Sugar

My date, an obnoxious prick I only saw on occasion, rattled on about himself and all the ways he saved the day at work this week. I knew his sort well, type-A personality, little dick, terrible in bed because they couldn’t stop blowing themselves long enough to take care of the girl. My fake smile cemented on my face for a solid three hours before my cheeks went numb.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “You know what, Richard, I suddenly don’t feel so good. I’m so sorry to do this to you, but do you think you might be able to drive me home?”

An easy excuse, being that germaphobia trumped the reasons why Richard remained single. He arched back as far as his stool would allow.

“Is it your stomach or chest? Maybe you should take a cab?”

Was he fucking kidding? “It’s just a headache.”

His shoulders sagged. “Oh. Sure. I’ll have the valet grab my car.”

The ride home passed in a tribute to himself and by the time I stepped out of the car, I considered the night worth every penny I’d earned, regardless of cutting it short. When the elevator opened to my floor, bass pounded through the walls, and muffled voices carried. My steps slowed as I eyed Noah’s door, open a crack.

No. I should just go to bed.

Sliding my key into the lock, I pressed into my dark, silent apartment and looked back over my shoulder at my neighbor’s apartment longingly.

It was a losing battle and my curiosity—the same curiosity that killed the stupid cat—won. “Damn it.”

I adjusted my dress and drew back my shoulders before crossing the hall. My fingers tapped lightly on the door, and it eased open.

Couples gathered in every corner and perched on every free surface of furniture. This was just a few friends from work? Wow, his job certainly looked different than mine.

Cheerful conversations and laughter emphasized the easy mood of the living room. Noah was nowhere in sight. I scanned the crowd and made eye contact with a few men dressed in high-end suits and wearing an edge of class. No one wore jeans, and the appetizers Noah mentioned consisted of an omelet station in his den and a gourmet crepe station by the dining room. What kind of party was this?

“Hi. I’m Steve. Are you a friend of Noah’s?” Steve looked to be in his late twenties, not wealthy enough to afford me and too handsome and personable to require my services.

“I’m his neighbor.”

“Oh. Can I get you a drink? I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s—”

“Avery. Johansson.” Noah’s voice stole my attention and a few others’ as he spoke my name as if tasting each syllable. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s bad manners to arrive late to a party and not let the host know?”

My mother taught me how to shoplift and fix a shoe with duct tape. She also taught me what drunk looked like, which I was pretty sure Noah was.

He sauntered clumsily across the room and pressed an empty glass into Steve’s chest, then draped a heavy arm over my shoulder, depositing enough of his weight to make my legs stiffen.

“You’re late, Ms. Johansson.” His breath, warm and alcohol scented, fanned over my cheek. An inappropriate chill raced down my spine.

I carefully extricated my body out from under his arm. “Sorry. I had an appointment.”

His eyes narrowed, one more than the other as if trying to see through a monocle lens that wasn’t there. “An appointment? Or a date?”

Wouldn’t you like to know?

I took his glass from Steve and sniffed it. “Mmm. A honey bourbon man. Steve, I’ll take that drink now. Why don’t you show me where the bar is?”

Noah frowned as I walked away with his friend.

Steve seemed like a nice guy. Interesting and full of trivial knowledge. We fell into a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill with a few other guests while I finished my brown derby cocktail. Several women drank mint juleps, and there seemed a sort of Connecticut class underplayed in the room.

I prided myself in adapting quickly to the setting. Being a sugar baby meant possessing an apt skill to reading a room and sometimes acting as a chameleon, switching roles at a moment’s notice. I fit in fine with Noah’s friends, and that seemed to confuse Noah all the more, which I loved.

By the time I reached the bottom of my glass, I’d seen enough. Three martinis with Richard and one brown derby put me over my limit. Plus, my feet were killing me in these heels.

I excused myself to find the kitchen and deposited my glass in the sink. Noah’s apartment appeared a mirror image of mine, so it didn’t take long. However, his kitchen was prettier, and that pissed me off.

Distracted by the cathedral moldings and glazed cabinetry, I didn’t hear him come in behind me.