Page 6 of Sugar Baby Mine

He really is pretty. It’s such a shame.

Waiting another couple breaths, I roll off the bed and swing up to my feet. I tiptoe around the room collecting my underwear—which aren't even damp—and my dress before putting them back on along with my wedges. I step into the hallway and close his bedroom door with a softclickbehind me.

Finding his bathroom, I use the toilet. After washing my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. My hair hardly even looks mussed, only a few misplaced hairs at the back of my head from being against the mattress. I run my fingers through the strands and fix my bangs. My roots look darker than normal under his LED lights. Pulling the hair tie off my wrist, I pull my hair up into a tight ponytail and run my hand down the side of my neck and sigh.

Not that I really care, because it’s Sam fucking Paris, but he didn’t even left a mark. I can’t feel where his hands were on my thighs, his teeth against my skin, his hips pressed against my own—can’t feel any of it. Part of me whines with disappointment.

Shaking my head, I open his medicine cabinet: razor, shaving cream, four different types of obnoxious cologne, Tylenol, Tums, contact lenses, mouthwash…how boring.

I head to his kitchen and collect my purse from where I dropped it on the counter on the way in. Opening his fridge, I cringe at the fact that there’s nothing inside. Clearly, this man has money considering he’s living in a one bedroom in Soho, but it’s screamingmommy and daddy’s money. I take a bottle of water from his fridge before leaving the apartment.

I should have robbed him blind.

The door locks behind me when I pull it closed. At least I don’t have to worry about some serial killer walking into his apartment and having an easy go of him. I’d feel bad watching that on the news, after all.

It’s not even 11 p.m. when I check the time on my phone.

As I step out of the apartment lobby and into the chill of the night air, it dawns on me that I’ve forgotten my cardigan. Myfavoritecardigan. Closing my eyes, I hesitate in the middle of the sidewalk.

Nope, not doing it. Not going back.

Shaking my head, I throw my purse over my shoulder. Winding my arms around myself, I make my way down the block before stopping to sit on the curb underneath the streetlight. I check my phone, waiting for the Lyft I reluctantly ordered in the elevator. Leaning forward against my knees, I watch the cars pass while trying to keep track of my surroundings.

Why is every date the same? When I try to be picky, it doesn’t work because I’m too particular. When I don’t put a whole lot of thought into it, things still turn out the same.

My stomach rumbles, and I can’t help but think of how Cora’s date might be going and what kind of food they’re eating. My mouth waters just thinking about it. If I could, I would hex Sam Paris into the next fucking realm for hogging our singular order of cheese fries. Let alone the disappointing sex.

The numbers in my bank account are dwindling with the hefty sum of my loan payments and a medical bill that keeps looming over my head from years ago. I’m still living on ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches two years out of college.

Living with Cora is great because I wouldn’t be able to survive without her. I would literally be homeless. Returning home to my parents is not an option. But she’s always pushing things on me: food, clothes, Lyft fare—Oh, this my treat…Don’t worry about this one, cousin, there’s always next time—except that she keeps saying the same things the next time it comes up again.

I’m tired of being a charity case.

Though Cora would claim it isn’t like that—always saying that we’re family and we have to stick together—there’s still something that makes me feel like shit about it. I don’t like handouts. I don’t like feeling helpless. I don’t like feeling like a burden.

Even though she’s the only other family who didn’t turn their back on me, who didn’t decide to pretend like I just didn’t exist anymore, she can’t be my crutch forever.

My hands start to shake. I clench them into tight fists until I feel the sharp sting of my fingernails in my palms. It hurts so deeply, I feel it in my chest. Pulling my hands up, I stare down at my palms as my fingers uncurl. Scattered lines of dozens of little, silver half-moons of raised skin in my palms stare up at me along with the newly, red-indented skin from the fresh press of my fingernails. I rub them over my knees furiously, like that’ll get rid of the scars, too.

A car pulls up, a Lyft sign proudly on display. I confirm with the driver and then slide into the backseat. We sit in a silence that I don’t mind on the drive home. I lean against the door and press my forehead against the window, a low sigh trudging out of my throat as I watch the traffic and streetlights pass.

When I pull up my phone, the screen lights my face in the dark. I hope the driver can’t see just how tired I suddenly feel in his rearview mirror.

Tapping on my conversation thread with Cora, I hesitate as the keyboard pops up on screen. There are red sirens blaring in my mind, about a thousand possible reasons why this is a bad idea, but all it takes is one good one for me to press send on the message.

|So what’s this about Fred’s business partner?

Chapter 3

|GIRL

|You’re serious right now??

|Please tell me you’re seriously asking

|As serious as I can be

|I’m tired of disappointing Tinder dates and even more disappointingsex

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