3. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Emery

The shitty old couch protests as my roommate, Oakley, plops down onto the seat next to me. I side-eye her, then go back to crunching on the stale-as-fuck cracker, since it and the six others left in the pack are all I have left to eat until tomorrow.

A domestic situation is happening on the reality show I‘m watching, the sixteen-year-old teen mom throwing a hissy fit because her baby daddy spent that week's rent on a new video game. Not for the first time, I wonder if I should have just let Tray knock me up when we were in foster care so that we could apply for a show like this. Between the two of us, our tragic backstories would have the target audience for this shit show all tied up in knots. Boo fucking hoo and all that shit.

"Hey, roomie."

"Hey," I force out through gritted teeth. This chick seriously needs to back off. Can't she feel the annoy-me-and-die vibes I have going on? I can't stand the fucking sunshine and rainbows that pour off her in waves. And why wouldn't she be that fucking happy?

Oakley wears designer everything. Even her workout clothes have expensive-as-fuck labels. I swear I saw some Gucci pajamas the other day too. Blonde hair, freshly blown and nails that wouldn't dare to have a chip. And her sections of the fridge and pantry are always stocked with fresh produce, which half the time ends up spoiled and in the trash, because for the two weeks we've been living together, she's barely ever been home.

I force myself to breathe and remind myself that four days from now, I'll be starting my future. Monday can't come fast enough.

Which doesn't do me much good right now, because I can feel her staring at me. Giving up on the show, I face her. "What?"

She crosses her arms over her presumably surgically enhanced chest—otherwise, wow, that bra is doing fucking amazing things for her—and leans back, fingernails pointing to the ceiling, all the while eyeing my shittastic dinner. "You need to make some money."

Using just my wrist, I wave my half-eaten cracker, shoving down the acidic bitterness her words drag up my spine. "My meal card activates tomorrow."

She tucks her chin. "And eat the dining hall food, ew, no. Gross. Let me help you."

I eye her warily. "I'm not doing your fucking laundry."

Oakley barks out a laugh. "Ha, no. I only dry clean."

Huh, well, that explained that mystery.

"And I'm not asking you to work for me. I'm offering to show you a way to make money," she continues as she reaches up to run her bedazzled fingers through her hair.

I narrow my eyes. I've heard that line before.

I'll give you a Hamilton, if you'll stand on the corner and let me know if any pigs roll by.

Take this package to the lady in the car. Give me the fifty, and you can keep the rest.

That kind of cash in my life as little as six weeks ago—fuck, right now too—would have made a huge difference in my day, but I've turned over a new leaf.

I'm a college student now. I got out. And I am going to stay out. Even if it kills me.

"Pass," I state in a flat voice and then turn back to the TV as I reach for my glass of water on the shitty, scarred coffee table.

"Oh, come on, hear me out. You can't tell me that you don't need the cash. And I swear, it's nothing illegal." She squints her eyes for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't think it is, anyway. Everyone involved is consenting, and if money or gifts exchange hands afterward, who's to know?"

I look at the cracker clutched between my fingers, which may as well be cardboard with how stale it is.

Not illegal?

And everyone is consenting.

It doesn't take an undergraduate degree to figure out what she's implying. And if that is what she's implying, then there's no harm in hearing her out. Sex is the one commodity that I can trade without owing someone something. Men see my long, wavy brown hair, heart-shaped face, big hazel eyes, and the dusting of freckles on my cheeks after they notice my bubble ass and D-cup tits.

Puberty changed my life.

It took me out of one steaming pile of fucking shit homelife and dumped me into a cesspool.

But what the fuck ever.

I survived.

I don't need anyone's fucking pity.

I made it out. I'm at college. Yeah, my bank account has only a single digit balance at the moment, but my scholarship perks kick in tomorrow. As do the student loans.

Fuck me , the student loans. They are going to take me half a lifetime to pay back, but I know they'll be worth every cent when I'm working out of some office building, fifty-one stories up, looking out over all the people just trying to scrape through a day.

Glancing back at Oakley, I find her staring at me blatantly, and I just know this princess isn't going to let it go. "Fine, give me some more details."

She grins and unlocks her phone, tapping and swiping. "So, it's called SugarLife."

I keep my trap shut, even though a million questions fly through my head. If I learned anything growing up in the South Side of Chicago, it's that it's best to stay quiet. People tend to fill the void and you don't get smacked around if they forget you're there.

Oakley offers me her phone, open to some sort of app. I blink and then blink again at the image of some random chick, dressed in a see-through babydoll dress, nips on full display, hair pulled up in pigtails and sucking on a lollipop. There are words by her head, written in quotation marks.

Are you my next Mommy or Daddy?

"What the fuck?" I mutter, slowly scrolling down the screen. There are invitations for playdates, invitations to take a good girl shopping, requests for cuddle sessions. And constant opportunities to Sign up now . "People are actually into this sh-stuff?"

I correct my word choice, since clearly, Oakley is into this shit.

When I look up at her, she's smirking at me. "You mean that baby girl, daddy shit? Yeah. I'm not into, like, the age-play stuff. I just pick the invitations that want something like a dinner date, to sext with them, or to sit and watch me do my makeup or whatever. Here, let me show you."

She takes her phone back and starts tapping at the screen, I'm assuming to log in. My assumption is correct when she offers me her phone again, scooting closer, so she can see as she points things out. "See, here. I have my search filtered for my preferences, and then I can apply for any of the invitations that interest me. I can also post my own. All you need to do is set up a profile. You can leave it on private, so only daddies—or mommies—you approach can see your profile."

She scrolls through a bunch of the invitations, but what catches my eye are the little pink gift boxes at the bottom of each listing. Some have one gift box and others have a few.

"What are the boxes for?" I ask, pointing at an invitation that has five pink boxes.

Oakley clicks on the invitation, opening it up and then scrolling to the section that talks about the gift boxes. "It's how much the daddy or mommy is willing to pay or gift. One pink gift box usually represents one hundred dollars or less."

Intrigued, I touch the screen, scrolling up to the description of the invitation.

Daddy in search of a good girl to take out to dinner and movie on Friday night, then to spend the evening clothed, cuddling in a hotel room. Goodbyes in the morning after breakfast.

I raise my eyebrows as I eye the five pink boxes. "So, that's what . . . five hundred bucks?"

"Yeah, basically, and the expenses for the date are covered by the daddy," Oakley responds as she casually clicks on the "Pick me, Daddy" button.

Neither of us comments on her action.

"So, are there other colors?" I ask as I lean back into the corner of the couch, TV completely forgotten. She's caught my interest. If these people are willing to pay for me to eat good food, dress in a skimpy outfit, and talk to them for a couple of hours, why the hell shouldn't I at least ask some questions? Asking questions doesn't mean I have to follow through on the actions. Even though this sounds like easy cash.

And besides, even if I did follow through, I've done way worse things than being paid to go on a date to keep myself and others safe.

"Yep. So, pink is the lowest, which is basically hundreds. Then there is purple, which is thousands. And red, those are tens."

I frown, her counting system seeming to be a little off. "Tens? As in ten dollars?"

She laughs, a slight mocking edge. "No, sweetie, ten thousand."

I let out a low whistle. "People spend that kind of money?"

Oakley gives me a look that makes me feel stupid and naive. "People will spend whatever kind of money they have to get their rocks off a certain way."

"Fair enough," I reply with a one-shoulder shrug. "Just seems like a crappy thing to waste your money on."

Oakley bops her head from side to side. "I'd agree with you, but the majority of the daddies I have met up with so far are hella stacked in the wallet. That only want companionship for the specifics of the invitation and then they want you gone. And they don't want to haggle."

I nod. "Makes sense."

It totally didn't. If the daddies are stacked, wouldn't it make sense that girls would be throwing themselves at them?

Glancing at the TV, I see that the baby daddy is sitting on the couch, playing his new video games while the newborn sleeps on his chest. Clearly, Mom has bailed or is sulking in the bedroom.

"Where's your phone?"

"Hello, random question." I turn back to Oakley with a raised eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes at me. "I'm going to set you up with your own profile, and then you can search through the app."

"I don't remember saying I was going to sign up," I snark back at her. But I can't stop my gaze from taking in how . . . good she looks, objectively speaking. I'm not into pussy, but I can totally check out a woman and determine if she is hot or not. And Oakley is hot.

Oakley laughs. "We can set your profile to private so that only profiles you interact with can see yours. Then you can be a creepy lurker for as long as you like."

"I can remain anonymous?" I offer her my phone from where I had it tucked between my leg and the couch cushion.

I have exactly one—well two, with Oakley, but she hasn't messaged me yet—people who can contact me through that phone.

Tray Brown.

We were both in the foster care system since we were little kids. Me at six and him at eight. Were he was removed from his family because of a father with preferences that get a person added to a special kind of register, whereas I was entered into the system because my parents are dead.

Too bad there are just as many depraved animals in the system as there are out.

"Unlock code?" she asks, thumbs hovering over the digital number pad.

"Four zeros," I reply, watching as she taps away.

"That's not very secure."

I shrug. "There is literally nothing on there except for a couple of texts, the app for my student email, and Facebook. Good luck to anyone who steals it, since it only has a battery life of forty-five minutes." Which is exactly why there is an extra-long charger cable hanging from the bottom of my phone, the cable leading to the wall plug.

"Right, okay. Well, the app is downloading. Look at the TV," she orders and I don't even think about it before I do it.

I hear the sound of a digital shutter closing, and I turn back to her, indignation burning the bottom of my stomach. "Did you just take a photo of me?"

"Yep," she replies without an ounce of care. "You need a profile pic. Don't worry, it'll be private too, and you weren't looking at the camera. It's actually a pretty cute photo."

She flashes the screen at me, and I study the picture as objectively as possible. The light from the kitchen behind me puts my face into silhouette, and I'm thankful it's hiding my features. Brown hair held up in a messy bun by a scrunchy. I was unfortunately blessed with naturally curly hair, but because it's so thick and long, it's just waves of frizz.

A black tank top with spaghetti straps, one of which has fallen off my shoulder. Also, it is very clear that I am not wearing a bra. I'm not stacked or anything, but I have a nice handful. Just enough that taking off my bra at the end of each day is fucking amazing, but not enough that I've had to go up to the next size shirt or anything.

My legs are curled up beneath me on the couch, and the lower curve of my ass cheek is peeking out in the pic through the hem of my booty-cut denim shorts.

Okay, fine, it's a cute photo.

I make an annoyed noise and go back to watching the TV, which has changed over to one of the other couples. Twins at sixteen. What the hell was she thinking? And, of course, her baby daddy has done a runner on her.

Honestly, it's somewhat surprising I'm not in the same position as the girl on the TV. Sex has been a part of my life since before I can remember. I honestly have no idea what all of the fuss is about. It's gross, and some of the time it hurts, but mostly, it's just uncomfortable.

But without a cent to my name, it has been my only bartering system.

College is my exit plan from all of that.

"Okay, here you go. I've added enough details to get you past the bots. Scroll through all the profiles. The filters are turned off, so just make your own selections, see if anything catches your eye. You'll need to verify your age and account with a picture of your license, if you decide you want to accept an invite. I'm going to go make some dinner." Oakley hands me back my phone, then gets off the couch, not giving me even a second to protest or ask questions.

The invitations page captures my attention. Unlike on Oakley's profile, the invitations appear endless. I click on the filter buttons and, holy shit, there are so many options. It's almost overwhelming enough to lock the phone and go back to my shitty TV show.

But the fact that I have one dollar and six cents in my bank account says that maybe I should give this at least a second look.

Slowly, I work my way through the list.

Who are you looking for? Mommy, Daddy, Both, Don't care.

Daddy. Definitely daddy. Absolutely no pussy for me.

Age range.

Uh . . . wanting to avoid potentially seeing college-age dick, I make the search for older men. Thirty to fifty. Erm, no, wait. I adjust the oldest bar down to forty. Yeah, that's good for now.

Location. There are two options for this one—proximity and specific suburbs.

Proximity seems best. I set the limit to fifteen miles, because that's as far as I'm willing to travel by public transport, since owning a car is a pipe dream right now.

The list is endless.

Verified accounts.

Accounts with pictures.

Date type.

I pause. Date type? Clicking on that one, I find that its meaning is apparent. Basically, it's about how much sex am I willing to have on a date with them.

Meet-cute.

Kiss and don't tell.

Getting handsy.

Just a taste.

A quickie.

Stay the night.

I take a deep breath and let it out, before clicking out of the filter without picking a selection.

More scrolling through the filters reveals even more options. Limits. Preferences. Body types.

Blah blah blah.

I hit the search bar, leaving the majority of filters open. It takes a few seconds, and I bite on my thumbnail while I wait for the results to load.

My eyebrows raise when over three hundred results show up, even with my ten-year age range and fifteen mile radius. Damn, there are a lot of kinky assholes out there.

I instantly see my mistake by not selecting profiles with photos. Three clicks later, and I have that fixed, and the results slim down by over fifty percent.

I start scrolling, clicking on various profiles, trying to learn what all of the little icons mean. As I read through a bunch of profiles, specifically skipping down to the "my ideal sugar baby is . . ." and "My perfect date is . . ." sections, I start to get a bit of a feel for the app.

From what I'm seeing, most of these men just want some company. Maybe a little bit of something extra, once a connection has been formed, but they don't want a full-blown relationship. Just someone to go to dinner with once a week or see a movie or show.

This actually doesn't seem that bad.

I'm just about to call out to Oakley to ask what I need to do to fix up my profile when a steaming bowl of rice and beef stir-fry is shoved under my nose.

"Here, take this. I made too much."

I drop my phone and quickly take the bowl with the fork hanging out of the top, words of protest dying on my tongue as the scent of garlic, soy sauce, and spices assail my nose. "Oh my god, this smells amazing."

Oakley falls back onto the couch next to me, at some point having ditched her jeans and corset shirt for sweats and a tank. "Well, eat up. I had a bunch of things in the fridge that were either cook or toss, so there's enough for at least one more lunch and maybe dinner each."

I stare at her for a moment, and she doesn't even bother to play coy. "I know what you're doing."

She shrugs. "Look, you can either eat the food or toss it in the trash. No skin off my nose, either way."

"I'm paying you for this," I mutter stomach cramping at the thought of warm food.

She shrugs. "I don't remember asking you to."

As I stare at the food, my mouth waters. Am I really prideful enough to toss out this food and wait to eat at the dining hall tomorrow?

No, no, I am not.

Besides, this is the most we have spoken to each other in the last two weeks, and the human interaction actually doesn't suck too bad. Not going to jeopardize that by letting my pride stop me from eating her cooking.

I scoop up a healthy amount of food and stuff it into my mouth and have to physically withhold the groan. Holy shit, I'm starving. I force myself to go slow—one, because I don't want to throw up after having basically starved for the past two days, and two, because I don't want Oakley to know how dire things have become.

"So, what did you think of SugarLife?" she asks casually, eyes glued to the screen.

I keep my attention on the TV as the first teen mom does her wrap-up interview for the current episode. "Seems okay, I guess. I can't believe how many accounts are on there."

Oakley laughs. "Yeah, I usually limit mine down to meet-cute and kiss and don't tell. That usually weeds out most of the profiles. Same for the invitations. I don't mind kissing a guy to make him feel special and to say thank you, especially if the gift boxes are right. Even if he makes my skin crawl."

"How does the money stuff work? Like, how do you actually get paid?" I ask, not at all thinking about the way my heart is beating a little harder at the idea of having three figures in my bank account.

"Well, once you both accept an invitation, their account is debited half the fee, and you can see it sitting in your wallet as a pending transfer. Then, when you actually turn up to the date, the daddy confirms you are there and that first amount transfers. At the end of the date, you both mark it as complete, and the rest of the money gets transferred. Then you just transfer the money, minus a small fee, into your regular bank account. The higher-paying invitations can have a different payment structure to make sure the sugar daddy or mommy isn't getting scammed."

I nod, scraping up the last bit of rice onto my fork as the credits begin to roll. "Thanks for dinner."

"No problem," Oakley calls out as I head to the sink to wash and rinse off my plate before leaving it in the drying rack.

With every step from the kitchen to my bedroom, all I can think about is SugarLife and the fact that Oakley is making bank without selling herself.

Which begs the question—how much do dates that include sex pay?