to get to my vegetable garden. Do you think you could help me reinforce it?”

  “Absolutely, Gram. With any luck, I’ll be able to spare a day or two in the coming week. If you pay me in pot roast.”

  “I’ll pay you in cherry pie, too, if that’s what you really want.”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Don’t go knocking on Hell’s door if you have any plans to get to Heaven.”

  “Depends who’s there, Gram.” We’ve had this conversation a few times before, and it always plays the same way. “If you end up in Hell, let me know so I can meet you there.”

  Some boys’ grandmothers would scold them to the mountains and back for saying something like that. Mine hollers like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Let’s say my grandma isn’t a real church-going type. She wouldn’t marry my grandfather in the family church. My dad would later say that the first sign the marriage was doomed was when my grandmother said, “If I step into that church wearing white, I’ll combust into unholy ash.”

  I still think it’s funny, although nobody else did.

  I’m closing the curtains to prepare for a night out enjoying my down time in a restaurant or bar – maybe catch a movie if I’m really frisky – when someone bangs on my door.

  “What was that?” my grandma asks on the other end. “You got the cops at your house?”

  A bad feeling creeps into my gut. As much as I hate to say it with my grandma on the phone, a good feeling creeps into my cock. Because before I peer through the peephole of my front door, I have a pretty good idea I know who it is.

  “Sorry, Gram.” I behold the burning visage of a woman known as Cher Lieberman. She’s staring right back at me. Is she doing it on purpose? Because she knows I’m meeting her gaze through my peephole? Ooh. Fiery. I’m definitely into this. “Looks like someone’s come for a social call. I’ll get back to you later about when I can visit.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s a girl…” That’s the last thing I hear before I hang up on my own grandmother. I toss my phone onto the chair a few feet away. I don’t want any distractions when I open this door.

  To my credit, I pretend to be shocked that Cher is on my doorstep. Let alone a Cher who looks angrier than the wasp who crawled through your open window and never figured how to fly back out again. The apple red of her cheeks is a lovely complement to the red swirling in her black skirt. A baggy black blouse is sheer enough for me to catch the outline of her pushup bra. Why, yes, I’m looking right at her rack instead of her eyes of swirling agony. Can I help it? This woman is only more gorgeous with rage radiating from her. She’s playing right into my romance novel fantasies, and I can’t wait to break out the whips and collars to tame the mighty beast.

  “My, my.” I coolly lean against my doorframe, my whole body blocking her from entering. “To what do I owe this pleasure? I didn’t think our date was until tomorrow. I would’ve dressed up if I knew you were coming over.”

  Ah, she has caught me completely off guard. Fashion wise, that is. You see, I’m currently in my complete element. Fitted T-shirt. Old jeans. A belt buckle that is more country boy than city slicker. My mom thought I was a dire sight with that borrowed trucker hat? She should see me now! Because poor Cher is in for a real treat with my faded, ratty, yet oh-so-comfortable hat I bought the last time I drove through Oklahoma. Hey, those Okies make some nice hats.

  It’s the perfect outfit for treating myself to dinner and a movie in a town that doesn’t give a shit about how you dress. (Lots has changed in Portland, but that hasn’t.) Not so much for wowing a woman who likes her men finely dressed and smelling like a sandalwood supermarket.

  Hey, at least we’ve established that I bathed today…

  “Don’t fucking play dumb with me.” Ooooh, boy. That tone is a new one. Is this the real Cher? Or has she been possessed by a demon? Maybe that fantasy about her prowling through the streets at night isn’t too far off. She’s got the fangs for it. “You fucking piece of shit.”

  Uh. What did I do?

  No, seriously. What is with the 180? This woman was ready to help herself to my wallet the other day. Hell, we were practically boning on the wine bar. Now she’s out for my blood? I’m on the verge of death? I’m not entirely sure why I’m speaking in all questions right now?

  Oh, fuck, I know why. I’m full of all questions and no answers!

  “Is there something we need to clear up?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Hey, if you’ve got a friend who says I screwed her over or something, I honestly don’t…”

  There are only two things that can shut me up when I’m enacting damage control. Either she’s kissed me…

  Oooooor she’s slapped me.

  I reel against the doorframe the moment I feel the impact of her hand on my cheek. The growl of impertinence that erupts from her lily-white throat has me both excited and scared out of my mind. What the fuck, Cher?

  Ow! That stings! Did she put some of those claws into it?

  “I know who you are, Drew Benton. Or should I say I know about your company, Benton Leveraging?”

  Ooooh shit.

  Ooooh shit.

  Look, this is not something I anticipate. Ever. My company may have my name in it, but unless you do some serious digging you 1) have no idea it’s actually my company, because Benton could be anybody, let alone in my family, and 2) you’re not going to find out what it’s about unless you have a key to my online kingdom. I function entirely off word of mouth. I don’t go by my real name to most of my marks. I’m as likely to be Harry Potter as I am Ron Jeremy, depending on who you ask. So it’s not like a bunch of my ex-marks are blabbering to each other, as far as I know.

  Even if they were, how could Cher find out so quickly? Unless she’s got friends in really high places. Which, if she’s been playing this game long enough… she probably does.

  “Who hired you, huh?” she snaps, ready to smack me again. “Was it Jason? Jason Rothchild? I bet it was Jason Rothchild.”

  I’m fucked. I’ve been made. All the way down to who the sack of shit who hired me was.

  “So, uh…” Think fast, dude. She’s got you by the balls, and it’s not to blow them. Although, she’s pretty enough for me to keep thinking about her crawling on her hands and knees to get to my cock, her body so famished for mine that I’m as hard as the rod always erecting tents in my pants. Seriously, can you imagine this modelesque beauty in her baggy-in-all-the-right-places clothes? Coming for me? Like that?

  I caaaaaan. Heaven help us both.

  “I think I better explain,” I say.

  Something falls on Cher’s face. Was it the last of her disbelief? Was she holding out the tiniest bit of hope that
she had it all wrong? That she had slapped me for no reason?

  Oh, there is always a reason for a woman slapping you, my friend.

  “You…” Trembling in righteous indignation, Cher looks like she’s about to explode into a million meaty pieces. “You horrid bastard.”

  Is there any point denying it anymore? I’ve been made. She knows the truth. To deny it will only make it worse. Besides, if she’s made me, then that completely botches my operation. Hey, Grandma, guess who is about to have some time to come visit you and fix your fence? Mr. Vancouver is about to get a personal phone call from me, because I need some work to occupy my time. Rothchild is going to be pissed as hell when I refund his deposit because “mission impossible, dude,” but hey, at least I’ll have my hands washed of these bared white teeth and two agile hands curling into powerful fists.

  I’m fucked!

  “I don’t know what you’ve been hearing,” I say, touching the stinging spot on my cheek, “but I assure you that I had the purest of intentions when I said hello the other night.”

  Her eyes widen to unnatural proportions. The breaths hitching in her chest only make me stare at her beautiful breastbone. “You’re a piece of shit,” she says with punctured breaths.

  “What does that make you?” My hands tighten around my crossed arms. Not once do her eyes deflect from mine. “Because if I’m a bastard out to do what you’re about to claim I do, then that must make you the insufferable, ruthless bitch of an ex.”

  “You know nothing about me,” she hisses. Shit. Words like that only make me want to kiss her more. Yeah, I have a problem. It’s called wanting to fuck high-intensity women. I may not be a kinky bastard who plays with whips and chains, but I live to absorb a woman’s energy and fling it right back at her. She wants to go soft and slow? I’ll be the gentle Casanova of her wet dreams. She wants to feel like a used Fleshlight by the end of the night? Hey, I’ve done dirtier because the gal was literally begging me to use her until I was too spent to care.

  Right now I’m getting some serious fierce vibes from Cher. If we had sex right now, it would be an explosion of angry, fuck you sex.

  It’s been a long time since I did something as crazy as that. I think I was in Budapest when the girl I two-timed finally got her cunt on me.

  “I know enough about you.” Best to be blunt, isn’t it? “You’re a woman who has for some reason dedicated her life to being the worst sugar baby in Portland. You use men for their status and money, and as soon as you’re done with them, you black widow their souls. Guess what. You finally pissed off the wrong sugar daddy.”

  “Rothchild,” Cher whispers, before finally turning her head in thought. “Is this because I turned down his proposal?”

  “I don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Her words are meant for me again, and every one is like electricity to my tender flesh. “You just take the money and ruin lives.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t ruined some lives?”

  “You know nothing about me!” Cher reasserts, as if I’m going to believe her for two seconds. “So stay the fuck out of my life. I never want to see your face or hear your name again.”

  “Considering the whole operation is compromised, I doubt you’ll be seeing me around much. God knows I’m not interested in looking you up more than I already have.”

  “Trust me, I get it! You only hit on me because you were going to what? Pump and dump me? Did you actually think I’d fall in love with you or something?”

  “There are other ways to… wait, pump and dump?” Gross. “You think that’s all I can do, huh? I may have had other plans for you, Cher. If I can’t get you to fall in love with me, I’m going for another angle. Maybe I’ll suck you dry of all the money you’ve conned out of a hundred other men. Maybe I’ll turn your family against you. See, that’s the fun part. You never know what you’re going to get from me. Well, except a venereal disease. I keep my shit clean.”

  You should see her face when I say the words venereal and disease in front of her. I think she’s going to wring my neck.

  “You’re a spineless cretin,” she spits, spine straight, shoulders squared, and head held high. Because she totally has the moral high-ground here. “That’s what you are, Drew Benton. A spineless piece of shit who will never amount to anything more than the bum piss on the bottom of my shoe.”

  “Hey, leave the bums out of this. Most have done less than you in their lifetimes.”

  She moves to slap me again. This time, I catch her wrist as it flies through the air.

  “Cool it,” I growl. “Hit me one more time, and I’m calling the cops.”

  Her useless hand curls and shakes as if she’ll never be vindicated again. I have to admit that it’s rather concerning how pissed she is. I mean, I get it. I’d be pissed, too. But this can’t be healthy. There must be something else lurking beneath the surface. I don’t know what, but…

  “Spineless,” she spits again. The heat of her skin pummels my palm. Somebody save me. I’m really so pathetic that I keep thinking about throwing her over my shoulder and hauling her to my bed for a well-deserved hate fuck. One I’ll probably regret the moment I come, but hey, sounds hot now! “Your balls must be shriveled up into your rectum.”

  “At least you know I’m good on my word about the thing you ladies really care about.” Don’t think I’ve forgotten about her feeling me up in the lounge. I had to seal the deal somehow. My name and money weren’t apparently enough for her greedy ass. Had to throw in a sizeable dick to make it work.

  Is she flustered? For the apple red of anger has transformed into cherry blossom pink blush. Cher yanks her hand out of mine. Her bottom lip quivers. Is she going to cry?

  Oh, God, please don’t cry. I can take screaming and smacking, but once my marks start to cry, I lose my will.

  Yet this is Cher Lieberman we’re talking about. She only cries to get what she wants. She’s playing me as we speak. She won’t march off until she’s had some form of a last word.

  “You’re so pathetic that I bet you wouldn’t keep it up if we did it. I bet tomorrow would have been really embarrassing for you.”

  Wow. That’s it, huh? That’s her hard-hitting ouchie? Her slaps pack more punch. Hell, her terrible gaze levels me more than a crack at my dick. “You wanna bet?” Yeah, I like to play with fire. Stick my whole hand in the burning flames if I’ll get a thrill for two seconds.

  “Yeah.” Cher is still a shell of fiery rage, but her demeanor has changed. Gone is the I will fuck you up if you so much as think about touching me. It has been replaced with Come at me, bro. “I bet you don’t have the fucking balls to still try to get in my cunt.”

  My God. Is this my fantasy coming true?

  Has the prowling panther come to my door and dared me to tame her?

  Or is that another crazy chick meeting my lips as we both dive in at the same time?

  Chapter 8

  CHER

  In my twister of disgusting rage, I’ve single-mindedly decided that there’s only one thing left to do with this giant shitstain.

  Fuck him, of course.

  The trail of thought that has brought me here has nothing to do with what’s right and sane. Ha! More like my stupid pussy screaming at me to take the chance while it’s still standing in front of me. In a trucker hat and enough stubble to make my legs cross before I let that prickly shit come anywhere near my perfectly waxed nether regions.

  But he’s also in a pair of tight jeans that look like they’ve been worn long enough to contour to his powerful lower body. And a shirt that screams he put it on to entice me into his bed.

  What can I say? I’m human. I’m a red-blooded woman who, even when she’s subjecting herself to mediocre lovers, craves a hard cock now and then. Great if I’m pretty sure it’s attached to a guy who can pound for hours. From the way Drew Benton kisses, every piece of him is a cannon ball ready to fire.

  I hold onto his bicep
s and put up an admirable fight against his ruthless kiss. His tongue does not go easy on my mouth. When we’re not gasping for air, we’re grasping at body parts and simulating the kind of movements we should be doing in bed. Drew thinks he’s gonna win by knocking me down with his tongue? I don’t think so. I can lick and bite as hard as he can!

  This is war, you see? Although he’s an awful piece of shit and I’m a mess of my own, we still have this crazy chemistry between us. The kind of chemistry I haven’t experienced in years. Not since I used to date because it was what I wanted to do, not what I thought I had to do. Not since I turned this ruse into a career of sorts.

  Much like his career probably doesn’t allow him much time to bone because it’s what he wants to do.

  This isn’t a pleasure call, though. This is me asserting myself as the dominant force in this town. In the battle of our sexes, I’m coming out on top. I’ll Billie Jean King him from here to Hillsboro. Hand me a racket. I’m about to jam it up his ass and turn him into my dancing puppet.

  Ooh, I bet he’d like that.

  “Get the fuck in here.” His growl commands me to stumble into his apartment, where he finally shuts the front door and shoves me up against the wall. I don’t think twice about swinging my arms around his shoulders and kissing him with every drop of strength in my crazed body. My legs aren’t wrapped around his waist and I’m already simulating the exact motion that will draw his cock into me. For right now, though, I get his hand on my ass and his other grabbing chunks of my blouse.

  I think he’s going to pull it off. Instead, he grabs my breast and swallows my gasp. I’m rewarded with a hard squeeze that gets me writhing against the wall.

  “Fuck you,” I mutter onto his lips. Lips I can’t stop mauling with my own. He tastes like pity and shame. Pity and shame for me. I guess that’s my aphrodisiac today. “I bet you’re not any good in bed. You would’ve been a total waste of my time.”

  He pins both of my wrists to the wall. One of my knees had begun its ascent up his leg, but I lower my foot to the ground again. “Say that again,” Drew goads me. His hand hovers above my waist. I can’t tell if he’s about to yank up my blouse or pull down my skirt.