“I didn’t fucking order it, okay?”
Toni sniped, “Did your fairy godmother order it for you?”
No . . . But someone had. Without a word, Nat turned and hurried back to her bedroom. She grabbed her phone and opened the sugar-dating app. There were more messages—thirty-two more, to be precise, but she went directly to her conversation with Angeldaddy. With Gabe.
One new message. She opened it.
Thai food is the best hangover cure.
It came flooding back to her then. The driver, the big black car. Gabe helping her up the steps of her building. Her fumbling with the key, him taking it, opening the door. Had she kissed him? Invited him in? No, no, she hadn’t; she wouldn’t. Contrary to her roommates’ opinions of her, Nat did not have sex with men she’d just met. Especially not fifty-five-year-old multimillionaires. But now, Gabe knew where she lived. Another rule broken. But he was not dangerous. He was sending her Thai food. He was thoughtful, kind, generous.
Something pinged in her consciousness. Her wool coat hung on a hook on the back of the door. She yanked it down, shoved her hand into the nylon pocket, and removed five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. He had paid her, after all.
With the money clutched in her hand, she marched back to the kitchen. “Here’s three hundred dollars.” She shoved it at Mara, relishing the shock on her face. “That more than covers what I owe you.”
Snatching up the Thai takeout, she went back to her room.
11
* * *
Nick
Nat and Ava were in a steamy ramen bar enjoying bowls of hot noodle soup. Normally, Nat did not go out to eat. She brought a packed lunch to school—a bagel with cream cheese or a ham sandwich. At home, she made pasta or scrambled eggs. But her recent windfall allowed her the luxury of a hot meal in a real restaurant. And, of course, she had to update Ava on her disastrous date.
“I was too nervous to eat before I met him,” Nat said, pinching up noodles with her chopsticks. “So I had a couple of vodkas to calm my nerves. And then I had a few Scotches with Gabe. And then”—she stuffed the noodles into her mouth—“I was a drunk and disgusting mess.”
“Oh shit,” Ava said, but she was amused.
“He still paid me, though.”
“Classy guy.”
“And he gave me a ride home in his town car.”
“That’s not good, Nat.” Ava slurped her soup. “Now he knows where you live.”
“I know. The next day he sent me Thai food for my hangover.”
Ava set her chopsticks down. “Did you have sex with him in the car?”
“God, no. I was drunk but not that drunk.”
“Blow job? Hand job?”
Nat felt her cheeks pinken as her mind flashed to the night Gabe had delivered her home. She’d spent the entire ride with her eyes closed, her head against the back seat, all her focus on not puking. But then he’d helped her to the door, his strong hands on her back. She recalled their proximity as he’d guided the key into the lock for her and then ushered her inside. There had been a hug, a bit of chemistry between them, but nothing more. She was sure of it.
“No. I would remember if I had.” She slurped some soup. “He was pretty attractive—for his age—but nothing happened.”
Ava picked up her porcelain spoon. “Are you going to see him again?”
“I can’t.” Nat stirred some hot sauce into her soup. “I’m too humiliated.”
“Does he want to see you again?”
“He gave me his cell number when I messaged to thank him for the Thai food. He said to text him if I want to get together.”
“You should. He sounds like the whole package.”
Nat sipped her soup. Gabe was the whole package: rich, attractive, a gentleman . . . And that’s why she couldn’t see him again. This was not about finding a boyfriend, a man who made her feel special and adored. This was a business arrangement. This was about money.
“I’m seeing a different daddy tonight,” she said. “In Midtown.”
“Look at you go.”
“Could I get ready at your place? So I don’t have to go back to Brooklyn and then come back uptown?”
“Of course.” Ava stirred her soup. “Don’t get too drunk tonight.”
Nat smirked. “I’m not having anything to drink before the date. And I’ll just have one glass of wine when I meet him.”
“Good girl.” Ava pushed her bowl away. “If you play your cards right, you’ll be able to move into Manhattan one day.”
Nat gave an ambiguous smile, tossed her napkin into her empty bowl. She knew what it would take to get an apartment in the city. She knew she would never have one.
* * *
The man she was meeting that night was a rich tech guy from Silicon Valley, in New York for business. His name was Nick, and he was thirty-nine, according to his profile. He was single, fun loving, a risk-taker who worked and played hard. He was looking for an adventurous girl who could keep up with his wild side. Nat knew she was not that girl, but she could play along for an hour. And she could play along for the four hundred bucks he’d promised her. Nick had suggested they meet at the bar of his hotel, but Nat feared that would send the wrong message. She’d suggested a piano bar on West Fifty-Sixth, only a block from his accommodations. He had agreed.
She was only mildly anxious as she rode the subway uptown from Ava’s place. While she’d botched the date with Gabe, it had been a valuable learning experience. She knew how to do this now. She was sober this time and planned to stay that way. And her previous date had given her a certain comfort level. Sugar daddies could be kind, respectful, normal. Sure, some may be creepy, some might be perverts, but there was virtually no danger in meeting a man in a public place, having one drink, collecting the cash, and leaving.
She emerged from the subway at Columbus Circle and headed to the bar. It was only a couple of blocks, but her faux patent leather pumps (courtesy of Payless) pinched her toes as she walked. Ava had lent her a black pencil skirt, a low-cut silk top, a sleek, black coat. Her friend’s feet were a size and a half bigger, precluding Nat from borrowing a pair of designer heels. Cheap shoes aside, Nat knew she looked the part: sexy, sophisticated, worth the money.
Nick had described himself as “mixed race.” The two photos he’d shared showed a slim man with a thick head of dark hair, a groomed beard, and intense brown eyes. He was attractive, and significantly younger than her last date (though still way too old for a real relationship). Nat had been pleasantly surprised that most of the men on the dating site were not the ancient, hideous monsters she’d envisioned. But why did a young, wealthy, attractive man need to pay for a date? Perhaps it was just simpler. Perhaps men like Nick didn’t want to put in the effort that a real relationship required.
Her phone pinged in her pocket, the sound of the text reminding her to silence it. She’d been mortified when her mother had called during her date with Gabe. It was just one of the many faux pas she’d committed that disastrous evening. While Gabe had been understanding, amused even, Nick might not be so convivial. Digging out the device, she checked the text. It was her mom. Again.
For Christ’s sake Natalie, call me!!!
Allana Heppner had phoned her daughter twice and texted four times without receiving a response. Now, she was understandably pissed. Nat had intended to reply, but she’d been busy, stressed, and a little ashamed. Her mom was not old-fashioned or judgmental, but there was no way she would approve of what her daughter was doing. Nat muted her phone and dropped it into her purse.
Her feet were beginning to throb as she reached the elegant bar. Pulling open the heavy door, she entered the sophisticated space: dark wood, deep red upholstery, live piano music tinkling from a baby grand in the center of the room. Before the hostess could greet her, a man at a back table stood and waved: Nick. Nat waved back and moved toward him. As she approached, she saw that he was slightly less handsome than in his online photos. But that was to be expected.
Nat, herself, was not as polished, pouty, or perfect as her profile suggested. But Nick did not look disappointed. His eyes roamed over her face and body approvingly.
He greeted her with the same familiar kiss on the cheek that Gabe had, his hand on her waist. These rich, powerful men took it as their right, covered under the fee. She could not be offended. Nick pulled out her chair, and she sat. Her date took his seat across from her and picked up a bottle of red wine from the table.
“They had a ’96 Penfolds Grange,” he said, filling her glass.
“Wow.” While Nat was unfamiliar with the brand, she had never tasted wine that was older than she was. She held up her glass and met his dark gaze. “To new friends,” she said, flirtatiously.
“And new adventures.”
A chill ran through her, some sort of primitive, biological warning system. Nick’s tone, his eyes on her, his intense, sexual energy made her feel vulnerable. But she brushed her trepidation aside and took a drink. This was a glass of wine in a public place. Nothing bad would happen.
“How long are you in New York?” she asked.
“A week. I’ve got meetings each day, but my nights are for fun.”
“What do you do?”
“Cryptocurrency.”
“Ah . . .” It was obvious she was clueless.
He elaborated. “Bitcoin. Ethereum. Blockchain technology . . .”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” she joked, and her date laughed. She felt herself relax a little. “Do you come to New York often?”
“At least once a month.” He leaned in, smiled. “If we have a good time this week, I’ll make it worth your while to be available when I’m in town.”
Her last date had made small talk, had asked about her hometown, about her half siblings. Nick was getting down to business; he was moving too fast.
“Let’s get to know each other first.”
“Of course.” He leaned back with his wine. “I like to be open and up front about everything.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m into littles, but I can do middles, if you’re more comfortable with that.”
She giggled awkwardly. What was he talking about?
“I’ve brought some outfits. Onesies. Baby-doll pajamas. I’ll buy some stuffed toys while I’m here.”
A picture was forming in her mind: a confounding, disturbing image.
“You don’t have to stay in my room while I’m at meetings, but I’d expect you to be there, dressed and ready, when I get back.” Nick gave her a lecherous smile. “If you’re late, you’ll get a nasty spanking.”
The vintage wine turned to vinegar in her mouth. A strangled noise escaped her throat.
“I’m fine to just play for a while,” he said, trying to appease her. “We don’t have to have sex until you’re comfortable.”
She grabbed her glass of water and drank. She was in way over her head here. Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse.
“I don’t think we’re on the same page.”
Nick’s brow furrowed. “I told you to read my profile carefully. I was very clear about what I’m into.”
She had read his profile. She knew he was a tech guy with a net worth of eight million dollars. She knew he liked to travel, to rock climb, to dine at Michelin-starred restaurants. He appreciated fine wine, adventurous people, and a good sense of humor. What had she missed?
Nick spelled it out for her. “I’m into DDLG.”
“I . . . don’t know what that is.”
“Dominant daddy–little girl.”
“Oh God.” She couldn’t hide her revulsion.
Nick’s expression darkened. “Why did you respond to my message if you weren’t into it?”
“I—I wasn’t familiar with the acronym. I didn’t know.”
“Are you some kind of amateur?” He leaned in, lowered his voice. “Or are you just here for some easy money?”
“No,” she said, and she could feel her face heating. “I must have read your profile too quickly because I was excited to meet you.”
“Yeah, right.” He drained his glass of wine. “You’re one of those, aren’t you?”
One of what?
“You think you can waltz in here in your tight skirt and your cleavage, and I’ll just hand over four hundred dollars.” His voice dripped contempt. “You never had any intention of getting to know me or building something with me. You’re a user. . . . You’re worse than a whore.”
This man, who wanted her to dress up like a little girl and play with stuffed toys for his sexual gratification, dared to insult her this way? She could point out the irony, the hypocrisy, but her words had abandoned her. Humiliation burned her face, clogged her throat, made her eyes liquid. Because she knew, at her core, that Nick was right. She’d never planned to get to know him, sexually or otherwise. There was an honor code in the sugar bowl for which she’d been unprepared.
She stood. “I won’t be insulted like this.”
“I won’t pay you four hundred bucks for nothing.”
“Fine,” she snapped. Though it wasn’t fine. Her next tuition installment was due. Rent was looming. And she knew she could not do this again. Both of her dates had been disasters, leaving her embarrassed, ashamed, hating herself. She didn’t judge Ava or other sugar babies for choosing this lifestyle, but Nat was not cut out for it. She was not a user. And she was not a whore.
With her cheap shoes crushing her toes, she stalked out of the bar.
12
* * *
The Play
Gabe sat next to his wife in the darkened auditorium. Onstage, his eighteen-year-old daughter, Violet, was performing a play she had written. It was undeniably terrible. The theme, Violet had told him, was intersectionality, but the six teens onstage appeared to be embroiled in a dance-off. Silently, he cursed the day he’d allowed his only child to transfer to this alternative school from Chapin, the tony private school on the Upper East Side. Violet had been running wild in Manhattan, hanging with a crowd of hedonistic, entitled teens with money for drugs, booze, and clubs. When a boy was accidentally shot at a party Violet was attending, Celeste had panicked. Already fragile from her illness, his spouse had scooped up their daughter and retreated to the Hamptons full-time.
It was an overreaction (the kid had been shot in the foot), but Gabe had gone along with it. The move would get Violet “back on track,” Celeste had insisted. The Fairhaven School was just a short drive from their Sagaponack home and would be a great fit for their freethinking, creative child.
“They foster multidisciplinary global thinking and engagement,” Celeste had said, like it wasn’t just a mission statement concocted by some communications firm. Gabe had given in, and now his daughter had become a far-left, political thespian with minimal talent. Perfect.
He glanced over at Celeste. She was smiling, holding her phone, filming the performance for posterity. Perhaps his wife understood the play better as a woman, as a person of color, as someone who’d suffered a serious illness. Celeste had always been more liberal, more open-minded than Gabe was. Though it was an unpopular opinion to voice in his circles, he felt the world was tilting too far to the left, pushing the boundaries of common sense. This opinion was never more solidified than when he spent time with his daughter. Violet had become a social-justice warrior (though he’d never use that pejorative term around her). Since her move from the city at fourteen, the girl had been championing the rights of the marginalized: women, animals, the disabled, indigenous peoples, the LGBTQ community, immigrants, people of color, vertically challenged flight attendants, mimes with Tourette’s . . .
Celeste had always been supportive. “She’s passionate and curious, with a strong moral compass. We should be proud of that.”
Gabe would have been a hell of a lot prouder if Violet had taken an interest in finance or engineering or the law—something that would lead to a career, a salary, a way to pay her own way in life. His only child seemed destined to become a playwright, a poet
, or a professional activist, leaching off her parents while she indulged her passions. Celeste might find that path worthy of pride, but Gabe did not. He still hoped Violet would attend his alma mater, but a degree in gender and sexuality studies, even from Princeton, wouldn’t take her far.
When Violet was small, she’d been the apple of her father’s eye: smart, athletic, precocious. She had worshipped him, too, had hung on his every word, laughed at every joke, no matter how corny. He’d indulged all her whims, unable to say no to her cherubic little face, had been putty in her chubby little hands. “You spoil her,” Celeste had gently chided, but she’d admired their father-daughter bond, understood it. Celeste had been a daddy’s girl, too. She knew how seminal that relationship was.
And then, something changed. Violet changed. She got “woke.” Instead of gazing on him with adoration, his daughter now sneered at him with disdain. She considered him conservative and backward. Capitalist scum. A symbol of the patriarchy.
“She’ll come around,” Celeste assured him. “Her principles will evolve and change as she gets older.”
But it cut him, his daughter’s scorn. Gabe had pulled away from his only child in the last few years, repelled by her brittle affect and her constant judgment. He would keep his emotional distance and he would wait. One day, his adoring girl would return.
Violet was alone on the darkened stage now, a spotlight shining down on her lustrous brown hair. In this lighting, you could barely see her pierced septum, the gold ring that branded her “alternative.” His daughter had inherited her mother’s good looks but not her poise, her confidence, or her common sense. Celeste was practical. She’d chosen a career that was altruistic as well as lucrative. Violet would barely discuss college with him, said she’d never consider going into the law. Celeste stayed in a marriage that offered financial stability, physical trappings, the appearance of perfection. Violet (who had recently announced herself pansexual) would insist on a soul connection, emotional intimacy, rainbows, and fireworks. Completely unrealistic.
The Arrangement Page 6