in me. I listened and comforted and tried to offer advice as much as I could. But that wasn’t a reciprocated dynamic.
Sugar babies were meant to be low drama and soothing company, pretty sources of confidence-boosting companionship. It was very one-sided, but that’s why I got paid. I couldn’t show up at a job with baggage. I had to smile and laugh at all the right moments. Dish out compliments and flatter men the way they liked their egos stroked. So, as much as I knew their problems, I couldn’t share mine.
I shut my textbook and slouched in my chair. “This sucks.”
Snatching my phone off my desk, I scrolled through my recent texts. It had been four days since Noah knocked on my door and his texts had grown increasingly nasty toward the end. But the last one hurt the most.
My thumb swiped over my messages, opening up his texts as a painful reminder of where things stood. It should have cemented the accomplishment and taken Noah off my to-do list but, instead, reading his texts again only left me wallowing in doubts that his accusations were right on the money—maybe fear did control me more than anything else.
* * *
I don’t know why I ever wanted someone who doesn’t even have the basic manners to answer the phone. Have a nice fucking life.
* * *
I ruined it. Or he did. Maybe we both did. Did the autopsy really matter? Our relationship was pronounced dead the moment I said goodbye to him the morning after our date and I needed to wrap up the wake.
But his angry words remained on my phone, a lingering reminder of how I could manage to fuck up just about anything if I tried hard enough. A reminder that I wasn’t worth the work, as he eventually gave up and moved on.
It was a new year and I had nothing better to do than bathe in my own self-pity. Since I’d spent the holidays alone again, and only interacted with men who believed I was someone else, no one suspected how down I could get this time of year.
There was so much confusion on top of my usual holiday depression I felt drunk on a toxic cocktail. I needed something to cheer me up. The new semester had just started and wasn’t filling the void in my life the way it usually did. I didn’t have any appointments until tomorrow night. I’d go insane by then if I didn’t get the hell out of this apartment.
I scrolled through my contacts, my thumb pressing down on the only other person who might cheer me up. He answered on the second ring.
“Avery. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.”
“I miss you.”
Micah made a noise that said he didn’t mind hearing that he was in my thoughts. “You sound … down.”
“Am I interrupting you?” Maybe I had seasonal depression.
“Interruptions tend to be unpleasant. I never mind hearing from you. Is there something you need?”
And that was the perk of being a sugar baby. Some of my Daddies made it their business to take care of me. Their role in my life made them feel necessary, powerful, and satisfied, while I felt momentarily adored in a world of make-believe.
They achieved real emotions from the fake role I played. But with Micah, it wasn’t always fake. He was my first and he knew me better than all the others.
“Can we go somewhere? Do something?”
“Are you free tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It’s still early. Why don’t I set an appointment for you at the spa? I’ll spoil you and take you to dinner around seven.”
“Thank you, Micah.”
He was so generous. He helped me get my apartment, bought me clothes, and pampered me. It had been three and a half years since meeting him, and once school was finished my business as a sugar baby would conclude. I wasn’t sure I wanted to let him go when that happened and those feelings had been confusing our arrangement lately—at least on my end.
“Tonight’s on me, Micah.”
“Avery.” His deep voice was thick with objection. “That’s not how this works. You know better. The moment you start doing favors it stops being a job and starts being a hobby. Hobbies don’t pay the bills.”
“I still have…” It was bad form to discuss one Daddy with another. The game was to make them feel like the only man that mattered. Micah knew I had multiple clients. He’s the one who started me in this line of work. “Sorry.”
“We’ll discuss