PARTI
“I want to be your Sugar Daddy.”
1
YOU’RE SAFE WITH ME
CHELSEA
“Kneel for me, good girl.”
My lips parted and the tray I was holding wobbled. “W-what?” I asked in a disbelieving voice.
I didn’t know what I had signed up for. Last week, I was drunk and sobbing to my best friend about how Caleb, a guy I used to have a crush on, was dating not one, but two people, and they were both extremely hot. It was a minor rebound crush because my previous relationship ended terribly. I was hollow and lying in bed with no motivation to get up when Maya had called me and asked me about my gaunt appearance.
I had graduated with a business major, but I was unemployed and my rent was due. Returning to Coral Springs meant giving up my life in Los Angeles, and I wasn’t willing to do that.
“What should I do?” I bawled, clinging to my childhood penguin soft-toy, making sure I didn’t leave any snot over it.
Maya rolled her eyes at me from the screen as I propped my ancient laptop on the single size bed. “Stop crying and apply for some jobs. What happened to that catering one?”
I sniffled, wiping my tears. “The boss was a pervert, and the pay wasn’t much, so I quit.” I didn’t mention that the catering job as a server was for the parties filled with druggies and drunk rich kids whose parents were celebrities or musicians.
“Babes, you’re in LA and you’re hot.” She fixed her glasses and gave me a look—the same determined look she gave me when we were in eighth grade and had to win a relay race, and she had after I passed the baton to her—to get my shit together. “Caleb was cute, no doubt about it, but you need to stop crying over boys when you have rich men hovering around you.”
I pouted, even though I knew she was right. “Do you think I can land a hot sugar daddy?” I joked, lying down on the pillow and sighing. It wasn’t about Caleb, it was about how every man I date turned out to be a weirdo.
“Hot and sugar daddy doesn’t belong in the same sentence,” she replied, her fingers typing furiously on her laptop. “I’ve to finish up this thesis, so I’ll call you later. Love you, bubble.”
“Love you more, button,” I said lovingly, ending the call. I stared at the dark black screen, wishing my best-friend was with me and giving me a hug. When did I grow up so much that we lived in different states, different time-zones where we had to schedule our calls?
I sighed, sitting up on the bed and searched for jobs that were now hiring. I drank straight from the cheap wine bottle, scrolling through a few listings. My eyes widened at one of them. It was a basic server job with three hundred dollars per hour. I could pay off the rent in three hours of work—I jumped at hearing the loud slam of the door. One of my roommates was a twenty something guy who was annoying and always slammed doors.Jerk.
Rolling my eyes, I looked back at the listing and slapped my forehead. I had accidentally sent them my resume without reading everything.Oh well. I couldn’t do anything about it.
And that’s how I ended up in a swanky strip club wearing nothing but a tiny black dress a week later. If I bent over just a little, I’d flash them my pussy, which was covered in a tiny thong. I had to skip my bra, since the dress was so tight it stuck to my skin.
I was serving cocktails to the second floor with a heady song playing in the background. It was not a cheap strip club. The patrons looked rich in their three-piece suits and fancy gowns. Most of them were old, but I had eyed two handsome men in the VIP booth.
Yes, VIP booths had their own selection of expensive strippers dancing for them, but surprisingly, they didn’t want anyone.
Maybe they were gay.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, since they were good looking—I had to deliver them their drinks. I had already served them once with a smoked salmon appetizer. I was nervous about getting catcalled or groped, but all they did was thank me before going back to their conversation.
They were definitely weird and looked a little out of place with their sharp looks and disinterest in me.
Especially the man in thin black-framed glasses who didn’t glance once in my direction.
I balanced the sleek tray in my hands and wondered if I wasn’t his type? But I was good looking, with blow-dried blond hair and blue eyes.
Maybe he was gay or married—but why come to the strip club if you’re married?
Shaking off those thoughts, I went to their VIP booth. Black suede couch with a table in the middle and an empty dancing pole in the center. They must have paid extra to have a little chat without a stripper.
I gently served their drinks and a bottle of wine they had ordered and was about to leave when the man in thin framed glasses looked up from the file he was holding.
His veiny hands stopped going through the pages of the file, his expensive watch glinting with the fancy lighting.
