Sugar Daddy

by Rie Warren

  We moved lithely, striving, reaching, touching.

  Never too hard, never too fast, he pulled away the blindfold and kept thrusting, watching, watching.

  Grabbing his shoulders, I bowed off the bed, crying out, pulsing around his length. With a last lick to my nipples, his lips opened for a great shout, his arms bundling me to his chest where warm musky sweat melted to my tongue.

  Only after we were released from our orgasmic meeting did the silence break with hums and smattering kisses, murmured yeses.

  While I had him in this loose-limbed post coital state, I took advantage. Rolling him to his side, I followed suit with his biceps the cushion to my head. I brushed my thumb across the silly smile on his face.

  Before I could chicken out, I blurted, “So, I’mgonnatellPalmerI’mleavin’him.”

  Reardon coughed. “Come again?”

  Wait, was that an invitation for more fucking? Because I could put this off until later, or tomorrow, or like never.

  Constance finally made her appearance, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to, since her disapproving glare said it all.

  I met his gaze. “I’m telling Palmer I’m leavin’ him.”

  A new flush stole over Reardon’s cheeks and his lips moved, but nothing came out. He fell to his back for a moment, and returned to his elbow. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked relieved, ecstatic, and anxious all over.

  “Okay?” I pressed. “Not like I need your say-so, because the whole world don’t revolve around you…” I petered out.

  He took my hand. “Yes. Okay.” A small smile started on his lips. It grew gloriously bigger.

  Shit, since he was takin’ this so well, I might as well go whole hog.

  “In that case, I got somethin’ else to tell you.” I turned my hand over and linked our fingers so he couldn’t run away.

  He stopped me–there was his worry again. “Shay.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m gonna say it.” I kept a straight face in the presence of his sheer terror. “Brace yourself, because you can’t stop me, unless you wanna try gagging me next?”

  He declined...unfortunately.

  “I…” I started, and let it hang.

  He held his breath, really sweating it. Oh this was too much fun. I wanted to keep him stretched out on the rack a while longer, but I relented.

  With a very obvious eye roll, I said, “I’m gonna say it to you as soon as I straighten things out with Palmer. So do what you gotta do to prepare yourself and get over your I-don’t-deserve-love mangst crap.”

  He took a deep breath before puzzling, “Mangst?”

  Propping on his chest, I kissed the tip of his nose. “Yeah, man-angst, baby, you got lots of it.”

  His stomach rippled with his laughter. “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He repeated my little peck.

  Chapter 15

  Hostile Takeover

  I got the lay of the land, alright. More like the Lay of the Century. In the lounge, the Jacuzzi, and on decks one, two, and three.

  It was a wonder I could even walk. Sea legs? I had I been fucked silly legs.

  I was still on a high when I returned home the following night and fell to bed in a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  The patio door slamming shut and Palmer’s muffled voice outside woke me the next morning.

  Making my way down the shamble of stairs, I shuffled to the kitchen, blindly seeking coffee. Palmer stomped back in with another bam of the sliders to slap a magazine onto the table.

  “Phone’s been ringin’ off the hook.” His voice was hard as a railroad spike against the soft blanket of sleepiness swaddling my head.

  I was sorting through the cereal boxes, thinking I might-could be cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs when I huffed some hair from my eyes and answered halfheartedly, “Has it? I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “No, s’pose you wouldn’t have,” he bit, stationed against the far wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His long hair still wet from the shower left large, damp teardrops on his t-shirt. “Gettin’ home so late and all.”

  I focused on those wet patches growing on pale blue fabric. The slits of his cornflower irises were too angry, his jaw too stony. I put the cereal down. “What’s goin’ on, Palmer?”

  “Exactly what I wanna know.” Releasing one hand from its punched-up place under his armpit, he shoved the magazine across the table. “Have a look.”

  I turned the recognizable glossy cover around. “Charleston Magazine? We don’t subscribe to this.”

  “We don’t, do we?” He tromped closer, bending his knees so I had no choice but to meet his stare. “Strange this, turnin’ up on our doorstep, ain’t it? Now, I thought nothin’ of it, until my momma called. You know how she likes to read all the hob-nobbing goes on with the rich folk, right?”

  Dumbly, I nodded, a scared crawling of nerves unsettling my stomach.

  “Run your eyes over The Party Scene section, darlin’. Somethin’ of interest there.”

  The way he said darlin’ sent curdled bile into my throat. I stood frozen.

  “Here, let me help you. Wouldn’t wanna tax you after a hard night’s work.” Ripping the magazine from me, he flicked through it, leaving tears in the pages. The sound of paper shredding echoed the hole in my heart, rending open a final time.

  I was unsteady. I sat down. I was numb. “Palmer, slow down.” My voice was ghostly. “Tell me what–”

  “Here it is!” He folded back a page, his top lip curling while he scanned it. “Yeah, this is what I wanna know about, Shay.” The crack in his voice was audible, but his unbreakable expression cranked even more closed.

  Accepting the magazine from him, my hands shook. The pages rustled as the A/C kicked on with its loud hum. The same as the ends of his thick hair making big splotches on his shirt, my tears dropped onto the page where an image took up more than half the space.

  Bachelor tycoon Reardon Boone of Radaman-Slaughter Holdings with his companion, Shay Greer, at a FUNdraiser for The Gibbes, hosted at Mr. Boone’s lavish Tides penthouse. Aperitifs for associates and benefactors were followed by an unveiling of Jeremy Ladson’s photographs. July, 2013.

  “Looks downright cozy.” Palmer’s soft words turned harsh. “Companion? Companion, Shay? That what they’re callin’ it nowadays?”

  “I was gonna tell you–”

  “When? Fucking when, Shay? When you took a break from blowin’ this Boone fella? After you made me a goddamn public laughin’ stock?”

  “No, I’d decided–”

  “You decided?” He smacked the heels of his hands against the table. “Everyone knows. It’s in full-friggin’ color...right...here.”

  I was mortified. Losing Delilah had been ruinous. This was near as bad. No, this was worse in another, more disgraceful way. I’d caused this.

  Disgusted, he raked his fingers down the page, stabbing Reardon’s face. “This? This is how you’ve been makin’ money? I thought you were a personal assistant, goddammit! Took that role a little too far, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.” I uttered the completely useless words.

  “You’re a whore, is what you are.”

  “I’m not...it wasn’t...I’m not a whore, Palmer.”

  “You took his money, right? You had sex with him, didn’t you?” The side of his jaw pulsed, his nostrils flared.

  I nodded once, leaving my chin dropped toward the floor. “Yeah, but…” I wanted to explain, it wasn’t about the money, but that would make it worse. I deserved this anyway.

  His lips were screwed so tightly I was surprised he could manage any words. But he did. The ones I’d been waiting for, the ones I wished had come about a different way. “It’s over.”

  I stood with my eyes closed, whispering, “I’ll leave.”

  “And move in with him?”

  “No!”

  He fingered the page again. The swirl of his thumb hovered over my face. “You know
, it’s not even what they said–could mean anything, couldn’t it?” When he raised his eyes, they trapped me in pain. “It’s the way you’re lookin’ at him. It’s the way you look.”

  He hooked it over to me. I ducked my head. Grabbing my chin, he made me see he was right. There was the beginning of love, staring back at me. I pushed the article away, sickened by my reprehensible behavior.

  Interrupted by the ring of the phone, he shouted, “That goddamn phone!” He tore it from the cradle, thrusting it at me. “Your turn. It’s your momma.”

  “Hello?”

  “I saw it.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Shay, girl! What you playin’ a–”

  “I can’t talk now, Momma.”

  Palmer paced in front of me.

  “Shay.” Her pitch lowered. “You were wrong, baby. But it don’t mean what you feel isn’t right.”

  How the hell was I supposed to untangle her mixed message without a Miss Cleo-call-me-now crystal ball?

  “I gotta go,” I sniffed.

  “Y’all call me later.”

  “He’s your lover.” Palmer announced soon as I hung up.

  I nodded.

  “Not stayin’ in the same house as my cuckolding wife.”

  All the love I’d ever felt for him flooded me. The memory of our first kiss in the front seat of his old truck. The day we got married and how his hands shook when he lifted the veil from my face before touching my mouth with his newly ringed finger, tracing my smile. My first ultrasound when our fingers wrapped tightly together, our eyes clinging to the wee wavy image of Delilah. How he leaned over–carefully, so as not to disturb the technician–fully kissing my lips.

  I reached for his hand. “Palmer, I–”

  He snatched it away. Standing at the back doors, he scanned the yard ending at Delilah’s garden. “Why?” He gritted his teeth. Even now, he wouldn’t cry. His voice quieted. “Was it because I couldn’t make you a mother?”

  Even now, he blamed himself.

  “No.” I stood next to him, but I wouldn’t trespass. I wouldn’t touch him. “You know it’s been over.”

  Turning his head, he bristled at the sight of me. “I should kick you out.”

  I agreed, repeating, “I’ll go.”

  “You can’t. I won’t do that to you.” His hand came over, caressing my cheek solemnly. “You can’t leave, not with Delilah’s garden here.”

  Sobs threatened me. I swallowed them one by one while Palmer stalked outside, and I followed.

  The sun shone so surely. It filtered through his wheat colored hair and dashed off his face. Reliable.

  Blinking quickly, Palmer stroked the statue for our baby. “I’ve always loved you.”

  I had to touch him. From behind, I wrapped him in my arms, snuffling into his back. He slouched against me, gathering my hands and bringing them to his chest.

  Stepping apart, sad awkwardness sat between us.

  “I’ll pack some things.”

  “Where will you go?” I walked behind him into the house.

  Starting up the stairs, he stopped with his hand gripping the banister. “Curtis has a room over the garage.”

  My heart plummeted with every step he took and every trip to his truck. Arms laden with boxes of belongings that had been part of our life since high school.

  I rapped on the window of his pickup as he started the engine. Unwinding it, he stared straight ahead.

  “Please call me.”

  He fingered the crease of his baseball cap and gripped the wheel like it was one of those Louisville Sluggers he used to crack balls with. He didn’t say anything.

  * * * *

  Leave a message at the sound of the beep:

  “Shay, you’re late.”

  I huddled under the covers, pulling them over my ears.

  Leave a message at the…

  “Shay, where the hell are you?”

  I was walking through the house. It was empty.

  Incoming call: Palmer Greer.

  “Palmer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  Silence.

  “Right. Dumb question.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m at Curtis’s.”

  I squished the wet ball of a tissue in my hand. “Okay. I’ve got his number.”

  “Don’t! Don’t you call me, Shay.”

  Dial tone.

  Leave a message at the sound of the bleep:

  “I’m getting worried now.”

  In the spare room, I sat on the futon amidst a crowd of sheets and blankets bearing Palmer’s imprint. His twisted-up PJs peeked from under the corner of a flattened pillow.

  Leave a–

  “Fuck, Shay, where the hell are you? Are you okay?”

  The panic in Reardon’s voice echoed mutely. I hadn’t moved from Palmer’s bed. He’d forgotten to take the ultrasound picture of Delilah, the one with the cherubic frame and frilly words: Daddy’s Little Girl.

  TEXT: Shay, answer the damned phone.

  Reardon Boone

  CEO Radaman-Slaughter

  Sent from my iPhone

  Out back, I was swarmed by memories. The mother and babe in stone mocked me.

  Was it a day? Two days? The calls piled up like the Kleenex. Like my hair standing on end and snarled into wads at the back of my head. Knocks on the door went unanswered. Shouts from outside went unheeded.

  Augie came. He wouldn’t leave. Crouching on the other side of the door, I listened to his cell conversation.

  “I assume she’s here, the car is.”

  I patted my fingers against the puffy swells beneath my eyes.

  “Thing you should know about Shay is she’s one stubborn woman, and I say that affectionately.”

  I nervously nibbled a hangnail.

  “Yes, sir. You gotta be persistent with her, but mind, she don’t like bein’ taken under hand.”

  I peeled strips off the rubber flap on the bottom of the door.

  “’Course, I know you understand that, but it makes me wonder why I’m the one standin’ on her stoop, and y’all are not.”

  I picked at a scab on my hand until it began to bleed. Then I started feeling all out damn spot, out and Lady Macbeth-like, so I stopped that shit right away.

  “Well, I’m not leavin’ ’til I see her.”

  Like a kid freebasing Co-Cola, Augie insistently leaned on the doorbell until it rang inside my head. Asshole.

  “Save it, Augie!”

  “Ha. Knew you were in there. What you doin’, honey? Havin’ a navel-gazin’ moment? Because people been worried about you, and it ain’t the Dali Lama.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Well, that there gets zero points for originality. Mind openin’ up? I may be all about taking the wood, but talkin’ to a door ain’t my style.”

  “Piss off.” I peeped out at him, his silver hair swept back, his suit pressed and perfect, but his eyes were shadowed, his face haggard.

  “That’s more like it. Now let me in, or I will eat all of the donuts.” He opened the box and crudely licked a dollop of drippy jelly from a jam filler.

  Fuckin’ Dunkin’ Donuts. He only bought them things because of the sexual innuendo...dunkin’ donuts.

  I unlocked the deadbolt and snagged the box.

  Hot on my heels into the kitchen, he pointed an eclair at me. “Your Mr. Boone’s been callin’ me, pumping me for information.”

  “You must’ve liked that, bein’ pumped.” I tried a feeble joke.

  Setting aside the pastry, he daintily wiped his fingers. “What did Palmer do to you?”

  “It wasn’t him. It was all me. I did it.”

  “A picture worth a thousand words.”

  “You saw the magazine.”

  “I did. So…” He reached for a napkin. “It’s done.”

  “Reardon know?”

  “No. But y’all should be askin’ him, not me. Palmer leave you?”

  I crumple
d into a chair. “Yeah.”

  Shoving off the sink, he smacked his palms together smartly. Had he hugged me, I would’ve lost it. Instead, he said, “I’ll be by with a case of fizz and that big ol’ fine woman, Addy, tomorrow night.”

  “No. You can’t!”

  “Shew, don’t give me no more shit now, Shay.” Marching me upstairs, he read me the riot act. “You’ll do what I say, since I been stood outside every day, not to mention all my phone calls. Worrying about you hasn’t exactly been a grand ol’ time for me.” He surveyed my slovenly bedroom, scorn dangling off his lips. “You want me to call Reardon?”

  “No.”

  “Then get in the shower. You stink to high heaven and look like roadkill.”

  He made good use of my rinse-off, having an outfit ready for me, since I’d most likely shuffle out of the place in a housecoat and slippers with my toes poking out.

  Before he left, Augie gave me a final what-for, his hug softening his words. “So what, honey? You got what you wanted, and now you gotta suck it up and eat the shit sandwich that comes with it.”

  “I know, it’s just–”

  “You better bury those excuses ’cause it don’t suit you to be such a sad-sack. And frankly, you still look like shit.” He compared his manicured nails to the ragged beds of mine. “Y’all can berate yourself, but if you think I’m gonna stand by while you drown in self-pity, you done hooked up with the wrong man. You got more backbone than you’re lettin’ on, so show me some damn gumption already.”

  “But, but aren’t you on my side?” I wheedled pathetically. Childishly, my conscience pointed out.

  “I am on your side,” he said. “But, but, all’s fair in love–”

  “And whore?” Those words from Palmer cut me to the quick.

  “You aren’t a whore. You made a choice, you fell in love, you hurt Palmer. There may be no love lost between him and me. However, you’re gonna deal with the consequences, or I’ll sure as shit make a sow’s purse outta your ears, and it won’t be pleasant.”

  I gaped.

  “Now shut your mouth and wipe the snot off your face. You’re puttin’ me off my pastries.” Augie stepped outside. “And get on over to Reardon’s. His hotness factor’s been drastically reduced with this heartbroken, lovelorn boy routine he’s got goin’ on.”