Sugar

“Oh…” Drawn into the sultry ripples, I ran my fingers along the gently pleated chiffon. It wasn’t satin but somehow better. “Can I try it on?”

“Of course.”

Once in the dressing room, I shimmied out of my clothes and Twyla helped me with the zipper. The dress fit like a second skin and draped perfectly along my curves.

“What do I do about this?” I gestured to the plunging neckline that plummeted to my lowest rib.

Twyla arched a brow. “Nothing. You look incredible. That dress was made for you.”

Now, for the painful part… “How much?”

“Retail, it originally went for nine. I can go as low as one-fifty for you. One seventy-five if you want it pressed. Two if you need a hem.”

“The nude Nappa pumps out there. I left them by the jewelry—”

“Perfect!” Twyla snapped her fingers and disappeared, returning to the dressing room a second later with the heels in hand.

Mindful of my still tender ankle, I slipped the shoes onto my feet. Finding my balance, I stepped onto the pedestal facing the half octagon of mirrors.

“How do I look?”

“My God. What I wouldn’t give to have your body just for a day.”

I smiled at the sweet compliment, but no amount of flattery removed the longing for a Philly cheesesteak and a chance to sleep in rather than hit the gym every day at dawn. This body took a ton of work.

“Thanks. I’ll take it.”

“And lucky you, with those shoes, you won’t need any alterations.”

I left the gown with Twyla so it could get steamed and delivered to my apartment in an hour. I took a cab to Jeweler’s Row.

I only shopped for wear and toss jewelry. If the paste held the stones for one night, I got my money’s worth and walked away with money in the bank.

Settling on a stunning black choker and sophisticated studs, I’d found the perfect compliments to the red gown. Everything I knew came from watching others, fashion sense like, sometimes less was more.

As I left the store and hailed a cab, I reevaluated my spending. One-seventy-five on a dress, forty on shoes, eighty-five on jewelry. And hair and makeup shouldn’t be more than one-thirty—including tip.

I prided myself on being a generous tipper since I, too, benefited from the practice. My total cost came in under five hundred but looked over a thousand, a successful shopping spree if I ever saw one.

I made excellent time and saved over seven hundred dollars to put toward tuition—plus the money I’d make tonight.

Leave it to Micah, the man who introduced me to the sugar baby profession, to also remind of the perks. The price of financial independence only cost me a little time each week.

I never expected to be a sugar baby or, more impressively, a college graduate. When I earned a scholarship and packed up my childhood bedroom back in Blackwater, I had doubts that I’d succeed. I feared I’d eventually return to that shithole called home.

My brothers left years before, long after my mother drank herself into a depression that deteriorated into abuse. But I couldn’t abandon her completely. Maybe I was fucked up, but she needed help and I was the only person willing to help her.

But I was never going back. I lived with the mentality of an animal willing to gnaw off its own leg to escape a bad situation. Blackwater was a graveyard of broken dreams and disillusioned folks with more faith in scratch-off tickets than labor laws.

I’d been a kid when I realized getting out meant depending on myself and clawing my way to the top even when exhaustion and hunger held me down. I’d do whatever it took to break away from that past, even if it meant leaving others behind.

My life didn’t have time for moral reflection or guilt. I was too busy surviving. Everything in this world came with a price, and the one thing people were always claiming they couldn’t buy was youth.

I was young enough, pretty enough, and I had enough brains to know sometimes you had to rob Peter to pay Paul. Being a sugar baby meant borrowing against my youth to afford a better future.

Less than one year of college left, and I’d be a certified teacher, qualified to earn a respectable income and live a normal life anywhere I pleased. Once I landed a real job, I’d never have to return to Blackwater again, and I’d never have to fake attraction again.

“What do you think?” The stylist turned my chair away from the make-up artist, and I faced a reflection too pretty to be me.

“Wow.” It never ceased to amaze me how easily they could transform a backwoods trailer park nobody with once mousey brown hair and freckles into a classy, sexy siren. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

My hair, no longer light brown since having numerous blonde highlights threaded throughout, spun like expensive silk into a wavy bun with impressive height atop my head. And my makeup was drop-dead perfect. Smoked out eyes with gold shimmer accents around the corners, heavy lash extensions, deeply contoured cheekbones, and the perfect nude shade of gloss to give my mouth the sort of pout men went crazy for. Micah would be very pleased.