Sugar Love

by Callie Bardot

  “Nothing worth counting,” Zander said. “My ego can’t take another hit. You owe me if this goes south.”

  “Do I?” Kent arched an eyebrow. “Will I really be the one who owes you?”

  Zander’s veins iced. “How long do I have to be your bitch, Manning? I became a sick fuck when Trisha left me.”

  “Which of the thousands of times are you referring to? When she left you in the bedroom, when she left you at the club two weeks, later, when she left you at that holiday party…?” Kent tapped each finger as he listed the many times Zander and Trisha called it quits. “Or, was it that other time?” Kent’s icy gaze ripped through Zander.

  Zander pictured one of his worst moments when he stooped to the lowest of the lows.

  Kent had walked in on that moment. And, good thing, or Zander might be dead.

  They’d never talked about it, but it hung like a dagger over Zander’s head. If Kent ever spills my secrets I’ll lose everything…my business, my self-respect…

  “I can’t live the rest of my life with you holding my mistakes over my head.” Zander tossed the rest of the whiskey into the back of his throat, relishing the burn as it went down his gullet.

  “Then get out there and give me something else to think about. Find someone new. Someone I won’t have to bail you out over or save you from. Billionaire club. Tonight.” Kent extended his hand for a shake.

  Zander hesitated.

  Kent’s lips set in a firm line. Then, he said, “Just shake my damn hand, for Christ’s sake.”

  Zander stood, gripped his friend’s hand with his bionic one, and shook.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven, sharp. We can head out and pregame,” Kent said.

  Zander’s eyebrows rose. “You mean we can head out early so you can monitor my alcohol intake.”

  “Zander, so help me God,” Kent said, clearly gearing up for a fight. “Stop being a prick.”

  “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. See you at seven.” He sighed, already prepping for a humiliating night.

  What could possibly be worse than paying someone to date a cripple? He already knew the answer: dating someone who only got over his ex with intense therapy, a gazillion prescriptions and a gun in his desk drawer.

  Chapter 3

  Zander

  Several hours later, at the penthouse bar of Six and Nine, the chic new nightclub in downtown Seattle, Zander ordered another Hangman’s Blood, a potent cocktail made with gin, whiskey, rum, port, champagne, brandy, and stout.

  He and Kent sat in a quiet corner of the busy bar. Tonight, Zander wore a new Henley and straight leg jeans, his go-to attire. His only concession to the night had been to don his black bio-hand—the one with pure gold accents.

  Outside the window, the Space Needle glittered with illumination against the pitch-dark sky. Tiny lights winked on the ferry as it made its way back and forth across the Puget Sound, heading toward Bainbridge Island.

  Inside the bar, black leather chairs were centered around small round chrome tables with blue malachite chips along the edges.

  “You might want to ease up on the booze, mate,” Kent said, sipping his gin and tonic.

  “Should I pop a couple of Celexa instead? How about a Clonazepam?” Zander flashed Kent a cold smile

  “Fuck, King. I thought you stopped all that shit.” Kent lifted his gaze toward a buxom beauty sauntering past their table.

  “Doesn’t mean I no longer have the vials. You never know when the alcohol will wear off.” A sense of numbness began to crawl through Zander’s limbs. Or, fuck with you. He nudged away his tumbler.

  Kent waved his hand absentmindedly. His eyes stayed glued to the brunette. “No sense staggering toward a prospect.”

  “What? I can still do a fine heel-toe walk, officer.” Zander stood and strode a few yards, placing his heels against his toes without faltering.

  Kent scoffed. “That’s just your years of physical training kicking in.”

  “No, it’s just my desire to be oblivious to this night kicking in. I said I’d go. I didn’t say I’d enjoy it.”

  “Did you apologize to Mia?” Kent asked, out of the blue.

  As he settled back in his seat, Zander blinked at the abrupt change in topic. “Yes, Dad. A big bouquet’s worth of apology. It’s so big she can’t see over her desk to glare at me when I walk past,” Zander said, picking up his cocktail glass. He took a big gulp of his drink. He thudded his glass against the table, letting out a heavy breath. “Ready.”

  Kent rolled his eyes. “All right, let’s do this. Let’s go cast our lines, reel in some beauties, and have ourselves a fucking good time fucking until our balls fall off.” He chuckled. As he stood, a predatory glint flashed in his eyes.

  Zander followed Kent through the bar, with all its muted voices, soft jazz, and pretentious glamour.

  A few women lifted their gazes as he strode by, interest sparking in their eyes.

  Zander’s heading-toward-drunk mood soured, congealing in his belly. It’s too dark to see my bio-hand. When they do, they’ll turn and run.

  In the hall, he followed Kent toward the elevator.

  Once in the lift, Kent produced a gold key from his pocket. He fit it into the key slot underneath the floor buttons.

  The lift began to descend.

  “Hey, what Crackerjack box did you find that in? I want one,” Zander whined.

  “You have to be a member. You’re merely the guest of the member.” Kent flashed him an imperious gaze.

  “Why thank you, my Lord. It’s my honor to have been invited.” Zander bowed.

  “Asshole,” Kent said.

  “Dick-face,” Zander said.

  They both chuckled.

  When the doors slid open, Zander found himself in a crowded space, surrounded by fake smiles, fake tits, and everyone feigning fake interest in one another. He pushed through the crowd, intending to head toward the bar.

  A huge fucking tree with sparkling lights occupied the center of the room. Gold boxes hung off the lower branches from velvet ribbons. He figured those were some pricey bauble the not-chosen sugar babies would be given as a consolation gift. Some sort of “sorry you didn’t make the cut” concession prize—probably a diamond necklace.

  At the top of the tree, just below the thirty-foot high ceiling, buxom beauties, clad in skimpy outfits, pushed themselves higher and higher on velvet-rope swings. Their costumes caught the lights trained in their direction, making them glitter and sparkle like human stars.

  Zander grabbed Kent’s Cifonelli jacket sleeve. Underneath the four-thousand-dollar jacket, Kent wore a Maroon 5 “Girls Like You” t-shirt.

  Zander, Trisha, Kent, and Kent’s date at the time, Koko, had gone to see Maroon 5 shortly before Zander’s accident. The night was epic: VIP everything, hanging with Adam Levine at his after-party, and then heading home to fuck at four am. The shirt served as a jab to happier times.

  Zander scowled. “Okay, we’re done.”

  Kent sighed. His immaculately groomed hair, with just the right amount of product, didn’t budge as his head fell backward. When he lifted it, he trained his Nordic-blue eyes on Zander’s face. “Just mingle for a minute.”

  “You promised if I didn’t like it, we could leave,” Zander said.

  “Give it fifteen minutes, okay?” Kent said in a voice heavy with forced patience.

  “I’ll give you five,” Zander said.

  “Ten,” Kent countered.

  “Eight, and not a second more,” Zander said.

  “Fine. Eight minutes.” Kent stared at his twenty-two thousand-dollar Patek Philippe Calatrava 5119G watch and gave Zander a thumbs up. “Okay. Go. Time is ticking.” He sauntered off, trailing after a hot blonde who had glanced his way.

  Extreme discomfort noosed Zander’s limbs. He lunged for a bourbon from the silver tray of a waiter as she passed by. His bionic hand slapped against the other drinks on the tray, knocking one of them to the floor.

  It shattered, sending bour
bon and glass shards all over the waiter’s cheap slacks.

  A few people turned to stare, disinterestedly, then got back to whatever they were doing.

  “Forgive me,” the apple-cheeked young waiter said. “My fault.” His eyes landed on Zander’s high-tech hand. They widened slightly. Then, the waiter recovered his poise, no doubt having memorized the orders his boss had given him to “please the billionaires at whatever cost.”

  Zander snagged a remaining bourbon from the tray and said, “Watch what you’re doing.”

  “I shall, sir. Forgive me.” The waiter stooped to pick up the broken glass.

  Zander glanced at his Jaeger LeCoultre watch. Six minutes left.

  A curvy redhead sauntered in his direction. “Hi. I’m Callie.” She extended a bejeweled hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Zander King.”

  “Ooh,” she cooed. “That Zander King?”

  “One and the same.” He waved his bourbon at her, making sure she got an eyeful of his bionic hand.

  She stared at his hand and took a step backward. “Sugar, I need to go to the ladies’ room. Will you excuse me?”

  “No problem.” He glanced at his watch again. Five minutes and counting. He stood near the wall, nursing his drink.

  Across the room, Kent looked like he was about to score a sugar-baby prize. A young-looking strawberry-blonde had draped herself on him like a mink stole.

  Zander shook his head. Stick to women your age, Kent, not recent graduates of high school. Eighteen-year-olds have barely figured out what their clothing style it, let alone how to please a man in bed. He made a mental note to give Kent shit in a few minutes when they left.

  Two more women, both brunettes, stalked in Zander’s direction.

  One glance at his hand and they took a sudden right turn and looked at their phone screens as if that was their secret signal to let this loser go.

  Brunette One said to the other, probably thinking they were out of earshot, “Do you see his hand? That’s disturbing. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to let him touch me.”

  “Right?” Brunette Two said.

  “Let me touch you?” Zander said, making sure she heard him. “What makes you think I’d want to?”

  Brunette One turned deep scarlet, grabbed her friend, and hustled away.

  Zander took another look at his watch. Three minutes left. Just enough time to cross the room and fetch Kent. He stepped in Kent’s direction, then paused.

  There, trying to make like wallpaper, stood the prettiest, geekiest young woman he’d ever seen. And one look at her told him that her eyes were far kinder than even Mia’s. And with that realization, the hook landed, tearing into his cheek like a hand-tied lure. A shiny fish might well be dangling on his line. Knowing how hard it had been to untangle from Trisha, this couldn’t be good.

  Chapter 4

  Effie

  Effie, dressed in a loose-fitting, tangerine-colored sweater-dress, shiny gold skater shoes, and light makeup which Haley had fought to put on her face, stood awkwardly in the corner of the stupid Sugar Baby dinner ballroom. Haley had brushed the shit out of her tangled locks. Now it hung in submission along Effie’s shoulders.

  Her derision for wealthy people congealed in the bottom of her stomach like old, cold oatmeal, something she ate a lot of as a child. All the well-dressed people, laughing and stalking around the dumb tree hung with gold boxes, made her feel small, ugly, and inferior. The smells of glamour—pricey perfume, expensive aftershave, pregame Karelia cigarettes—combined into one nauseating olfactory cocktail.

  Haley, dressed in a tight pink and silver dress, hair and makeup done to perfection, stood with her back to Effie, no doubt trying to look like they hadn’t arrived together.

  A sharply dressed man, with a beer belly, or whatever kind of beverage-belly billionaires got, waddled in Effie’s direction.

  She sucked in her jelly-roll belly and tried to disappear into the black and gold wallpaper.

  “Hello,” the man said with a thick Spanish accent. His eyebrows looked like they needed to be trimmed with a lawnmower. “You look like you need a sugar daddy.”

  “Do I?” she squeaked.

  “Yes.” He placed a sweaty palm on her chin and turned her face back and forth.

  She tried to pull away, but he had a tight grip for an older dude.

  “Good cheekbones.” He grabbed her shoulders and whirled her around. “Nice, slender frame.” He pivoted her to face him. “I am Antonio Martinez. I am Martinez House of Fashion. You hear of me?”

  “No.” She yanked away from him and shook her head, her cheeks beginning to burn.

  “Pity. I could make you look fabulous. But not if you no hear of me.” He turned and waddled away, dismissing her.

  Haley snickered and turned slightly, so they stood more or less side by side.

  Effie chuckled. “I could make you look fabulous,” she repeated. “But not if you no hear of me.”

  Haley started to laugh but cut it off when an ancient gentleman tottered toward them.

  He wore a tuxedo that looked like it came from the 1930s. The jacket had a wide, silver lapel. A shiny black bow tie clung to his skeletal neck and loose skin flapped back and forth underneath his chin like a turkey waddle. A single-breasted evening waistcoat peeked out from beneath his jacket. His feet were clad in black patent leather oxfords. A red carnation boutonniere bloomed from his lapel.

  Effie decided he might be a good catch for her dead great-grandma. The thought of cuddling with the old geezer, smelling his old man sweat and aftershave, made her skin crawl. And what if he insisted on more, waving his Benjamins in my face?

  Haley whispered, “Whatever he asks us, the answer is no.”

  “Agreed,” Effie said.

  He came to a stop directly in front of them and bowed. “Ladies, I’m Sir Charles Montague, knighted by the Queen of England. Would either of you consider having me as your sugar daddy?”

  Haley shook her head and lifted her mobile phone to her face.

  “Apologies, Sir Montague. The answer is no,” Effie said, feeling sorry for the old man. Then, she pictured a shriveled old dick that took a bucket of Viagra to get hard. She shivered.

  His eyebrows rose high. “I see. That repulsive, am I?”

  “No, sir, I’m…I’m cold, is all.” She peered past him, and lifted her hand to wave, pretending to see someone she knew.

  When he turned to leave, she called, “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  Haley sidled toward her. “You owe no one an explanation,” she hissed. “You’re the one on the market, here.”

  “But he seemed so frail,” Effie said.

  Haley grinned. “You’re right. And he might die in the next hour or so. If we were to get in good with him, maybe he would change his will.”

  “Go after him, then,” Effie said.

  “Ew, no. I might have to touch his wrinkly old skin in the meantime. I’d have to wash for days to get the feel of it off my fingers.” She brushed her bare shoulders which glimmered with sparkly skin cream. Then, she lifted her gaze. “Ooh. Here comes someone handsome. And, he’s heading straight for you.”

  A dashing silver fox strode their way. He carried two flutes of champagne. His shoulders and chest were broad, leading to trim hips.

  “He looks buff,” Haley said. “Go for it, Effie. Turn on enough charm to get him to overlook your outfit.”

  “What do I do? What do I do?” Effie hissed.

  “Act natural. Let him do the talking,” Haley replied.

  A grin appeared on silver fox’s face, drawing dimples.

  “Well, hello,” he said, as he approached.

  “Hi,” Effie said.

  He glanced at her, frowning. Then, he directed his attention to Haley. “Hey, there, gorgeous,” he said, pushing between Effie and Haley. “I’m Arnold Wainwright. I manage several hedge funds. And you are?” He leaned against the wall like a fortress, effectively shutting Effie out of any conversat
ion.

  Ouch. Effie glanced at a very handsome young man who strode in her direction, no doubt hoping to challenge Arnold for a date with Haley. Once Haley looked at him, it would be no contest. Dark hair, dark eyes, ripped muscles, he stalked toward them like a wolf.

  Feeling like last week’s nasty trash, Effie slunk toward the bar, hoping some kind billionaire would buy her anything that might make her very drunk. After ten minutes of slouching over the sleek wood and chrome bar, having been told to, “move, bitch,” and, “the staff is supposed to be in the back,” she decided to call it a night. There goes my education. Maybe dad will get me a job at GBS. As she straightened to turn around, the same sexy predator who had been heading toward Haley sidled up next to her.

  “Hey,” he said, flashing a thousand-watt smile at her. He had short-cropped dark brown hair and eyes the color of honey-flecked chocolate. Unlike most of the men here, he’d dressed in a snug, long-sleeved Henley, and straight leg jeans, both of which revealed an extremely muscular body.

  She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes. “Hi. Are you ordering for Haley? She loves Mojitos.”

  His eyebrows creased. “Who’s Haley?”

  “What, she didn’t give you her name?” Effie’s gaze darted around the room, looking through the closely packed bodies for her best friend.

  Haley still stood against the wall talking animatedly with Arnold. The two were now inches apart. Close enough to kiss.

  Effie frowned.

  The uber god standing before her said, “I haven’t asked for anyone’s name. Not a soul interested me. Until I saw you.”

  Effie scoffed. “Nice line. ‘No one interested me until I saw the homeless-looking chick plastered against the wall like a statue,’” she said. Suspicion filled her brain. Growing up in her Yakima double-wide, her mother had instilled thoughts like, “the rich are all depraved,” and, “don’t you let a wealthy man seduce you when you move to Seattle. He’ll only use you while he’s waiting for his Number One.” Who or what a Number One was, was anyone’s guess. She supposed it was someone of similar wealth and social standing.