Sugar Baby Mine

Chapter 1

“You need a sugar daddy.”

I nearly choke on a mouthful of too many gummy bears, another handful on the way to my mouth. “I’m sorry—what?”

Cora sighs then says, “You’re eating snacks—candy, mind you, for dinner.”

“You said you didn’t want them…” I mumble, popping the candy in my mouth as my teeth ache from the sugar overload.

She tosses a strand of freshly-curled, glossy red hair over her shoulder and sets the curling wand down. She swivels at her vanity to look at me, long, pale legs that could blind someone peeking through her elegant, navy silk robe.

Jealousy ripples through my veins.

“I said that after you tore into the bag with your teeth like some sort of mongrel.” Cora’s lips purse, arms crossing over her chest. There’s a flash of genuine concern in her eyes, and that’s the terrifying part. “Not to mention you’ve been wearing that rag of a shirt for the past three days, Emme.”

Okay, she’s not entirely wrong.

Picking at the collar, I crane to look down the neck of my oversized shirt and sniff at the front of the faded fabric. “It smells fine. I haven’t exactly been doing anything—”

“And that’s the problem.” She huffs. “I know it’s been hard working at the flower shop, but you haven’t even tried to find another job. You should ask for full-time benefits, you practically make the hours.”

As someone who works thirty-four hours a week only to hope I never need to make a hospital trip, I’m well aware.

Falling back against the red satin covering the bed, I roll onto my stomach with a groan. The bag of candy crinkles under me, and I bury my head into one of the pillows that smells like the shampoo I can’t afford to splurge on. With a greedily inhale, I fist my hands in Cora’s expensive sheets.

“Why did I even go to college? I’m drowning in debt for a degree I’m not even doing anything with. How come no one told me I couldn’t do anything with a BA in psychology without experience?”

And how do you get experience if no one will hire you? I’m certainly not going back for my master’s degree. I burnt out on school enough with only four years.

It’s bad enough that I can’t even afford my half of the rent right now; the fact that Cora is only living with me out of pity makes it sting all the more. There’s no way I can afford a place on my own in the city. Not even a glorified shoebox. And I refuse to live with someone I don’t know.

Her hand comes down atop my head, a sympathetic pat, before she’s pushing my shoulder and rolling me onto my side. I blink up at her as she perches gracefully on the edge of the bed.

“That’s why you need someone like Freddy.”

An undignified snort leaves my body. “You call him Freddy?”

“I call him daddy sometimes, too, but that is neither here nor there.”

I gag.

Bright red fingernails shaped like little daggers flick my ear. Hard. It stings like a bitch.

“Ow!” I yelp, cupping my hand over my ear.

“I’m serious, Emme. I think you would like having someone take care of you,” she says much softer now, her fingers spreading over the rose gold chain at her wrist absently.

A lot of what Cora has in our apartment—these ridiculous satin sheets, her jewelry, makeup, hell, the food in our pantry—are all a culmination of rewards from her relationship with Frederick Cole, a man nearly twice our age.

My cousin was always destined for a life of luxury, never anything less. To be out from under her mother’s patronizing thumb and rules had its downfalls, even in adulthood. This was her way of supplementing that familiar lifestyle.

Her mother was a high-end escort for many years after her husband died and had no shame in it. What Cora was doing wasn’t any less demeaning, rather it was achingly familiar. She was a sugar baby, in an exclusive relationship with one man. But of course it hadn’t started that way.

Me, on the other hand? An entirely different story.

“Freddy’s business partner recently went through a divorce, though they were separated for a long while prior. Says he’s been pretty lonely,” Cora prompts. “I’ve seen him at events and gatherings. A hint of salt and pepper, tall, a little gruff—a total DILF.”

“I just…I don’t want to date someone that’s my father’s age.”

It would be weird, wouldn’t it?

Granted, I couldn’t have imagined the scenario in the first place beyond a hot celeb call me Daddy situation, which is just fodder for a good masturbation session, but my first instinct is that it’s not for me. Just spending time with someone is one thing but fucking someone my father’s age? Kind of an ick. Or am I just actually picturing my father? Because if so, rightly, ew.

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

Cora knocks my arm over from where I’ve got it sticking straight up in the air. I don’t even know when it got there. It just happens sometimes. The movement sends a shock through my shoulder, and my fingers twitch as I settle back against the bed.

She throws me a pointed look, and I scrunch my nose up at her. Like she’s so fucking normal.

“It’s not like typical girlfriend-boyfriend dating. It’s you providing them time, presence, attention, and pleasure. In return, you get what you need. But you’re not a normal girlfriend, you’re a sugar baby. There’s less expectations.”

Of course I catch on the word pleasure out of that spiel.

“And let me just say that guys our age do not know how to treat a woman. I think you’d be pleasantly surprised.” Cora grins, the look in her amber eyes downright dangerous.

“Please don’t start telling me sex stories right now.”

“Since you asked so politely, I’ll refrain. I recommend doing some research on the subject, though, and of course, I’m always available for a Q it always is. I can’t help but fold my arms up under my head, looking up through my bangs and tucking my chin in to watch her finish getting ready. I don’t think I could ever be as graceful and put together as her. If that trait came from our mothers’ side of the family, well, it skipped me entirely.

“Where are you going tonight?”

“To Le Bernardin,” Cora says while carefully applying her signature red lipstick, something she wouldn’t be caught dead leaving the apartment without.

One of the most expensive restaurants in the city. No big deal.

I look down at the bag of gummy bears stuck under my hip. Pulling it out, I reach in and pop a red one in my mouth. It tastes sickly sweet all of a sudden. Grabbing another, I squeeze it between the points of my fingernails until its little orange head pops off of its body.

“Sounds fun. I…have a date, too.” A sculpted brow raises in my direction, and I fucking scramble. “A Tinder date, but you know. A date. Or whatever.”

Casual. Cool.

“Okay…I won’t be home until late, so if you get murdered—well, text me or something,” Cora says off-handedly, fastening a red velvet choker around her throat.

“A fool proof plan, that is. Have fun with your daddy.”

She blows a kiss my way and I slide off the bed, catching it in my hand and closing my fist. Scrunching my nose up, I toss it toward the pink, sparkly trash can by the vanity, laughing at her affronted gasp.

“Love you,” I drawl, flouncing out of the doorway while fumbling with my phone to pull up Tinder. I needed to find a date like yesterday.

Throwing myself into the bathroom, I sit on the closed toilet lid and hunch over my phone like a gremlin on a mission. My index finger slides across the screen—left. Left. Left.

Leftleftleftleftleftleft.

With pause, I study the next picture on the screen. My first instinct is to swipe left again, but how many times have I ever actually swiped right? My Tinder repertoire takes more than two hands to count out, but the number of those dates that have turned into sex is far less.

This guy isn’t bad looking, per se.

His profile reads:

Sam Paris

21. 5 miles away

“One hell of a guy” – Fitness Today

“I wish I could be more like him” – Eric Cooper

“Simply the best” – Mom

I resist an epic eye roll. He has a really nice smile despite the dumbass review bio.

So instead of giving in to my usual pattern, my finger slides to the right. Immediately the screen lights up saying I have a match, and surprise sinks heavily in my stomach.

Sam Paris is the kind of guy that I would look at and admire in the halls during high school but never actually exchange any words with. It was a matter of social hierarchy—and I was only middle class.

While looking through the pictures he’s posted to his account, I get a little notification of a new message through the app.

| Hey, beautiful.

Well, it’s a good start if anything. Perhaps a little quick on the draw.

Standing up, I type out a quick reply and turn to look at myself in the mirror, only to grimace at the state of my hair and pale cheeks. It makes the scattering of beauty marks on my cheeks and chin really stand out. I need to get outside, maybe get some actual vitamin D and some color to my skin. But there isn’t any time to change things now.

| Do you wanna meet me at Bar 41 off High Street tonight?

His response is immediate.

| For you? Anything, babe. Just say jump.

This time I can’t stave it off—my eyes roll a little too far back into my skull to be healthy. My fingers hover over the screen when his next message comes up.

| You dtf?

I squirm just a little, but that’s what this is, right? This is what I want? It’s highly unlikely that I’m going to meet my end all, be all in the few minutes of scrolling on Tinder as I sit in the bathroom, desperate to make good on my claim to Cora that I am, in fact, going out tonight. It’s just that—that I’m going out.

So why not get laid while I’m at it?

I send him the least sexy emoji there is—a thumbs up—and set the phone down after asking if meeting in an hour is good with him.

Stripping off my baggy t-shirt and pajama shorts, I step into the shower. With the hot water turned to scalding, I settle under the spray and hope it’ll at least give me some pink-faced freshness. Giving my hair a quick wash, I soap up the rest of my body and run a hand up and down my legs before deciding I don’t need to shave. He isn’t worth the use of my razor.

Wrapping a towel around myself, I stand in front of the mirror and run some leave-in conditioner through the ends of my hair before looking through every drawer in the vanity for my hair brush. I almost let out an annoyed screech before I catch the bright yellow sticky note in the lower right corner of the mirror that says hair brush with an arrow pointing down. Low and behold, it’s right there in the revolving caddy on the counter next to the lotion I always forget to put on.

I yank at my hair with the brush till my scalp burns. It’ll have to air dry because I can’t be bothered to blow it dry, even if it means unruly waves. My roots are growing out beyond what looks good. I really need to get my hair touched up, but, you know, money. Blonde is a bitch to keep up. I watch the brush catch on the fading, black streaks woven in my hair and wonder if I should just go completely dark instead. It would certainly be something my mother would hate, but she wouldn’t even see it, so it isn’t worth switching it up.

My stomach growls—perhaps gummy bears weren’t a meal, after all—and I wonder if I can manage to get Sam to buy me something to eat along with a beer. I really fucking love cheese fries.

Dressed in a navy dress and nude wedges, I twirl in the mirror to check the length of the dress in the back and shrug. It’s a short walk to the bus stop down the block from our apartment, so I throw on my favorite cardigan to avoid the light chill in the autumn air that always raises goosebumps along my arms.

It takes nearly fifteen minutes for the next bus to arrive, and I think I could have just walked there, but in heels, I’ll cut as many corners as I can. I figure I’ll be about twenty minutes late by the time I get to the bar, which is the earliest I’ve been to something that isn’t work-related in a long time. Maybe he can just sweat a little while waiting for me.

At least that’s what I thought—until I get to the bar and can’t pick him out of the crowd. Checking our messages and his profile again, my brow furrows. Hell of a guy, for sure.

After ordering a beer at the bar, I sit on a stool and cross one leg tightly over the other, intent on taking up the least amount of space as possible. Taking a long pull from the frosted glass the bartender set in front of me, I can’t help but let out a little hum of satisfaction. At least I’m out of the house, which in itself is something of a miracle.

When my beer is half gone, there’s a gentle hand on my shoulder that startles me into looking up over my shoulder.

“Emme?”

His smile is even better in person.

“Sam?” I ask, taking in the Ralph Lauren polo and the entirely overwhelming scent of his cologne.

His hand slides down the curve of my arm to touch my wrist where it’s resting on my thigh. My scalp starts to get all tingly when he apologizes for running late, the sound of his voice smooth and charming. It has me eager for him to whisper directly into my ear.

“That’s all right—to be completely fair, I wasn’t here on time, either.” I shrug, a little bit of a coy smile pulling my mouth up. Drinking on a practically empty stomach is starting to hit fast.

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t feel like a total dick making you wait a little then.”

He orders a dark beer, and we make small talk while my eyes are drawn to the way he licks his lips after taking a drink from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.

I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the fact that I haven’t had sex in a few months, but I’m ready to go back to his place and get under him. Or on top of him. Whatever way he wants me.

Tilting my head to the side, I bite my bottom lip. “Are you as hungry as I am?” If I’m talking about more than food, who’s to say. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”

His eyebrows rise in surprise, and his eyes sweep down from my face to my heels in a fleeting pass before he blows out a breath of a chuckle. “Most girls don’t eat much when we go out. But yeah, let’s share some fries or something.”

I smile at him, biting back the fact that I don’t like to share food, and arch my back to lean in toward him as I place my hand on his thigh.

“Sounds great.”