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I stood. “Hey, I think I’m gonna cut out.”
Mike didn’t open his eyes. “Okay. Thanks, man. I appreciate you.”
“Yeah. Eat the soup,” I said.
“I will eat the soup.”
I waved goodbye to Larissa before she could turn the blender off, took my dog, and I left.
6
LARISSA
Lexi pulled up in front of the apartment at 5:45 a.m. to pick me up for work.
“Hey,” I said, getting in her car.
She was putting her makeup on in the mirror. She had her black hair in two French braids—we got better tips when we wore it that way, but lately I didn’t have the energy for anything more than a messy bun or a quick ponytail.
I usually didn’t have the energy.
“Hey.” She smacked her lips and tossed her red lipstick into the cupholder. “Stop for cappuccinos or nah?”
“I can’t afford cappuccinos,” I said, buckling myself. “So nah.”
“I’m so sick of being broke,” she said. “You know what we need? Sugar daddies.”
I pulled down the visor. “I have a boyfriend, remember?”
“Totally different thing.” She put the car in gear. “Seriously, we should do it. Just go to lunch with some rich old guy and they give you like, three hundred bucks. Once, a sugar daddy took me to Edina and bought me a Coach bag and like, four hundred dollars’ worth of Clinique,” she said, pulling away from the curb. “I don’t even like Clinique, but I felt like I had to take it before he came to his senses.”
I turned to stare at her. “This is a thing you’ve actually done?”
“I mean, yeah. Sugar daddies are awesome.”
“But… what if they want sex?”
“You don’t give it to them? Most of them are just lonely. They want to talk, have someone to have dinner with. They’re usually pretty sweet.”
I shook my head. “You kill me.”
“I’m just sayin’. We’re never gonna get rich working at Donna’s.”
“No, we’re not,” I mumbled, putting my purse on my lap to dig for my eyelash curler. “I’ve got like seven jobs and I’m still not getting rich.”
“Seven? I thought you were just doing the soup thing.”
“No. I’ve been picking up side jobs for the last few weeks. Trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills and the credit cards. I’m donating plasma.”
“Ewww,” she said, making a face.
“It’s a hundred and twenty dollars twice a week—too much money not to do it. I need to find something else though. I’m getting tired of the pricks.”
“I’m telling you, sugar daddies. Their pricks don’t work.”
I laughed while I put on my mascara at a red light.
“Maybe you should sell your dirty socks,” she said.
