I thought they must have gotten their channels crossed and called the wrong person but sure enough, when I called they double-checked and told me that Brighton had told them that I'd be leaving soon and to start looking for a new tenant for the property.
So much for being guaranteed till the end of the year.
Naturally, I haven't been able to get ahold of the man himself at all.
All my calls have gone to voicemail and my texts have gone unanswered.
I thought maybe he had something else in mind, but he's clearly decided to end our agreement and not even have the decency to tell me in person.
That's what I get for being a silly girl that believed in happily ever afters. Again.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson after Brad. But no.
I had a good thing going with this sugar daddy arrangement and I had to go and fuck it all up by sleeping with the guy.
Down inside I know it's not just the sex though.
If it was merely a case of losing my free ride over giving in to one dumb impulse I wouldn't be feeling this way right now. I wouldn't have spent the last 2 weeks screaming till I cry and then crying till I scream. I wouldn't have left so many embarrassing messages on Brighton's phone that I can't take back. I wouldn't have made a fool of myself by pouring out my heart and asking why he was doing it? Why was he doing it like this?
If it was just a stupid screw up that lost the house and the money and the fancy parties, I could just get back on the Sugarmesweet site and try again.
The part that really hurts is that I lost Brighton.
The part that really hurt is that I fell in love with Brighton when obviously we were never meant to be more than friends.
Heaving a deep, dissatisfied sigh, I push away from the balcony railing and close and lock the French doors behind me for the last time.
Half an hour later I return from dumping the garbage and grab the last box off the kitchen counter.
It's a beautiful house. Remodeled just before I moved in and filled with tasteful, high end furniture that I was so grateful for when I had nothing of my own.
At least I got what I needed out of the deal. I got back on my feet.
As I balance the box against my hip and lock the front door, it takes everything I have to ignore the voice in my heart screaming that what I really need...
...is Brighton.
Brighton
These last 2 weeks have been hectic to say the least.
Now that the deal with Chloe is in writing and I'm back in California, I can finally relax on that count and get down to working out the details of my new arrangement terms with Paula.
All I have to do now is whisk Paula away for a romantic evening and hope she's willing to renegotiate.
Opening the door to my house, I look around at the newly bare space inside. Looks like the crew got that head start I ordered while I was out of town working on the deal with Chloe's gallery.
Most of the furniture and all the shit that had been hanging on the wall is gone. The front room is down to nothing but walls and carpet.
As I head back to my room, I tour the progress as I go. Room after room is in some state of getting stripped down to empty house.
I can't wait to turn Paula loose on the place. The house has been in need of a good update for too long but it was always good enough for a bachelor that's hardly ever here anyway. I know Paula's all about her baking-- and that's why I expect her to have the most fun with the kitchen-- but this place needs a woman's touch and I'm going to make sure she gets to do whatever she needs to make this place feel like her home.
The luggage gets left by the door to my room. The master suite isn't completely torn down yet, my bed is still in place and, naturally, my closet is still untouched. I'm sure that'll all get a major remodel too, but I still have to live here in the meantime.
We. We still have to live here.
Looking around on my way to run the shower, I consider that maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to turn over the condo. I could have moved in with Paula while this place was under construction.
Sharing a little 2 bedroom down on the Strand could have been fun for a few months. Just the 2 of us, acting like college kids, sneaking out to go skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean in the middle of the night.
Yeah. Sure wish I'd thought of that before I gave the property manager the go-ahead to get it rented again.
Oh well.
Living in construction chaos will be fun too, I bet. Anything would be fun as long as I have Paula around. And if she doesn't agree, then we'll just rent a place temporarily till all the work is done and the house is exactly the way she wants it.
My office is the one room in the house that's still untouched. I keep it locked when I'm away, especially when I have work crews and movers coming in and out of here without me around to keep an eye on them. My clients value their privacy and I value my clients. I'm not about to risk any personal information getting out.
While the shower warms up, I unlock my office door and head for my desk.
I think I want to surprise Paula tonight. She doesn't expect me back in town until tomorrow. Originally I planned it so I could catch up on the time difference and square away a few details before heading over to see her, but now that I'm back all that can wait.
It's been 2 weeks since I've even heard her voice. Not that that's unusual-- at least, not the way our relationship used to be. But now things are different.
I don't want to go weeks without seeing her. I sure as hell don't want to go weeks without talking to her.
My dick is already at half mast just thinking about her. These last couple of weeks have been hell without her. I wanted to take her with me, but I know her classes are really important to her and 2 weeks is a long time to take off from even a part time job.
Maybe I'll just buy her her own bakery. We can hire a good staff and then Paula can travel with me without worrying about her business collapsing while she's gone.
That thought sticks with me and I pick up the desk phone to call my personal assistant and have her look into what's entailed, "and can you send flowers?" I add before hanging up, "Yes, roses. Yes red."
I forgot my regular assistant left for vacation a few days ago, this guy that's covering for her seems a little out of his league.
With careful instructions to set the bakery research project aside for Alice when she gets back, I tell young Mason who to call for the roses and give him the address of the condo for delivery with instructions to rush the order so they should arrive before I get over there.
As I set the land line phone back down I notice my cell phone on the book shelf next to the FAX machine.
So that's where I left it, I think as I reach to grab it. I looked everywhere for the damn thing when I got to New York and couldn't find it. Luckily, I was able to just have Alice have it forwarded over to my business cell so I wouldn't miss anything important. Like a call from Paula.
Of course the damn thing's dead now. When I touch the screen to wake it up, nothing happens. That's what I get for setting it down and forgetting it for 2 weeks.
Oh well.
I set it on the charging pad as I walk out of the office, eager to get into that shower now that it's had a chance to get nice and hot.
Maybe we'll put in an on-demand water heater on this end of the house while we're remodeling. It'd be nice to conserve on the amount of water that goes down the drain while I wait for the hot water to travel from the other end of the house.
Turns out, as much as I was looking forward to standing in a hot shower and washing away 2 weeks of Manhattan grime and hours of airport layover, I'm looking forward to seeing Paula even more.
My shower lasts just long enough to lather up, jack off, and rinse off. And by the time I'm dry and dressed, I'm ready to repeat one of those things-- it's not lathering or rinsing. At this rate, we're in for a repeat performance of our first time, fast and hard and needy.
Still messing with my
hair and trying to keep my libido down to a dull roar, I make my way back to my office. There's a light flashing on the landline hand set, indicating that some one's left a message. Probably a telemarketer, no one calls me on this number. I don't even know why I bother keeping it anymore.
While I touch the play button, I hold the power button on my personal cell and wait for it to come to life now that it's had a chance to charge.
"...but they're saying it's vacant..." Mason's reedy voice is a wee bit dramatic coming through the speakers on the desk phone and I have a hard time understand what he's referring to.
Waiting out the end of his message, hoping it'll eventually make some sense and making a note to train a back up assistant so Alice doesn't have to resort to a temp agency, I stare at my personal cell phone in confusion.
The screen lists a dizzying number of notifications from every app installed. I expected that much, what has me puzzled is that there are 67 text messages and 14 voicemails.
I had the office arrange to forward my personal number over to my business phone as soon as I got to New York and realized I'd left the phone at home. Most of my contacts already use my business line, there shouldn't be this many missed messages in the few hours it took for my personal number to swap lines.
Mason's message ends on a desperate note and I let the machine automatically delete it without replaying. I'll call the kid back in a second and straighten out whatever he's managed to screw up with the flower order. Maybe I'll just swing by the florist on my way down out to Santa Monica and pick up the roses in person.
Thumbing across the screen I open up my text messages first. Most of them are sales stuff, pizza specials, happy hours, chances to win tickets to a comedy show-- the usual stuff. Toward the bottom of the screen I see something from Mom that went out to the whole family but nothing that can't wait till later.
Exiting the messenger, I ponder briefly how long I should wait to introduce Paula to my family.
Voicemail.
I scroll through the list of messages waiting in the app that converts them to text for me. The first couple in the line are from unknown numbers and they either didn't stay on the line longer enough, or didn't say anything so there's no transcript to read.
I'm in the process of deleting those as I head back to my room to finish getting ready when my thumb freezes over the delete button.
The date stamp on those can't be right. It says those calls came in 2 days ago. They should have forwarded to my business number.
Not that I mind missing a couple of sales calls.
Still, something feels off.
Then I see Paula's name. My stomach does a flip just at the sight of her name in the list and I can't help but smile in anticipation of hearing her voice.
I've gotten used to this feeling in the last couple of weeks. The way I find myself grinning like a moron for hours after the simplest thought of her crosses my mind. The way my gut ties itself in knots if the slightest thing reminds me to worry about her.
The only thing that's kept me from calling her every 5 minutes is because I've been working so hard to settle the deal with Chloe-- and because I'm a grown ass man that can keep his cool and not go off half-cocked like an infatuated school boy.
Paula's used to having her time to herself when I'm working and I understand how important that is to her. I don't want her to think that just because our relationship is changing that I don't respect what she's been through to get to me.
I tap the first message in the row, even though it's the last one she left. I just want to hear her sweet voice.
It's Paula's voice, alright, but it's far from the honey warm drawl that I'm expecting. Her voice is flat, exhausted, it sounds like her throat is sore and her nose is stuffed up, and it sounds entirely too much like she's been crying.
"Obviously I'm just making a fool of myself so don't worry, Mr. Ford, from this point on I'll deal exclusively with your office so you don't have to ignore my calls anymore. I just--"
She sniffles in the background, away from the mic and I wonder what the hell she's talking about but my curiosity isn't anywhere near as strong as the sickening churning in my stomach telling me that something has gone very, very wrong.
"...I just...I mean, I understand that you're dissolving our agreement, I just didn't expect you to do it like this. Thank you, Brighton. I will miss you."
Her voice drops to near silence on my name, then she sniffles again before ending on a resolute note and ending her call.
The date stamp is from 3 days ago.
There are 7 more messages from her in the queue that were all left during the time I was in New York.
Frantically, I check my business cell, scrolling through the history and realizing that not a single call or text came in from my personal cell number after I called to have Alice--
Shit! Alice is on vacation! She never got the email from me to have my calls forwarded.
Mason.
The temp's whiny voice replays in my ears, talking about the florist calling to say the condo was vacant when their driver got there.
Vacant.
Not that there wasn't anyone home.
Vacant.
Shit!
I haven't even tucked my shirt in, my shoes are unlaced, and it's not until I'm already spinning the tires on the smooth concrete driveway as I pull out of the garage that I realize I never put my belt on, but none of that matters right now.
My phone's digital assistant doesn't recognize my voice the first few times I tell her to call Paula because I'm yelling hysterically.
Once the phone starts ringing...it goes to voicemail.
Paula
It's hard to believe it's been less than a year since I was back in Vegas, scrubbing shit-- literally-- off the walls of a gas station bathroom for minimum wage.
That's what I've chosen to focus on today while I mix dough for the next batch of bread in the back of the bakery.
It's a small operation, we have an industrial mixer but we do our kneading by hand. That comes in handy when I can't concentrate on the good stuff and Brighton starts creeping into my mind.
Right now, I'm watching the bread hook move through the dough in the bowl and I'm thinking how much better my life is today...because of Brighton.
With a heavy sigh I concede. I can't not think about him. If it hadn't been for Brighton, I wouldn't have moved to California. If it hadn't been for Brighton, I wouldn't have gotten my debts paid off so I could start building new credit. I wouldn't have had time or money to enroll in college, I wouldn't have found this job, I wouldn't be doing something I love and getting paid enough to do it to afford a place of my own-- even if it's just a studio apartment in a less than picturesque neighborhood. It's safe, it's clean, and most importantly-- it's mine.
Heaving the big ball of dough out of the mixing bowl and dropping it on the table I let my thoughts run on as I begin separating the dough into batches.
If it hadn't been for Brighton...
If it hadn't been for Brighton, I wouldn't have started thinking about stupid shit like that maybe this Thanksgiving I'd have a nice kitchen where I could make a proper turkey dinner-- and someone to cook it for. I wouldn't have been looking for the perfect Christmas present for him or wondering where we'd be when we kissed at midnight on New Year's eve.
If it hadn't been for Brighton, I wouldn't have started thinking that I'd found a second chance at more than just my financial life.
I wouldn't have started thinking that there was still a chance for me to wear the glass slippers.
I can't knead the dough and cry at the same time and as much as I'd like to pretend he isn't worth the tears, I know there are going to be a lot more days like today before I can think about him without crying.
Till then, I'll just keep sneaking into the break room for tissues.
I'm on my third tissue when I hear raised voices up front in the store.
The voices are muffled by the sounds of the equipment in the ba
ck and the heavy doors separating where I am from the store up front.
"Just get...oh for....nevermi--"
I hear a man arguing with the girl that's working the counter this morning. It sounds like he's trying to come in the back, maybe looking for the owner. Probably needs an emergency anniversary cake or something.
It's been known to happen.
Tossing my tissue in the trash, I head toward the doors so I can relieve poor Wendy from having to deal with the frantic customer.
The doors to the kitchen swing open and Brighton bursts through with Wendy close behind, still babbling that he's not allowed back here.
"Paula!" Brighton shouts like he's trying to get my attention from half a mile away even though I'm only about 15 feet away when he sees me.
Wendy watches from behind him and only hesitantly heads back out front when she sees me nod numbly in her direction that I'm OK.
"What are you doing here, Brighton?" I try to muster up the energy to be pissed off at him but I'm suddenly too damn tired.
How can he look so damn good when I feel like shit? I haven't slept in a week. I cry at least 18 hours of the day. I can't remember the last time I kept solid food down.
"I'm at work, Brighton," I tell him, "I can't talk right now."
It's a blatant attempt at avoiding a confrontation. I said everything I needed to say to him over the last couple of weeks in a series of unfortunate voicemails that I wish I could take back.
It's too late for that now though. Every emotion I've had about the end of my relationship with Brighton has been recorded for his listening pleasure. And, until he just burst into the bakery's kitchen looking like he was chased in here, I was pretty sure he'd been deleting them unheard.
"I don't know what's going on." His hands flex nervously in and out of semi-fists between gestures to punctuate his claims of ignorance, "I got back and they said you moved out but it's too soon and there's a temp in the office because Alice went on vacation and I left the phone at the house and didn't get any of your messages and-- Paula? What the fuck went wrong? I'm lost."
Dipping a Toe in Sugar Page 7
