by Cynthia Dane
He picks up the last of his blunt and exhales the sweet-smelling smoke that will make up the remainder of his high. After furiously blinking, Drew puts a hand on my leg and asks, “What time is it?”
“I dunno. What time is SpongeBob usually on these… holy shit, I love this episode. I wanna have a rave in a pineapple under the sea.”
Drew unearths his phone from the coffee table in front of us. “How is it seven already? We got home an hour ago!”
“Did we? I thought we got home at four?” Home! Listen to me, acting like this is my home, when I’ve only been here for a day! “When did we start smoking? Hey, wanna make some brownies?”
Good thing Drew is done with his pot. I think he’s entering the paranoid phase of his high. See, I told you guys he didn’t have the really good stuff. I had an ex who used the same strain for his depression. Every time I tried it, I thought someone was about to push me off a train platform. Go figure.
“I’m getting something to drink. Something that’s not Fanta.” Drew stumbles into the kitchen. After a fit of hacking and a hearty sniff, he opens his cupboard and pulls out a huge bottle of something. He soon takes a swig right from the source.
Oh, good! We’re totally doing this! Drunk and high!
You’d think we were college kids from how quickly we devolve into a mini-party just for us. One minute we’re watching SpongeBob, and the next he’s found old music videos on some forgotten channel. Or maybe he’s switched to YouTube and playing his old favorites. Some of these videos are so grainy that they might as well have been uploaded in 2008. Is that Pearl Jam?
“Gimme some of that.” I grab the wine bottle out of his hand and take a chug. Ugh. Tastes like fermented piss. Am I sure this isn’t beer? Whatever.
“You know.” Drew hangs over the back of the couch, his peach fuzz practically rubbing against my cheek. Oh. I think it might be. I don’t have a great feel for reality at the moment. “I had spent this whole day thinking I was gonna stick it in your brown.”
I take another swig of this beer-wine. “You like slamming the D into the A, huh?”
“I hear some women like it. Especially if you loo… lube them up real good… first.”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Like this swill in this bottle.
“I was gonna fuck you in the ass and come all up in it.”
“Bet you were.”
“Does that turn you on?”
I wash the taste of this gunk out of my mouth. With Orange Fanta, yes. “Not really. Can’t say I’m super wet from the thought of you going at my butthole.”
“Bet most of your boyfriends love doing that. Men are sick, you know. Always sticking it in weird places…”
“Does that make you sick, too?”
“Girl, you fucking know it.”
I laugh. Drew is so pleased with himself, that he must think I’m laughing at his joke. Yeah, right. I’m laughing at how pathetic he is when he’s drinking and toking. This is the kind of shit we can only get away with at this age. I imagine us ten, twenty years from, still behaving like idiots.
Because what else should I be doing in my inebriated state besides thinking about what it would be like to grow old with this asshole?
I wash those thoughts away with whatever swill this is. The more I think about a future with Drew Benton, the more I want to die a little. In some alternate universe where we’re actually compatible, let alone capable of a healthy relationship, things can only end with me becoming the permanent trophy-wife arm candy of the only Benton boy. I’ll have to put up with his mother’s inane ranting and his father’s preposterous ideas about wifery. His older sister, the true heir of his family’s fortunes, will probably have nothing but disdain once she got a look at me and read anything about my personal history.
Sounds like I deserve it, doesn’t it? That should be everything I’ve ever wanted. A rich, handsome husband who jokes about fucking my ass when he’s high out of his mind.
He’d probably be one of the few that makes it feel good…
“You know what we should do?” Drew slams back down onto the couch, his sweaty T-shirt clinging to his muscles in ways that instantly attract my attention. Oh, good. I’m forgetting about that mushy shit that almost made me puke. I’d much rather drunkenly stare at his hot body and get lost in heavy thoughts of fuck-fuck-fucking. “We should go into the matchmaking business together.”
Whelp. So much for that.”
“Hear me out.” Drew steadies himself with his hand on my arm. More sweat. God. He’s a sweater when he’s drunk. My luck. Good thing I don’t have any plans to hop on his dick now. He ensured that by bringing up such a cheesy thing. “When you think about it,” he continues, although I certainly did not ask him to, “it makes a lot of sense. I know the guys who want to find young, hot wives who will pretend to love them in exchange for money. You know what it takes to be that kind of woman. You know, a professional sugar baby.”
He’s got me there.
“With our powers combined, we could be the hottest million-dollar matchmaking service in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll gather up the sorry losers here and in Portland. You help me review the women applying to be future trophy wives. It’s perfect! You could like… tutor them! Prep those powerful pussies for a lifetime of sucking dollar bills out of old, hairy balls.”
“Drew,” I mutter, head hitting the back of the couch. “I’m too fucked up on this shit for you to make imagery like that.” We won’t discuss how many hairy balls I’ve seen in my life. Every guy, old and young, is so damn proud of his own pair, too. I don’t get it. I don’t have to get it. I only have to show up, put out, and get paid.
Drew kicks up his feet and stares at his ceiling. He’s completely drunk and toked up, isn’t he? Great. How quickly can I catch up with him? “That’s what I should switch my business to when I’m over breaking hearts and taking names. I should be at the beginning of the toxic relationship, not the end! There are enough guys out there looking for the next big heartbreak of their lives. I could serve it to them on a silver platter. I mean, we could.”
“What in the world makes you think we could ever go into business together? You realize this is some bullshit we’re indulging for a while, right?” Dare I panic that he’s suddenly getting serious on me? I can’t handle a real relationship right now. Let alone with a loser like Drew. The man fucks women up for a living! What kind of boyfriend would that be? You know, assuming he could ever make a real boyfriend. That’s absurd.
“Yeah, yeah.” Drew briefly closes his eyes. “I’m spoutin’ off nonsense. You know, as I am often wont to do.”
“Are you?”
“You might not know me very well…” When he opens his eyes again, I get the full, bloodshot view. “But I am a very nonsensical guy around those I like.”
“Is this where you open your true self to me, Drew? When you’re so intoxicated you don’t know any better?”
He grins. A big, goofy, sloppy grin that shouldn’t endear me as much as it does. “I guess so. I can regret it in the morning. Maybe I’ll be hungover, too, but hey, as long as you’re in my bed and thinking about going into business with me, it’s all good.”
“Oh, you think I’m still getting into your bed? After everything we’ve already done tonight? Because if there’s one thing I know about drink and drugs, Drew, it’s that most guys can’t stand up to it.” I don’t have to explain myself. He damn well knows what I mean.
“You think I ain’t hard as fuck right now? I’ve spent the past half hour thinking about sticking it in your ass. Of course I’m hard.”
I glance at his lap. What’s going on down there is a far cry from what Drew usually sports when he’s ready to roll. Like that night we met, when he openly dared me to grab his cock in the middle of a busy lounge. I don’t have to touch it now to know how pathetic it is. “Tell me more about how whiskey-dick never gets you.”
He follows my gaze. “Hmm. This is concerning.”
I’ve been wi
th some eyeroll-worthy guys before. Right up there with totally sober dudes who whip it out beneath the table and encourage me to stroke them off. During charity galas, no less. So many men out there can only get off if there’s a risk-factor involved. Since the radio silence from the STD clinic suggests I don’t carry those risks, they’ve gotta come up with something else. Handy-Js beneath the table while a bald woman talks about her struggles with chemotherapy are just the ticket!
Yet I’m still not prepared for Drew to unzip his jeans and take out his flaccid prick.
“Aw, poor little guy,” I say with an exaggerated wibble. “He’s too tired to get up and say hello.”
Yup. You guessed it. Drew picks his dick up with his thumb and forefinger and gives it a sad, sad wave in my direction. It’s rather amazing how much it’s shrunken while he’s inebriated. If this were my first time seeing it, I’d be running for the hills. I’m not saying I’m Stretched-Out Sally, but I’m thinking about those hot dogs and hallways analogies. If I’m hooking up with a guy for pure sexual satisfaction, I better be getting something out of it. A sensation! Some fullness! Something! C’mon, send me a dick mulligan!
“Wow,” he says. “Nothing. I’ve. Got. Nothing.”
“What was that about my ass again?” He might be able to smack that against a cheek, but we’re not going to pound town tonight.
Drew blows air from his cheeks. Between that and the flapping between his legs, he looks like the saddest balloon animal in the world. Send me back to Portland already. I can’t take it.
“I think there’s hope,” he says. “You know. If you took off your clothes or something.”
“Do I look like I care enough right now?”
“Nope.”
Good. Because I’m one sleepy woman. The pot and alcohol are starting to do their intricate dance in my system. For a woman who was wide awake an hour ago, I can now only think of one thing.
Slowly, I doze off. I wake up at one point long enough to realize Drew has thrown a light blanket over me. Where has he gone? I have no idea. Frankly, I don’t care.
Chapter 20
CHER
Juuuust like that, I wake up God knows when.
I jerk up with a start. It’s dark outside, and this close to summer, I’m inclined to believe it’s past ten. Sure enough, after I’m done rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I look at the clock and realize it’s a little after midnight. The blanket falls off my body as it adjusts to waking up after a cramped nap. I’m still feeling pretty loosey-goosey from the pot – okay, and probably the alcohol, too – but there’s no denying that I would like to have a little more sleep.
Fuck if I’m gonna spend the whole night on Drew’s couch, though. Let alone in my day clothes. Not when I brought perfectly fine pajamas. At the very least, I’ll sneak into his room, where he’s probably passed out, and change into more comfortable clothing before recommencing an early night.
“Hello, hello.”
I didn’t knock. Why would I, when there was hardly any light coming in from beneath the door and I can only assume Drew is asleep? I felt lucky enough that the door was unlocked. Yet did I think for two seconds he would be awake, sprawled across his bed in nothing but those delicious sweatpants he loves to sleep in?
His eyes are no longer bloodshot. There is still sweat gleaming on his skin, but I assume it’s from his lack of a shower than him still being high or drunk. It’s been a few hours. If he’s anything like the other men around his build and age, he’s sobered up a bit.
Maybe he’s like me, though. Still feeling a little loose. In both body and morals.
“Hi.” My hand lingers on the doorknob. Was I opening the door? Closing it? I have no clue anymore. I wasn’t expecting to be greeted by a man perusing a magazine before bed. “Sorry. Came in here to grab my pajamas. I’m, uh…” Why am I so flustered? You’d think I had never seen him half naked before. Or had my face in a Drew-Thigh Sandwich. Because I have to slap my cheek to make it stop wanting to press into his warm, sweaty skin.
I bet he smells like man-musk. You know the shit I’m talking about. You know.
“Have you had a moment to consider my offer?” He chuckles, one hand popping up to cover his upper lip. “Jesus, what was I thinking? Matchmaking services… this is why I shouldn’t mix pot and alcohol.”
My overnight bag is on the other side of the room. I hurry to it, my tangled hair getting in my face as I dig through the contents. I have a clean nightshirt here somewhere. I’m fine with sleeping without pants on. Even if it means this guy will probably be feeling me up all night.
Gulp.
Why am I aroused? My stupid nipples are poking through my clothing, for fuck’s sake. Heat builds between my thighs as I wrestle with my clean clothing. I’ve already kicked off my shoes, but if I were still wearing them, this would end with me digging my heels into his carpet. I’m already biting my lip and trying to stop thinking about that head I gave him yesterday. Or was it two days ago? Since it’s dark and I’ve had a few hours of sleep, it feels like a new day already. Like the sun is about to come up and we’re off to get pancakes at the local diner.
God, I want pancakes.
I want food. I want something in my mouth. I think an oral fixation is flaring up. Assuming Drew can also get something up…
Hm. What do I want more? Pancakes, or cock? Do I have to get them in a particular order? Maybe I should let the man make the decision for me. Just a cool glance over my shoulder, and…
Aaaaand he’s looking right back at me, his goofy grin from before now replaced with a knowing smirk.
“Problems, Princess?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Thinking about pancakes.”
His smirk does not falter. “Pancakes?”
“You know. Flapjacks. Crepes. Maple syrup and some marionberries…”
Drew’s chuckle does things to my stomach. Crazy things. Infuriating things. “You are such an Oregonian he says.” The magazine closes. “Marionberries.”
“Something wrong with marionberries?” I turn to him. Does he see my nipples? ‘Cause I can feel my nipples.
“Only Oregonians care about marionberries.”
“Aren’t you an Oregonian?”
He shrugs. “Depends who you ask. My birth certificates say I am. My mom says I am. Me? Eh, I can take it or leave it.”
“Because it’s changed too much from your childhood?”
He hooks his finger at me, as if I’m the reason we’re not getting busy right this second. “There’s one thing that hasn’t changed about Portland, that’s for sure.”
Slowly, I go to him. Curiosity? Desire? We’ll say a bit of both. I’ll probably smell hints of wine and pot on him as soon as I’m close, but for now, the only reason he’s so interested in me is because of stone-cold sobriety. He sees a woman he wants. A woman he knows he can take. That lascivious look in his eyes has me already taking off my panties. Whoops. There they go. Right on the floor. In case he doesn’t know how skirts work, I pull mine up a little ways before pressing my knee against the edge of his bed. “What hasn’t changed?” I ask.
“The abundance of interesting women who keep me on my toes.”
“I don’t see you standing on your toes right now.” I keep my hands to myself, but it’s a challenge. If you saw the finely chiseled torso that I do right now, you’d be having issues, too. If I weren’t so in control of myself right now, I’d be slobbering all over this chest and grabbing those hips like I’ve never had sex before.
As if to taunt me, Drew leans slightly back, the stretch of his sweats on full display. Ah, yes, he seems to have regained control of his dick. The blood is flowing free again. His brain says get hard and the trouser snakes says well, okay. My teeth graze my button lip as I imagine teasing him to the point I see a fine little wet spot right where the tip of his cock is. I like those things hard and dripping, if you couldn’t tell. Especially if I’m expected to put some kind of orifice on them.
To hell with expec
tations, honestly. Especially if I’m wanting to fuck one of my holes with those things.
Let’s see… how many holes do I have? At least three. Two are self-lubricating and have fantastic little nerve endings that make things a hundred times better. But he was saying something about the third earlier.
Maybe some other time. When I’m in the mood to be a bad, bad girl.
“Tell me one thing,” Drew says, head propped up on his hand. The way he lays, with one foot kickstanding behind him and his chest open to my line of sight, has me in such a tizzy that I believe he’s doing it on purpose. “Are you looking at me like that because you’re hungry for more than pancakes? Or because you smoked a fat blunt earlier?”
Only now do I realize I’m chewing the inside of my cheek a little too enthusiastically. That oral fixation, man. It’s getting me. The more I look at him, the more I want to repeat yesterday. I want his cock rammed down my throat, the taste of Drew Benton overwhelming me as he fucks me so hard I struggle to breathe. I want him to make me feel like the most depraved woman in the region, as if I don’t get more, more, more of him, I’ll completely combust. I don’t usually feel this way about a guy. Usually, the passing fancy ends with me having sated my curiosity and ready to move on to someone else. Rarely does money and pleasure mix in the same man. Yet I keep forgetting who Drew really is. He’s such a… bro. He may be thirty, he may have his own successful (albeit deplorable) business, and he may have the funds to live off of for the rest of his life, but I look at him and see a regular guy who takes care of himself. There’s nothing more to it than that.
Dare I believe I’m falling for him?
“I don’t know how I’m looking at you,” I lie, “but I can tell you what I’m thinking.”
“Go ahead. Tell me. Lie to me, if you want. I don’t mind, as long as you make it hot.”
I untuck my T-shirt from my skirt. The damn thing was all askew and wrinkled, anyway. “I’m thinking about your sad, pathetic dick from earlier.” Ooh, am I doing a little domination tonight? Make him feel insignificant, to the point he fucks me until I’m convinced he’s the greatest shit in Seattle? I could get into that. “And wondering whether it’s had time to recover.”
