Page 1 of Sweeter

Chapter1

Marley

My sugar daddy is late. That’s fine, I guess—he’s the one with all the money. I sit, ignoring the numbness in my butt and rehearse the interview I’ll give about this, one day.

The journalist will start with the usual questions; my critically acclaimed labia teacups, the actress photographed in my bone and silk ribbon necklace, the art programs I run for underprivileged kids. When we’re done fluffing my ego, the journalist will lean in with a conspiratorial smile. “Ms. Ellis, there are rumors you found an…unconventional way to support yourself while you were starting your career.”

I smile mischievously. “You mean my adventures in Sugarbabyland? What would you like to know?”

The journalist gives a shocked laugh. “You’re not…ashamed?”

“Of course, I’m not ashamed! When I came to Montana, I could barely afford to eat. That’s shameful. The arrangement I had with Henry was lovely. We spent many wonderful nights together.”

“And he paid you for the privilege?”

There’s a slut-shamey intonation in the journalist’s voice, but I’m future Marley Ellis; successful, middle-aged and still Susan Sarandon hot. I don’t take shit from anyone. “He did, and I don’t regret a thing. Like my teacups, my relationships come in all shapes and sizes and each tells its own story.”

Yeah, that’s the perfect way to end the conversation, by acting all classy and charming and French. Forget that I’m not classy and my charm—according to the bulk of my ex-boyfriends—is a very acquired taste and I’m not French. I can’t tell the journalist I’m trying to become a sugar baby because I’m so cold at night I genuinely fear losing toes, and my car and clothes and general wellbeing are running on borrowed time. Then she’ll ask why I didn’t ‘get a real job,’ and the answer is, I fuckingtried,but waiting tables after ten hours of throwing clay turned me into a zombie. And I didn’t come to Montana to be a zombie, dammit, I came to make it as an artist.

Yeah, yeah, I know a lot of hacks say that, but Iam. I’m the youngest person to get a residency at the prestigious Blue Lodge here in Bozeman. I’ve had three gallery openings. People haveweptover the things I’ve made. I was born to do more than pull beers at fake cowboy saloons, I just need a break. I need tonotfind my toes rattling at the end of my bed like a gift to the goddamn toe fairy. And if that means being in this bar in my tightest dress so I can convince a forty-seven-year-old to hire me as his lady companion, so be it. Even if we just have this one date, it’ll be worth it.

I drum my fingers against my margarita tumbler. I hope Henry—probably not his real name—hurries up; I’m nursing the hell out of this drink and the bartender is giving me the ‘move along, cheapskate’ look. Plonk isn’t cheap, not the bar or the stuff the bar’s named for. I can’t afford another cocktail. I scan my surroundings. No tall, slightly balding dudes in sight, just the usual Thursday night crowd—young professionals, couples with intimacy issues…and a lot of attractive women. There’s a platinum blonde on her phone, a redhead with a beer, an Angelina Jolie type sipping a martini. I’ve worked at my share of bars and you never see this many hot chicks drinking alone. It’s strange. I glance at the woman on the next barstool. She’s another solo stunner, all brown eyes and lush hair. I’d kill for those waves. My hair grows in tornado tunnels and if I try to do anything to it, it looks like amateur hour at the bird’s nest.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you here with anyone?”

She frowns, not like I’m a creep, but like she’s finding this situation strange, too. “I’m supposed to be meeting a guy.”

“Me too, who—”

Plonk’s front door slams open. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Henry, but it’s some douche in a snapback cap and a puffy Patagonia jacket. He rushes to the bar and starts yammering, like his need for single-malt whiskey is a national crisis. I roll my eyes. The tech boom means Bozeman is slowly becoming Brozeman—bro capital of the United Bro-States of Bro-merica. ‘Entrepreneurs’ come here for the snow and the slower pace of life and they ruin it, because that is the nature of bros. They nudge locals out of the housing market, open pretentious, password-only speakeasies and flood the streets with expensive work trucks even though they need work trucks like I need a second anus. They are the worst.

I turn to continue my conversation with my hot neighbour, but she’s eyeing Tech Bro like he’s not wearing a kid hat in a bar. Whatever. I hope she makes her move before his friends show up and start doing shots of Fireball and planning their trip to Machu Picchu.

I prod my now-watery margarita. I’m no psychic, but this date seems like a bust and every minute I hang around, it gets colder outside. I blow out a hard breath, trying to shift some disappointment. I’m a happy person generally, but I’m getting tired of thinking things can change for the better when all they do is change for the—

“Uh, excuse me ladies?”

I blink. Tech Bro is standing in the middle of the bar, his hands clasped like he’s about to give a TED talk. He’s taken off his jacket to reveal a long-sleeved navy thermal. I instantly respect the hottie beside me much more. Tech bro or not, that is a fuckingtorso. He’s tall too. In fact his whole vibe is very ‘2009 Abercrombie and Fitch’—before the company tried to distance itself from shirtless beefcakes and aggressive preppiness.

“What do you want?” the redhead with the beer demands. If her tone is anything to go by, her night has been as fun as mine.

Tech Bro clears his throat. “Are any of you guys—women—here for a date with Henry Macintyre?”

My insides whoosh, like I’ve sat in a chair much lower than I thought it was.

“Why?” Angelina Jolie asks.

“It’s…complicated.”

The Glamazon beside me stands, revealing a super toned bod and a height that rivals Tech Bro’s. She glares at him, all signs of attraction gone. “What’s going on? Do you know Henry?”

Tech Bro rubs a well-defined forearm. “So, my frien—roommate, Felix, got dumped and created an account on Sugarbabyland as, I dunno, some kind of asshole revenge move. I’m sorry, but Henry doesn’t exist. This whole thing was a scam.”

Gasps echo around the bar. The platinum blonde slams down her phone and Glamazon snaps, ‘what thefuck?’

I know I should be angry too, but ‘should’ has never held as much water for me as my parents, teachers, or boyfriends wanted. I’ve already lost hope this date was legit and the more I think about Henry being an embittered tech bro, the more I think this might be funny. Itfeelsfunny. Laughter is bubbling up inside me like champagne. I cup a precautionary hand to my mouth.

“You’re lying!” Glamazon snarls. “Henry and I have been talking for ages! He’s a beef importer from Raleigh! He’s divorced and has two kids and he’s meeting me here tonight!”

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