Sugar Love Page 2

  “Wait!” Haley said. “Not so fast. Beside the fact we have a few days before the semester’s over, I have an idea.”

  “Is it as bright as giving me the URL to Saucy Lady? Because that got me into a stupid mess. At least I’ll never have to see Todd and Roy again.” She couldn’t hold back her tears.

  “It’s better,” Haley said. “I’ll meet you at the dorm. Don’t do anything until I get there. Promise me.”

  “Okay, I promise.” Effie hustled across the campus, tears streaming down her face. She hoped no one watched her. But when she glanced around, several students were staring in her direction. Stop looking at me. Haven’t you ever seen anyone cry before? She picked up her pace.

  Fifteen minutes later, Effie dragged her feet into her dorm room. She threw her phone on her pink bedspread and then sat, slumped at the edge of the bed.

  Within seconds, Haley raced into the room, dressed in a short, butter-yellow, silk shift-dress, waving a postcard. Soft suede sandals clung to her feet.

  “This will work, Effie.” She sat next to Effie and leaned in close.

  Her perfume filled Effie’s nose with jasmine scented blossoms.

  “This is going to work,” she repeated, shoving the postcard at Effie. She peeled her sleek leather messenger bag from her shoulder and dropped it on the floor.

  Effie took the ad and placed it on her lap. The postcard had been printed on glossy paper with luxurious fonts. It showed an image of a wealthy young couple laughing over drinks at a bar. Bile filled her throat.

  Many times, her mom had told her there were two kinds of people in this world—the “Have More Money” privileged, something Effie called the HMMs, and the rest of the population. She decided the rest of the population, including her family, was the “Fuck My Life’s,” or FMLs.

  Her brow wrinkled as she read the text. “You want me to become a sugar baby for lonely billionaires? No way.”

  She ripped the card in two and dropped it on the floor. It fluttered to the white and gray linoleum.

  Haley reached over and scooped it up. She placed it on the bed and patted it. “It’s a legit service. How do you think I can afford my clothes or pay for my tuition?”

  Effie’s mouth dropped open. “You sleep with billionaires? Why didn’t I know this?”

  Haley waved away her concerns. The high ponytail at the top of her head switched as she shook her head. “I don’t sleep with them. I’m not stupid. They’re mostly dates. Sometimes cuddling. Sometimes kissing. But the men I’ve been with have all been gentlemen.” She rose to her feet, looming over Effie.

  Effie stared at her friend. How could I have not known?

  Haley’s face reddened. “Look. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you’d get all judgey on me. You despise wealthy people. I didn’t want to do this. It just sort of fell in my lap. And look.” She twirled in a circle. Her yellow designer shift billowed around her like a cloud. “These threads cost a fortune. I don’t buy them. One of my sugar daddies gave me a credit card.” She stooped and retrieved her messenger bag. Flipping open the flap to the main compartment, she rummaged around in the bag. Her hand came out holding a silvery looking wallet. She opened it and removed a black American Express Centurian credit card.

  Effie gasped and snatched it out of her friend’s hand. “Wow, Haley. He just gave it to you?”

  Haley lowered her gaze. “Well, I had to do a few things to get it.”

  She grabbed back the card and slid it into her wallet.

  “Like what?” Effie’s mouth had become dry.

  “Like…look, it’s nothing. I take off my shirt—only down to my bra, mind you—and then I do the dishes or mop the floors.” She gave Effie one of her “don’t you dare say anything” glares.

  “Ew,” Effie said. “That would make me feel so dirty.”

  Haley pointed at Effie. “There you go getting all judgey. My parents are as poor as your parents. We can’t afford this school any more than you can. This…” She slapped the torn postcard. “This could be your ticket to transformation from ‘Giant Box Savings girl’ to ‘glam girl,’ and to finishing your education.”

  Effie threw back her head. The thought of cuddling with some rich, fat dude made her sick to her stomach.

  “There’s got to be another way,” she moaned.

  Haley shrugged. “Tell me what the other way is, and I’ll never mention this again.”

  She shoved the postcard pieces in her bag and stepped toward the door.

  Effie let out a long sigh. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting me.”

  Haley brightened. “That’s where top-notch makeup comes in, as well as your good friend Haley. I’m a pro at applying makeup and dressing for success.” She eyed Effie, cocking her head back and forth. “I know I can make you look pretty. You’ve got good bone structure. You simply don’t try.”

  “Ouch,” Effie said.

  “Well, do you? Do you ever put a whisper of energy into your appearance?” Haley scowled.

  Effie shook her head. “I put on clothes.”

  “You put on clothes to cover yourself up. Come on. Are you willing to at least try?”

  Effie sucked in her breath and held it. What other options do I have? Then, she slowly let it out.

  “Okay,” she said. “Where do I sign up?”

  Chapter 2

  Zander

  Zander hunched over his keyboard, staring at his monitor, seeing nothing except old ghosts. His obsession with his past currently prevented any action in the present. Sitting near the window of his corner office, he lifted his gaze toward the Seattle skyline to his right and then turned to face Elliott Bay to his left.

  The blue-gray water, dotted with white-caps beneath rolling springtime thunderclouds, matched his dark and moody emotions.

  He let his gaze fall on the open desk drawer…the one he’d been about to raid for antidepressants. A slew of pill bottles filled the drawer, along with a revolver. Underneath sat pictures of his ex and his own tortured handwritten love poems, written to win her back.

  Someone knocked on his door.

  He slammed the drawer shut. The key hanging from the keyring he’d fitted into the lock vibrated from the forceful close. He removed it and shoved it into his pocket.

  “It’s open,” he bellowed, not bothering to look toward the entrance.

  “Mr. King?” came a soft voice from the doorway.

  He broke out of his reverie to turn toward his assistant, Mia, a petite, trim brunette with the kindest eyes he’d ever beheld. He’d hired her on the spot for those eyes.

  “Mia,” he said, snapping back to professionalism. “What can I do for you?”

  She lifted the tablet in her hand. “Can I show you the mock-ups for our next round of online advertising?”

  Instinctively, he lifted his right hand to gesture her in. He paused when his bionic hand came into his line of sight.

  A fully customized, top-of-the-line hand, made of hard white plastic, titanium joints, and black accents, it allowed him to do most of the things he used to do. Before I had this fucking monstrosity for a hand. It didn’t allow him to be viewed as anything but a disabled person, however. And, it didn’t allow him to get back out and enjoy the adventurous life in the manner he once enjoyed. And that stunk.

  Mia paused for a split second, too, staring at the metal technology that served as a limb. Then, she put on her game face, and continued to stride in his direction, ignoring his remark. She wove through the burnt-orange, Italian leather sofa and chairs meant for informal meetings, headed past the long leather bench seat that flanked one wall of windows, and came to a stop by his curved zebrawood and glass desk.

  She set the tablet in front of him and tapped the screen. “Here it is. Scan through the images and select the layout you prefer. We can have it launched within the hour.”

  He gave her a challenging glare. “I prefer it if you scan.” He wiggled the fingers of his high-tech hand. “Bionic finger-man, here.”

&n
bsp; “Sir, I…” She gave him her best disapproving expression.

  She knew as well as he did that he could scan through the images on the screen with this techno limb, or, use his other hand. Hell, he could probably do cartwheels with the bio-forearm in place. He’d paid enough for the damn thing. Few could afford such a wondrous piece of technology. Zander was one of the few.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  He smirked. Mia probably didn’t want to argue with him. No one did. His intelligence and wits gave him the upper hand in an argument each and every time. His status as a twenty-eight-year-old billionaire, and the owner of EXcape, his self-started, billion-dollar business, helped, too. No one in his office dared to contradict the boss. No one except Kent, his best buddy, and CFO.

  “Show me what you’ve got, Mia.”

  She flipped through layouts of high-end rock-climbing gear, base jumping apparel, cave exploration ropes and carabiners, BMX bikes, windsurfing boards, and other maximum intensity sports equipment.

  “We’ll target the extreme sports market with these,” she said, tapping on a few photos of a couple dangling from ropes in the middle of a pristine cave, one hundred feet below the surface. “And, with these, we’ll target ultimate adventurers ages twenty-five to forty. Those looking for a way to defy the odds.” She indicated several images of five people poised hundreds of feet in the air in high-tech hammocks that affixed to the side of rock walls. “Like someone I know.”

  Her eyes scanned his face, probing for…what? The old Zander? That guy died. His eyes glazed over, as his mind veered toward a collision with his past. He used to engage in extreme sports. He used to love adventure. Used to, used to, used to. My current life is all about the past. His mood slid further south.

  “You decide,” he snapped. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “But, Mr. King,” Mia protested. “You’ve always insisted on final say.”

  “Great, then you’ll have no problem telling the design team that I’ve given the reins to you and whatever you choose goes. That’s my final say.” He waved the bionic monstrosity in her direction.

  “I don’t think I’m qualified, Mr. King,” she said, standing tall.

  “You’ll be fine.” His gaze traveled down her muscular calves to her shoes. How she could balance on those precarious red stilettos was a mystery to him. He preferred women in footwear that could move. Used to prefer, he reminded himself, glaring at his own ridiculous Italian leather loafers. “I’m sure your decision could top the cripple’s opinion,” he said, referring to himself in the third person.

  Mia winced.

  He’d spent the last year finding new ways to push everyone away. He took a measure of pride at being so good at it that he had few friends. Gone were the slew of buddies and acquaintances. All I have is work. “Just go. I’ve got something else I need to do.”

  Like mope, drink whiskey, and sink into depression. I’ve become a giant douchebag. Nothing but an asshole who verbally assaults his staff.

  “Sir, I…”

  “And stop calling me sir. I’ve been telling you that for years. Sir is what you’d call my father or my grandfather. I go by Mr. King, Zander, or, preferably, Jackass. Can you manage one of those, Mia?”

  “Absolutely, Jackass.” Her eyes turned steely.

  A sense of sick satisfaction trickled through him. Mia took the bait. Score one for the asshole.

  Mia pivoted and flounced out of his office, her hips rocking from side to side in her form-fitting skirt.

  Before he could settle into the silence of depression, Kent Manning barreled through the door.

  “The door’s open,” Zander said, in a mocking tone of voice. “Come on in.”

  Kent marched toward Zander’s desk, his expression like a lion, mid-roar. “What the hell, you prick? Mia came out of your office crying. You’re going to have to apologize to her.”

  Zander waved his bionic hand in the air. “Get her some flowers. A diamond bracelet. I don’t fucking care.”

  “You get her some flowers. You fucking apologize to her and mean it.” Kent leaned on the desk, placing his weight on tented fingers. “I’m so sick of you hiding in here. Where’s the fun guy I used to adventure with? We used to base jump in the Alps, rock climb in Bolivia, paraglide in Switzerland. Now you just sulk up here at the top of your chrome, exotic wood, and Italian leather mountain, rather than get out and explore.”

  “Have you forgotten?” He wiggled all the fingers of his bionic hand. “Cripple alert.”

  “Self-pity alert is more like it.” Kent straightened, assuming his six-foot-five-inch height. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, let’s at least go out to lunch. I want to go over our end-of-year earnings. Our profit margin is killer this quarter.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got it covered. I don’t need to know,” Zander said.

  “Just lunch, then, Zander, with no talk of anything other than the weather,” Kent said.

  “It’s gloomy. We’re done with that topic.” Zander slumped over his desk.

  “No, you’re gloomy.” Kent cocked his head, then his eyes widened. “You haven’t been thinking about Trisha again, right?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” Zander said.

  Trisha had dumped him after he got out of the hospital. She couldn’t deal with being with a cripple. It wasn’t good for her image.

  That “knee to the nuts” betrayal had left bruises on his manhood for weeks. But the real clincher came reading her social media posts about how “Zander deserves someone who can serve his needs in a manner to which I am unable to do. I left him, so he can find that person. It’s not me. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do.” Two weeks following her post, she was seen dating Bobby “Riptide” Johnson, the top kayak racer in the world. And two weeks after that she and Zander had been seen fighting at a club after they started kissing, both drunk. And a week and a half after that they fucked in a dark alley. And then… He shook his head trying to rid his thoughts of her. After that, it was in the dark. Always in the dark, in secret, after drinking, then, fighting.

  He was her go-to guy as long as the lights were off.

  And Trisha kept on dating Riptide, not him.

  Who the hell wanted to date a cripple?

  “Look, man, we all knew Trisha was a royal bitch,” Kent said. “She’s pure poison. You’re better off without her.”

  Zander lifted his eyebrows. “Am I?”

  “Definitely. Listen. Tonight, the Billionaire Club is hosting another sugar-baby daddy dinner. Come with me, what do you say?”

  Zander scoffed. He picked up a report from his desk and crushed it into a wad. “Fuck that, Kent. My answer is a big fat no. I’m not yet a desperate old dude.”

  Kent lifted one of his immaculately groomed blond eyebrows. “What does that make me?”

  “I don’t know. A desperate young dude.” Zander allowed a grin.

  “Both you and I know I’m anything but. I can get any chick I want.”

  Zander grew serious. “That’s my next point. Who’s going to want to date a cripple except for someone who, A, only wants my money, or B, feels like she needs a social boost by being seen with a disadvantaged individual?”

  He whacked his bionic hand against the zebrawood, making a mark.

  “Come on, Zander. Take a chance. You never lost your good looks.”

  Ire bubbled in Zander’s belly. “I said, fuck no. It’s insulting to think the only way I can get a girl to date me is by buying her time.”

  He rose to stand and crossed to his bar.

  Kent threw his arms up. “What’s insulting is the time you spend up here in your icy tower feeling sorry for yourself. All you do is work. You’ve lost touch with every one of your friends outside of EXcape. When was the last time we partied with Dante Vega? When did you last see your climbing buddies or your kayak friends?”

  “I’ve moved on.” More like I ignored their messages until they stopped calling. �
��And you and all the rest of my employees still have lucrative jobs, thanks to my work ethic.”

  His bionic fingers successfully curled around a crystal glass resting on the bar and set it down with a too-hard thwack on the zebrawood counter. Shit. I still need more practice with that move. He used his left hand to pour a finger of whiskey into the glass, not wanting to take any chances spilling his precious coping agent. Then, he used the same hand to lift it toward his lips.

  “Come on. EXcape is so well-organized it could run itself. And thanks to my clever maneuvering, we managed to keep your scandal out of social media. You know how several board members insist that the reputation of EXcape employees is above reproach, squeaky clean and all that.” Kent’s red face conveyed his anger. His fair complexion could never mask his hot-blooded emotion. He knocked his knuckles on the desk. “You need to get your confidence back up. Get back in the game. Maybe actually seeing a woman for the first time in forever will knock some sense back into you. Get you over the Trish bitch once and for all.”

  “You can see yourself out,” Zander said, leaning against the bar. He sipped his whiskey and eyed the door. “We’re done here.”

  “Stop being a fucking prick, Zander!” Kent dragged his hand through his thick hair. “I’m sick of this. I want my old friend back. You’re making it seem like the old Zander died along with his forearm.”

  Zander stifled the wince threatening to indicate Kent’s words affected him. I know I’m an asshole. He kept his jaw stony and his gaze pure ice, trained directly on Kent’s eyes.

  Kent blew out a lungful of breath. His voice emerged a bit gentler. “Look, you stubborn ass. Just do me a solid and come to tonight’s event. If you don’t like it—even within thirty seconds—we bounce.”

  “You’re just going to waste gas on me,” Zander said, his resolve starting to cave. Maybe I can find a willing woman to at least screw…in the dark…with a blindfold over her eyes.

  “What’s a tank of gas between billionaires?” Kent grinned.