"You too," I say, "I guess I'd better let you get some sleep. I'll be in touch about the twentieth."
Paula nods in understanding of the date of our first public appearance and slowly disappears behind the door as it closes.
I make my way back to the limo feeling conflicted.
I really wanted that good night kiss.
Paula
"You ready for our big debut?"
Brighton's voice pulls me from my thoughts as our limo turns a corner and joins a line of other stretched limousines and high end luxury cars waiting to drop off their occupants at the edge of the red carpet.
It's not the Oscars-- thank God-- but this charity fundraiser for the art museum has almost as many celebrities on the guest list.
"No." I answer him honestly with a snort.
"You're going to be fine." He laughs at my nervousness and offers my knee a friendly pat. "This is just like any other event, there's just more cameras."
I roll my eyes at his nonchalance.
Brighton's been attending star-studded events like this for nearly a decade. He's used to rubbing elbows with the art world elite, including the high profile names that support the arts.
"Don't worry," he tells me as our car comes to a stop and our driver opens the rear door, revealing the press-flanked aisle of carpet leading to the museum doors, "Taylor Swift is here, the press doesn't give a shit about us peons, so if you're going to choke on a whole shrimp, tonight's the night to do it."
In our last few weeks together, Brighton has learned how to make me laugh. That's for sure.
So far, I've been to 3 events with Brighton; a couple of gallery openings for up and coming artists in the southern California area and an auction where I watched him bid half a million dollars on a painting by some guy I'd never even heard of.
He didn't win.
I guess it was a pretty big deal because he had a client who wanted it pretty badly.
This whole art thing has been a crazy experience for this small town America girl. I never knew there was even such a thing as an art broker till I met Brighton.
"There's a middle man for everything," he'd said when I brought it up, "and if filthy rich people can pay someone else to do it for them-- they will."
And getting introduced to what "filthy rich" really means has been jaw dropping. By my counts, Brighton qualifies as pretty damn rich-- I've seen his home-- but then I started meeting his clients.
"Believe me, we're the bottom dwellers," he'd told me after that first show he took me to, talking about himself and the other brokers and dealers there, "the riff raff that scurries around hoping to snatch up any morsels the upper crust might drop.:
"Fortunately, they drop some pretty good morsels," he'd added with a wink and grin.
Morsels. I recall the term he used and try not to let him catch me rolling my eyes. It's been a challenge to nod and smile while listening to the ultra rich go on about their struggles of not being able to land their private jets on their private island runways or how inconvenient it is that such and such marina will only sell up to 100 gallons of fuel in one purchase and that's just not enough to fill the tanks on their yacht.
It's weird to meet people who actually have lived their whole lives so privileged that they don't even realize how out of touch with reality they are.
"Is that woman going to be here tonight?" I ask Brighton as he reaches back into the car for my hand.
"Pamalla?" he asks with a knowing laugh, "I doubt it. She rarely shows up to anything where she won't be the center of attention."
"Good."
Pam-ahhhh-la has definitely been one of the more colorful characters I've met so far. She's in her 80s, on her 12th husband, wears enough jewelry to make Zsa Zsa Gabor feel like a plain Jane, and has zero boundaries.
She took a liking to me at the first gallery showing Brighton took me to and I had to ask one of the caterer's servers to let me hide in the kitchen to get away from her.
Brighton hasn't let me live it down since he found me deep in a conversation with the caterer over preferences for vanilla extracts.
"Watermelon," he whispers at me as we prepare to exit the car.
The inside joke makes me laugh a bit too hard to be lady-like, but it ensures that my smile is genuine as I take Brighton's hand and do my best to gracefully exit the limo without flashing the crowd or putting a 4 inch spiked heel through the hem of the floor length, $12,000 designer gown that is merely on loan to me for the night.
"You look beautiful, by the way," Brighton's breath is warm against my ear as he whispers the compliment. It sends a shiver down my naked spine and I hope the stage-worthy makeup I'm wearing covers the blush I feel heating my cheeks.
In the past few weeks, I've gotten to spend enough time with Brighton that I'm comfortable with him and I'd even dare to say we might be friends. But that doesn't keep my skin from tingling where ever he touches me every time his fingers lightly graze my arm or my bare shoulder as he steers me gently down the red carpet, up the steps, and through the glass doors till we get to the foyer.
Then his arm is draped behind me and his fingers press lightly but firmly into my hip.
He hands our invitation to the woman inside with her hand out for them and I try to keep breathing as his fingers apply just enough pressure to pull me closer to him.
The woman checks our names on the guest list and welcomes us warmly even though she's clearly perturbed that we're not any of the "important" guests on the list tonight.
Brighton makes quick small talk with her anyway while I stand entirely too close to him and try not to get drunk on his cologne.
Having a sugar daddy has been good so far: I have a nice place to live in a safe neighborhood without the stress of worrying how I'll come up with the rent or the utility bills every month. Well, I don't have to worry about those things for another 7 months anyway, since Brighton made it clear that my housing will be covered till the end of the year whether our arrangement works out or not.
It's allowed me to focus on getting my shit back together so I never end up needing someone else to pay my rent again. I enrolled in a couple of online finance classes and I was able to pick up a part time job at a cute little bakery that I stumbled into on one of my morning walks.
Knowing that sex isn't part of our deal has made it easy to just be myself with Brighton, and I'm pretty sure that he's not trying to impress me either. Not that he needs to do anything else to impress me. I mean, he's paying my rent, for crying out loud!
My rent, my utilities, my gym membership, he bought me a new wardrobe, he sent me to a really fancy salon in Beverly Hills, and he gives me a monthly allowance to spend however I want-- which, aside from the college classes, I've mostly been squirreling away in a savings account.
If I find myself out on my ass at the end of the year, I don't want to end up knocking on Aunt Stacey's door again.
Still...part of me wishes Brighton was interested in a more traditional sugar baby/sugar daddy set up.
I totally understand why he doesn't need to pay a woman's bills in order to get laid. I mean-- look at him!
Look at him is exactly what I do at that point.
We've been herded through the velvet ropes to one of the tiny stage set ups in front of the museum benefit backdrops for the obligatory photos.
Some of the photos from tonight will end up in People Magazine, some will end up in the arts section of various other magazines and websites. Brighton and I will most likely get lost in the archived photos of the 15 or so photographers snapping shots of whoever comes across the stage.
I feel a little like I'm at the prom.
Mostly, I feel a little overwhelmed by all the commotion and the excitement. There's a string quartet playing. The sound of conversation reverberates off the marble walls, punctuated by the clink of wine glasses and the staccato click of high heels on the polished floors. Glimpses of famous faces distract me now and then and pull my attention down a different hallway or
into a new exhibit room.
But my gaze always comes back to rest on Brighton.
Looking like sex in a tuxedo, he's moved across the room to greet an older couple that he appears to know well after bringing me a flute of Champagne and introducing me to at least half a dozen people already.
Sure, he's hot. With that wayward little cowlick over his temple that makes it impossible for him to do anything with his hair other than look like he just woke up or came straight off the beach from a jog, and those gray-green eyes that always look like he knows more than he's saying.
I just didn't expect to like him so much.
Brighton
Standing across the room from her, I watch Paula make polite conversation with a couple from up north while I deflect Rachael's questions about Chloe's party next month.
I still hope to secure an invitation to this year's event and I don't want to let on that I haven't received one yet.
Getting in good with Chloe opens me up to a whole new level of clientele. After last season's fiasco, I had to do a hell of a lot of groveling just to save face. It might have been a disaster, but everyone knew I was there.
If I'm not there again for her summer soiree, word's likely to get around that it's because I offended Chloe.
Offending Chloe is not in the best interest of my career.
So I turn the conversation back onto Rachael's latest work toward using street art in the revitalization efforts of her district and how it's working to improve community pride and reduce graffiti and-- more importantly to Rachael-- earn her a bid on a supervisor position in her county.
That does the trick and Rachael's off on a tangent about the hardships of being a woman in politics and how hard it is to break through the "good ol' boy" network in her local government.
I bite my tongue and decide not to point out that her county currently has more female supervisors than male.
Not arguing with Rachael allows me a chance to observe Paula and see how my sugar baby is adapting to her role.
I really hate calling her that. Must think up something else, I tell myself.
She's holding her own in what appears to be a serious conversation with a couple that I don't recognize.
Paula's posture is perfect and I'm impressed at how well she keeps her balance on the heels I know she's wearing, even though the floor length hem of the gown hides her feet.
She holds her champagne flute with a delicate grip between recently manicured fingers with her nails sporting a pale shade of peach that shimmers every so slightly in the halogen spot lights overhead when her hand moves.
When I met her, she looked good but a little over tired and under nourished. The gown she's wearing tonight is fitted and the weight she's put on shows-- well. Very well.
Paula never had that shapeless, human clothes-hanger look that most designers like because it makes their clothing center stage verses the woman wearing it. Which is why I was thrilled when Shanon agreed to let Paula wear this gown tonight.
This gown was made for a woman with curves and I'm pleased to see that Paula's new sugar baby status has given her a chance to stop putting so much energy into just keeping her head above water so she can start taking care of herself again.
Knowing I'm the reason she can do that fills me with a sense of pride I hadn't expected when I decided to do the sugar daddy thing.
Rachael has found a new target for her political campaigning and that opens up the opportunity I've been waiting for to get back to my date. Just in time to save her from her newest best friend-- none other than the infamous Pamalla.
"Pamalla!" I swoop in, cutting off her path toward Paula just in time, "I didn't know you were going to be here tonight."
The eccentric old lady is not to be deterred, however and she drags me along in her wake as she closes the distance to Paula.
"Aren't you just the image of sugar and spice in that frock?" Pamalla gushes at Paula as I mouth silent apologies from behind the old lady's back.
Paula's eyes open wide in surprise at having her perfectly mature conversation with one of the event sponsors so harshly interrupted only to discover the one person she was least looking forward to running into tugging at her elbow.
I'm relieved to see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes as the corner of her lips twitch in a carefully controlled impulse to laugh as she notices my antics behind the clueless woman who is busy brushing her garishly long fake nails over Paula's breasts.
"Oh," Paula tries to escape Pamalla's inappropriate attentions with a graceful step backwards, "Pam, I-I didn't expect to see you tonight."
" 'Pa-MAH-la, Sugar-cub, remember?" Pamalla correct slash reminds Paula of her full name, while just as gracefully following Paula's step. If they keep it up, they'll be dancing.
"These are sewn in, then?" Pamalla's nails scratch lightly at the Swarovski crystals encrusting the bodice of Paula's gown.
Paula looks horrified and I hold my breath, praying that the stones really are secured-- that's a pricey gown on loan that I'd prefer not to return in worse condition than it was lent to us in.
"Yes, of course, Pamalla," Paula gently shoos Pamalla's hands off her bosom as I envy the woman's boldness for reaching out for whatever catches her attention without fear of repercussions. But I suppose that's the sort of indulgence afforded to people like Pamalla-- being uber rich and generous with it tends to let you get away with being slightly crazy.
"Let me get you a refill, Sugar-cub," I manage to push Pamalla back about 4 inches as I take Paula's nearly empty glass from her, repeating the endearment that Pam just bestowed on Paula just to see if I can make her break into that laughter she's been trying so hard to suppress.
It works.
Just as I grab another glass off a passing tray, Paula loses her composure before she can take the drink from my hand.
Her lips twitch and for second it looks like she's trying to stifle an on-coming sneeze. Maybe it would have worked if Pamalla didn't suddenly lean into Paula's face so close that I think the old woman is going to lay a healthy kiss on her and shout "watermelon!" right up Paula's nose.
For a second I'm just as flabbergasted as my companion, but when Paula's saucer-round eyes land on mine with their silent plea for help, the only response I have is uncontrollable laughter.
My shoulders shake violently as I do my best not to spill the sparkling wine in my hands as well as not to make a scene.
Paula, on the other hand, isn't as practiced at the delicate matter of dealing with the type of characters that my business world revolves around.
As soon as she sees me falling apart, her best efforts to stay poised go out the window.
She presses the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to hide the peels of giggles from sight while she tries just as hard to keep the sound of her laughter contained to just the one exhibit hall rather than let it echo through the entire museum.
I can't say she's entirely successful on either count and that only makes me laugh harder.
"There," Pamalla rocks back on her heels and spouts off proudly, "I stole your sneeze."
Whether it's the crazy old bat's sheer oblivion of our laughter or the way she's so deadly serious about "stealing" Paula's imaginary sneeze-- or maybe it's the way security is eyeing us questioningly as I shove one of the Champagne flutes into Paula's hand while ushering her toward an exit while gasping hasty apologies for our abrupt departure to a still stoic Pamalla-- I can only laugh harder the more I try to compose myself.
"I'm sorry," Paula's apology comes out strangled by more than just her attempts to catch her breath, "I know she's one of your clients but I just couldn't take it anymore--" her sapphire eyes are suddenly devoid of mirth as she looks up at me and chews her lower lip, "--I really hope I didn't offend her, I'm so sorry for my behavior but..."
Paula
Once I got some fresh air in my lungs, it stopped being so funny. Pam-ah-lla Coleson might be a crazy old lady with unfortunate taste in jewelry and pers
onal space issues, but she's also filthy rich and one of Brighton's best clients.
If I insulted her, she might take a notion to find herself another art broker with a more indulgent date.
From my understanding, that would mean she'd be taking nearly a million dollars a year in business with her.
That's the sort of thing that makes a man look for a new sugar baby.
"I should go apologize to her," I fret aloud as I start to head back inside.
" 'Watermelon.' "
Brighton's voice is still tinged with humor but it comes out low and husky as he leans close to my ear to share our new inside joke.
His breathe tickles my neck. I can smell his cologne.
I giggle but only partly at the joke. Mostly I'm nervous.
He's close.
Too close.
And he isn't backing away.
His eyes catch mine and hold them.
The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes are still creased with the remnants of the grin he was wearing when he whispered in my ear but his gaze has softened.
Too soft.
I realize I'm chewing on my lip again and I immediately free it from between my teeth. It seems like a smart thing to do just before a man kisses you.
At least, I'm pretty sure that's what's going on here. I've been kissed before, I know how it goes. At least, I think I know how it goes. It occurs to me that it's been a very long time since I've been kissed. And even longer since I've had a first kiss.
Now I'm not breathing.
No matter how hard I try to force my lungs to take in fresh air, they refuse to respond.
In my peripheral vision, Brighton's hand leaves the Champagne flute on the balcony railing and moves in my direction.
This is a stupid moment to suddenly take a breath, I think as I feel my lungs expand as the result of a sharp breath bordering on a hiccup.
I wonder if Pamalla's watermelon technique steals hiccups too?
Dipping a Toe in Sugar Page 4