Chapter Text
The week had worn off on her. Previously perfectly painted nails chipped, worn clothes hanging off every corner of the room, dark circles under her eyes enlarging by the hour, bones moaning in protest with every move she made. Who knew being a new grad nurse would be this difficult?
Opening her bank account, she sighed. $10.58. Great.
With a deep breath, she swung her legs over the mattress and began her morning routine. Just hang on til payday. Starting her new full-time nursing job at the Pitt and working part-time at the local cafe helped her scrape by on instant ramen and cheap rent. Even then, the landlord screamed in her ear for monthly payments that drained her already bare bank account.
The shrill tune of Baby Shark blasted from her phone, jolting her. “Goddammit.” The alarm indicated that she only had 15 minutes until her shift at the cafe.
Throwing her hair into as neat of a ponytail she could manage, she quickly changed out of her pajamas into the tacky blue uniform. Taking a glance into the dingy bathroom mirror, she winced. When did it get this bad?
With a deep exhale, she left the apartment.
…
After remaking her twelfth drink of the day, her eyes began glazing over and her fingers cracked from the constant washing. Why are people such assholes?
“Make sure to mop under the counter. You keep forgetting to and it’s getting nasty under there,” her manager crudely commented before leaving for the day. What a great manager, leaving one person to clean the entire store.
…
Back in her home, she flopped onto her mattress and took a deep breath. Opening her phone, she navigated to Google and typed in, how to make money fast. The first advertisement that came up was findadaddy.com. Slightly intrigued, she clicked.
Lonely? Find a sugar baby! Broke? Find a sugar daddy! Sign up NOW!
No, she shouldn’t be doing this. It’s ridiculous.
But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the ten dollars and fifty-eight cents she had left in her bank account. Fuck.
Oh, fuck it, what can go wrong?
Clicking the bright orange NOW button, she created a profile for herself. Now, don’t underestimate her too much. She isn’t stupid enough to insert a full picture of her face. For her profile picture, she inserted a headless bikini picture from back when she used to eat enough to have somewhat of a figure.
Finally, she clicked BEGIN YOUR SEARCH FOR A SUGAR DADDY, and began swiping through the potential choices.
Josh, 65. University professor, 20 miles away. Nope, too old.
Billy, 78. Retired pilot, 13 miles away. Holy shit, he’s older than my grandpa.
Phillip, 22. Software developer, 5 miles away. Intriguing, but vibe’s off.
Brendon, 37. Orthopedic surgeon, 3 miles away. She paused. His age wasn’t so bad; 37 is plenty old for a man to be emotionally mature, but not too old to be her dad. His job was respectable, too. Cautiously, she swiped right.
Throwing her phone onto the mattress, she flopped face down onto her pillow and groaned. What did she get herself into?
Ping! Jolted, she immediately sat up and grabbed her phone. Brendon, 37 just matched with you! Click here to start talking. Her heart beat against her ribs as she clicked on the notification.
You are starting a conversation with Brendon, 37.
Staring at the chat, she typed with shaking fingers.
Emma, 22
hey, how r u?
Cringing at herself, she rubbed at her face. Who the hell texts that as the first text? God, it’s been too long since she’s dated someone. She was shaken from her thoughts as she felt her phone buzz in her hands.
Brendon, 37
Let’s cut the small talk. We both know why we’re here.
Emma, 22
yeah, true.
Brendon, 37
I’m looking to spend my money on someone. I’ll pay $100 per hour we spend together. We don’t need to have any sexual relations if you don’t want it.
She choked on her spit. Holy shit? Is she seeing that right? $100 an hour? Before she could think through her actions, she immediately texted back, blindsighted by the presented money.
Emma, 22
yes, that sounds perfect to me!
Brendon, 37
Perfect. Are you free tonight? I’d like to take you out.
She had work tomorrow, but she could sacrifice her sleep for the promise of $100/hour.
Emma, 22
yes! where should i meet u?
Brendon, 37
I’ll pick you up. Where do you want me to pick you up?
Emma, 22
how about the cafe next to ptmc?
Better safe than sorry. She’s not going to risk being kidnapped and send her address.
Brendon, 37
Be there in 10. Dress casual. Look for a white Porsche.
Staring at that message, she felt herself spiral. What the fuck is casual to a rich person? All she had in her closet were scrubs and hand-me-downs.
After three minutes of digging through her entire closet, she finally decided on a white long-sleeved shirt with pink flowers and jeans.
Combing through her hair haphazardly while shoving her feet into her sneakers, she ran out the door.
…
Finally reaching the cafe, she spotted the described white Porsche parked in front. Walking towards it, she looked down at her phone, texting Brendon that she had arrived.
“Took you long enough,” a deep voice spoke in front of her.
Startled, Emma flinched back. “Gah! Give me a warning before you sneak up on me!” Raising her head, she took in the sight in front of her. Brendon had to be at least a foot taller than her, with slicked-back hair and a large, but noticeably toned body. His facial features seemed almost sharp, his teeth glinting under the streetlight.
With a low chuckle, he replied, “Emma, right? Here, come on.” He led her to his car, opening the passenger’s-side door for her.
“Oh, thank you,” she meekly said. She knew she shouldn’t be getting in strangers’ cars, but honestly, she couldn’t care less anymore. YOLO. Plus, she was assuming they were going to get dinner, and she was starving.
Once properly buckled in the car, she decided to perform at least some safety measures. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”
That forced a startled laugh out of him. “No, I’m actually a serial killer who’s going to kill you and harvest your organs.”
For a second, the blood drained out of her face. But after seeing a hint of a smirk on his face, she sighed, relief washing over her. “Oh my gosh! You are not funny!” she yelled, smacking his shoulder.
“Ow, ow, okay, I’m sorry,” he groaned. “God, your slaps are deadly.”
With a snicker, she continued, “Whatever. Where are we going?”
“You like tacos?”