by Cynthia Dane
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 girlfriend is work! 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 for me. 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 you will find 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’m deigning him 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.
As the poignant words of Middlemarch entrance me, I’m slightly distracted by the black Chevrolet Camaro rolling up to parallel park right in front of my window. NW 23rd is a hot cruising spot for every middle-aged guy who has recently bought his first sports car. People will drive down from the hills just to show off. Tourists and locals alike frequent this place. Sure enough, everyone within a quarter mile radius stops to admire and take a picture of the black convertible turning off its motor.
Out steps Mr. Benton.
Wait, do you start the sign of the cross on your left side, or the right? I can never remember. I’m a Heathen. My appearance may be impeccable, but my religious references? Sloppy.
He’s got the tightest pair of denim jeans clinging to his legs. A half-unbuttoned black linen shirt flutters in the breeze, his sunglasses adding an air of mystery to his otherwise young form. My Googling tells me he’s recently turned thirty. The guy doesn’t look a day over twenty-three. You know, that I may have just graduated college, but I’m totally a mature adult, look.
I stab a cube of cheese. My teeth pluck it right off the toothpick. I cross my legs and lower my sunglasses so I get a better view of that ass as Drew feeds the parking meter and smiles at a pair of young women in jumpers. I can hear their giggles from here.
There’s only a one minute window between him disappearing from view and making it to my table. Now’s my chance to gussy up. Freshen up my makeup. Ensure that every hair is in the proper place. Pull the wrinkles out of my silk jumpsuit and think about what I’ll say to greet him.
I don’t do any of those things.
“Afternoon.” Drew doesn’t remove his sunglasses until he’s standing at my table. “I’m looking for a beautiful woman named Cher. Do you happen to know her?”
My elbow digs into the table. My hair slides down my shoulders as I cock my head up and say, “No.”
“Pity.” Drew helps himself to the table, anyway. His cologne is a respectable Calvin Klein, but I can understand why he went for that instead of the supreme quality they keep under lock and key in department stores. It’s a fragrance that enhances him, all right. You know a man is familiar with his own scent and what it needs when he’s always got you thinking about cuddling up to him.
Give it a few moments. The olfactory fatigue will settle in soon enough.
“Guess I’ll sit with you, then. What should I call you?” He tucks his sunglasses into the only pocket on his shirt. “You look like an… Annalise.”
Can you believe this guy? This is what he thinks is flirting. Then again, he’s surprised me, hasn’t he? I bet that’s his only goal. Keep me guessing, or whatever. Those types tend to be exhausting. Maybe I don’t want to guess. Maybe I want to know who you are up front, because God knows I’m keeping the real me from you.
“Not even close,” I say.
“A… Margaret, but everyone calls you Maggie.”
“Isn’t that your grandmother’s name?”
He laughs. Damn him and his dazzling white smile. “So you’ve been looking me up.”
“I had to make sure you are who you say you are. Any guy can claim to be a Benton. How do I know you’re not impersonating one to seduce women?”
“At least I look the part?” He stretches his arms above his head, shirt stretching across his broad chest. Yes, yes, those are lovely chest hairs poking out between his glass buttons. Whoop-dee-doo. “What do you think? Do I look and smell like I could pass for a Benton?”
“Yes.” I pick up another cube of cheese. “The baby of the family.”
His smile slightly falters. “You really dig in, don’t you?”
He doesn’t mean the cheese plate. He means the information I mined about him. “Your family is easy to Google. When were you going to tell me that you’re not inheriting the company? Although I’m sure your sister will do a mighty fine job, being the oldest and all.”
“That’s what you care most about, yes?”
“I didn’t say that. Yet you’re acting like you’re all that because you’ve got money.”
“I don’t just have money.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve introduced me to your trouser snake.”
Some guys are put off by my flippancy. Drew, however, digs right in, like he’s about to tear apart the tapas plate he’s ordered to go with a glass of Chardonnay. Not the drink I’d peg him to like, but I’m not surprised, either. He’s always trying to circumvent expectations. Yet he’s still a guy driving a Camaro and wearing Calvin Klein cologne.
I don’t hate the conversation we indulge, although it takes me a little while to loosen up. The wine helps, although I’ve purposely picked one I know doesn’t turn me into a giggly mess of bad decisions too quickly. I politely inquire about his field of work – naturally, he does things here and there for his family, but deep in his heart he’s an artist – and he asks me about my family. When I tell him I’m a native Portlander but that my parents have moved to Arizona for an early retirement and a cheaper condo, he expresses surprise, as if I’m not the type to hang around Portland for too long.
“What, do you think I moved here from California?”
“No,” he says.
“No?”
Drew appreciates the aroma of his wine before explaining. “I was thinking Seattle. You’re very Pacific Northwest, but a bit more cosmopolitan than what I associate with Portland.”
“Is that so? You know Seattle pretty well, do you?”
“I actually live there full time.” He puts his glass down. How that manages to make a muscle in his arm ripple, I have no idea, but I’m not going to deny a free show. “It’s true that my family has their roots in Portland, but we have properties all over the west coast. I’ve always preferred Seattle to Portland. Which is ironic
, because I’ve also always fancied myself a country boy at heart.”
I snort. “A country boy.”
“I may not look it, but I’m a handy guy. Spent last weekend building a bookshelf for…”
“The poor?” I suggest.
“My grandmother.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “She lives in Eastern Washington. I visit her quite often, really. She has a little piece of paradise up there.”
Eastern Washington. Really. That hell-hole? I’d rather drive through rural Oregon than get stuck in Eastern Washington. You want to know where west coast rednecks originated? Somewhere east of Centralia.
The Bentons and Eastern Washington do not compute. That’s one of many things I’ll have to investigate before I take things any further with Drew.
“I don’t really get along with my family, honestly.” He says that with a sigh. “I’ve always preferred to be a self-made man. I help out where I can, but I’d rather strike out on my own.”
“Using your family’s capital, of course.”
“Never said I didn’t have my own.”
Is that supposed to be impressive? I expect most men to have their own capital, including the trust fund losers. Nothing worse than a thirty-five year old man still living on his family’s money. He should at least be working for some of that money. I don’t care if he’s sucking the family’s corporate teat or running his own business into the ground. At least show some initiative, you know? Otherwise, a guy risks needing a mommy more than a girlfriend. I play an excellent fake girlfriend. I’m an atrocious surrogate mother.
“So you spend most of your time in Seattle… what are you doing in Portland right now?”
“I pop in a couple of times a month to check in with my family. My mother especially hates to travel outside after her hip surgery. Can you believe it? Barely in her sixties and already having hip surgery.”
“It’s not that uncommon.”
“You would know about hip surgeries, huh?”
I shrug. Noncommittal. That’s how I like it.
He attempts to impress me with his knowledge of the wine we’re drinking, but I’ve heard it all before. Every other guy I date is a connoisseur, you know. I have a sizable collection made of gifts from previous suitors and boyfriends. They make great party favors. When I have enough friends to invite over for a party. That doesn’t happen very often since college.
I’ve burned a lot of bridges.
“So, tell me.” Drew rubs his upper lip, as if anticipating my answer before he’s asked the question. (As if I don’t know what he’s about to ask.) “What keeps you in a city like Portland? I know you said you were born here, but most people I know are fleeing as quickly as they came here. Even the natives.”
That wasn’t what I expected. (Yes, that happens sometimes. I can’t anticipate everything a guy is going to say. Although I like it when I do. Makes it a lot easier to keep up with my games.) I thought he was going to ask me about why I’m still single. That’s what men like him love to ask, because it’s their way of filtering my level of crazy. Or if I’m cheating. Half the time, they don’t care if I’m cheating. Goes to show the level of ethics around this town.
Ethics that I absolutely contribute to, of course.
“What can I say?” My smile is a mile wide, which he should know is me about to lie out of my ass. He doesn’t know that yet. Because he has yet to become acquainted with my tics. Let me tell you about the smiles I’ve accumulated in my life. The business smile. The socializing smile. The my boyfriend is fucking nuts smile. Right now, Mr. Drew Benton is getting a mix of socializing and crazy boyfriend. If he starts talking money, though, I might slip into business. “I really love this town.”
“Do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Yes.” He might as well know. Even if he wanted to stalk me, there are so many houses and apartment buildings in this area he’d have to work a little. Too much effort.
“That’s why you still love this town. Let me guess. You’re young enough that this area was already being gentrified when you were a kid.”
I was about to pick up my wineglass when he says that. Now what should I do? Sip my wine as I mull over my words? Choke on the fumes that suddenly gross me out? Or should I simply look around this wine tasting bar, located in a converted Victorian house? Like most of Northwest Portland, this used to be a predominately residential district, full of gorgeous painted ladies and parks on the outskirts of town. Now we’re practically a part of the downtown area. Tourists flock up here because of how trendy it’s been for most of my life. Drew isn’t too wrong about a few things.
“I’m not from this area, actually,” I say. “I grew up in North Portland. Over by Arbor Lodge, although I spent a lot of time in St. John’s.”
“Did you go to Roosevelt?”
“Did you go to Beaverton High?” I shoot back, knowing damn well that he went to one of the many private schools for the rich. Could be Catholic. Could as easily be Jesuit or agnostic.
“Touché.” Drew sits back in his seat, teeth dragging across his bottom lip. Is this the part where I tell you that I wish those lips were dragging across my body right now? I wonder what he looks like without his shirt on. He keeps teasing me with those chest hairs, but is that all they are? A chesty tease? Or is he basically a giant hairy bear? I’ve been with both. I can deal with either. I definitely have my preference, though. Even if I decide to drag this man into my flurry of games, I would definitely give him some bonus points for being my exact type. “So you’re from North Portland. Yeah, I used to hang out around there a lot, too. Some of my buddies and I used to hang out in Cathedral Park after school. We’d cruise down Lombard.”
“You. Cathedral Park.” I can hardly imagine it. Especially when this guy would’ve been in high school. Cathedral Park is a nice place, especially if you live in the area. (Although you’re hard pressed to find a Portland park that isn’t filled with used needles and piles upon piles of garbage.) But it’s so far away from Beaverton, let alone far from the kind of place a young heir would hang out that I’m struggling to imagine a younger version of this man “cruising” down Lombard and drinking with his buddies in Cathedral Park.
“Maybe I saw you around there,” he says with a generous sip of his wine. “We brought a lot of girls through there.”
Is that supposed to impress me? I don’t want to hear about what a man-ho he is. I can see that for myself. Isn’t it so unbecoming for men to brag about how many girls they bagged as teenagers?
I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? Because so many women around here know what it’s like to be on the other end of his thrusts and I don’t? Yet.
Yet! I’m still thinking about it. Even if this doesn’t go anywhere, I might take him for a spin. Do you know how long it’s been since I had sex with a guy I’m actually into? I’m simply speaking physically. Let’s talk about true relationship compatibility.
“I think I would remember.” The cheese is almost gone. I had no idea I made such short work of it. God help me, am I eating without thinking? I only do that when I’m either so distracted that I need to put the chip bag down… or I’m off my game. And I mean off my game to the point I’m going home with a guy who has one over me. “I’ve heard of you, but before Friday night, we have never met.”
“You’re right. I would remember you, too.”
His wink is disgustingly diabolical. I might throw up. Then kiss him.
Usually, I know where I’m going with a potential mark halfway through our first real date. The end of our little meetup is where I either promise to call him again (and don’t) or I lay on the flirtations extra thick, with the hopes of inspiring the man to whisk me away to a tropical island the next weekend. Or so he’ll attempt to promise me. Some of them only want to meet up at a hotel, or make a big showing of taking me up to Seattle. Classy guys suggest the opera for a second date, and that tells me they’re willing to spend some money on me – and I better make sure I’m worth spending money on
, all right? New money men who come from lower class backgrounds love their lounges, pool halls, and hiking trips. Gag me with a spoon if I ever have to go on another hike on a second date. The guy has to be extraordinary for me to agree to that now. I can only hike through Multnomah Falls or Forest Park so many times before I’m bored to tears. And the weather! It can do anything!
Yet Drew is still a bit of a mystery. I don’t like that. I don’t like men I can’t read so easily I might as well be sifting through a slush pile. One minute this guy is trying to impress me with his money, and the next? Regaling me with tales of hanging out in Cathedral Park with his “buddies,” drinking cheap booze and hanging out with lower-class girls, like he’s one of them. I don’t doubt the veracity of his identity. I made sure of that before I came here, but guys who grew up like Drew either follow the Proper Trails blazed by their old money parents, or they rebel to the point of getting kicked out of the family. You don’t find many in between. Not around here. Your average rich upper-middle-classer often doesn’t understand they’re middle-class in Portland. Not when property values are so high that your two million dollars buys you a five-bedroom house in a “nice” neighborhood and not much else. The Bentons are worth a billion dollars, though. Maybe more, since God knows they’re not advertising the off-shore accounts and money pumped into whatever investment is lasting the longest these days. I don’t know how much of that Drew will have one day, but he’s both acting like he’s entitled to it… and that he never expects to get it.
Right now, my only motive for dating him is purely personal. He’s hot. He has a nice car. He knows how to blend into my kind of scenery. He’s apparently got a big dick. All things I can take advantage of for a while. Yet will it do me any good to have a “real” boyfriend if I can’t play him like the violin I pretend isn’t a fiddle?
It’s time for a test.
“Excuse me,” I say, picking up my purse. “I need to use the restroom.” It’s partially true. I haven’t “gone” in about two hours, and I’ve been drinking wine. A little tinkle is on the docket.
