The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  But her hand would not move to take the cash. She was not a thief, had never stolen anything in her life. Besides, it would take the entire contents of the register to solve her financial problems, and obviously she couldn’t clean Miguel out. She had thought herself capable of anything to ensure her survival in New York City, but she’d been wrong. There were lines she couldn’t cross.

  “What are you doing?” She recognized the voice—deep, masculine, suspicious—before she even turned around. Her manager, Wayne. Shit.

  She slammed the drawer closed. “N-nothing.”

  Her boss’s brown eyes narrowed beneath heavy black brows. “You’re not allowed behind the bar. You’re not allowed in Miguel’s till.”

  “I know. I just . . . I needed change. Miguel was in the cellar. He said I could help myself.”

  With impeccable timing, the basement door banged opened and Miguel entered. He was wheeling an aluminum keg on a dolly. “What’s she doing back here?”

  “She was in your till,” Wayne replied. “She said you gave her permission to make change.”

  For a fraction of a second, Nat thought Miguel might cover for her . . . a way to get back in her good graces, or a nod to what they’d once shared. But his expression was stony, his voice ice. “No. I didn’t.”

  “So, you were going to steal from us?” Wayne asked, voice vibrating with suppressed anger.

  “No. I wasn’t. I—”

  But Miguel cut her off.

  “It wasn’t enough to dump me. You thought you’d steal from my till and get me fired, too.”

  “You refused to make my drinks! You were trying to punish me!”

  “I was busy, okay? You’re so wrapped up in yourself that you forget that there are other people working here!”

  Patrons were watching them now, alerted by the raised voices, the contention in the air. Nat could feel her face burning with humiliation, her pulse pounding with dread. Miguel’s eyes were fiery—rage, disgust, loathing. Wayne clocked the concerned looks of his customers. He had to shut this down.

  “I’m not having you two working out some romantic vendetta in my bar.” His voice was low but firm. “Nat, you’re gone.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re fired.” He took a few steps, then stopped. “Miguel, get back to work or you’re next.”

  Miguel had the decency to look shocked on her behalf. “Nat . . . ,” he began, but she hurried away, toward the staff room where her coat and purse hung from a metal hook. Tears were stinging her eyes, but she blinked them back. She was not going to fall apart in here.

  It was outside, in the cool night air, that she let the tears pour down her face. She was in serious financial straits now. She had debts, her rent and tuition bills were looming. She had no job, no source of income, no . . . whatever Miguel had been to her. A sense of panic, of desperation nearly overwhelmed her. And then, a moment of clarity, an epiphany of sorts. There was an answer to all her problems.

  She would do it. Once, maybe twice. Unlike Ava, Nat didn’t need expensive clothes, shoes, and bags; didn’t need precious art hanging on her penthouse walls. She just needed to pay back her roommates, cover her bills, and buy some groceries. And then, when she was out of the red, she would stop. Before things got intimate. Before things got creepy.

  She pulled out her phone and texted Ava.

  I want in

  The reply was almost instant.

  Welcome to the sugar bowl

  7

  * * *

  The Profile

  Nat had taken no offense when Ava recommended a substantial makeover prior to taking a photo for Nat’s dating profile. She’d been trimming her own hair with paper scissors for the past year; her coif was in desperate need of a cut, some shaping, and a few subtle highlights to “add dimension,” Ava’s gifted stylist explained. The salon was high-end, classy, expensive. As Ava paid the bill, Nat poured on the gratitude.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Ava said, slipping a platinum card back into her wallet. “Take me for a facial when you have your finances sorted.”

  Nat had never had a facial. A pedicure at a Bellingham strip mall was the sum total of her pampering experience. She could scarcely imagine a life where one regularly paid to have one’s toenails painted, one’s blackheads squeezed, one’s pubic hair ripped out. Nat could do all that herself. All she wanted was to be able to pay her own way and, maybe, buy some sort of protein for dinner, like the occasional chicken breast.

  Before they took the photo, Ava did Nat’s makeup. The blond girl was skilled with contouring and highlighting, giving Nat a tutorial as she transformed her into a woman worthy of a rich man’s attentions. When she was finished, Natalie took in her reflection. With her smoky eyeliner, her nude glossy lips, her subtly glowing skin, she looked like a different person. All traces of the creative, messy, complicated girl she was were obliterated, glossed over by a sheen of perfection. Nat stared at the stranger in the mirror and nodded her approval.

  Ava loaned her a short black dress. “You’ve got a great body. You’ll get more interest if you show it off.”

  While it felt exploitive, it made sense. As Nat posed in the figure-hugging outfit, pushing out her breasts, arching her back, she shook off her qualms. This was no different than wearing tight jeans to work at a bar, letting customers ogle her butt to increase her tips. She had a great ass, that she knew. Angling it toward the camera, she looked over her shoulder, smiled coyly. She could play this part.

  When a suitable photo had been selected, gently retouched and uploaded, they turned their attention to the write-up. “Keep it fun and flirty,” advised Ava. “You can talk money when they message you.” Together they crafted a blurb. Nat was honest, mostly, sharing that she was an art student from the Pacific Northwest. Creative and cool, with a good sense of humor. She selected a no-strings relationship, which suited her perfectly. It was what she had wanted with Miguel, but he’d been too immature to handle it. An older, powerful, wealthy man would desire it, would pay for it, Ava assured her. But it would never get that far . . . Just a couple of dates would get her out of financial trouble.

  When her profile was complete and submitted, Nat prepared to trek back to Brooklyn. As she stepped into her winter boots, Ava offered last-minute advice.

  “You’ll start getting messages as soon as your profile goes live. The men on this site have had background checks, but you have to be careful. You have to be smart.”

  Nat felt a chill run through her.

  “Get the money up front. Always meet in a public place. Never go to their apartment.”

  “Of course.”

  “And never tell a man where you live.”

  “Right.”

  “I always ask for a daddy’s real name and where he works. Then, I can google him and make sure he’s not a Splenda daddy.”

  Nat chuckled nervously. “What’s that?”

  “Guys who want to be sugar daddies but don’t have enough money. You’re not going to give up your whole fucking evening for a fifty-dollar Sephora gift card.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Still . . . They’re better than the salt daddies. Guys who pretend to have money, who offer you gifts and trips and allowances, just to get into your pants. Salt and sugar look the same. You have to be careful.”

  Oh God . . .

  Nat was in the hallway when Ava had one last morsel of advice. “Read their profiles carefully. Some of these men are into kinky sex, but they’re usually up front about it.”

  Nat’s voice was weak. “What kind of kinky sex?”

  “Bondage is pretty popular. Master-slave relationships. Role-playing. That kind of thing . . .”

  “Jesus.”

  “It’s not that big a deal, really.” Ava’s response was breezy. “You just have to be up front about what you’re willing to do, sexually.”

  “Nothing,” Nat said quickly. “I’m only going to go on a couple of pay-per-meets.”

 
Ava smirked. “Everyone says that, at first. But this lifestyle is addictive.”

  * * *

  On the train, Nat sat in a sort of trance, a true New Yorker in her ignorance of her carriage-mates. It was impossible to focus on anything but the knowledge that, at any moment, Nat could receive a message that would save her life. Change her life, if she wanted it to. But she didn’t. She had done the math: fifteen hundred dollars would pay off her debts and provide a financial cushion. She had a partial scholarship, could get another part-time job. In the summer, she would work full-time at a bar and get a morning job at a shop, or a restaurant. Nat could sustain herself; she was not going to be a sugar baby.

  She didn’t judge Ava for her choice. Nat was open-minded, a freethinker. She had not been raised in a religious home where morals and values were articulated. And she had loathed the judgment and gossip so prevalent in her small town, often directed at her parents for their failed marriage, for her dad’s abandonment, her mom’s subsequent dating life. But she knew the sugar bowl was not for her. Nat was not attracted to older men. In fact, the thought of sex with anyone over thirty made her skin crawl. (Maybe she could stomach Brad Pitt, but even he did not arouse her.) She was not overly romantic—she understood sex without love or commitment. But sex without attraction, without chemistry, was impossible for her. Unlike Ava, Nat could never blow a septuagenarian for a trip to Rome and a Versace dress. Her gag reflex would not allow it.

  Lost in the fog of her thoughts, the Jefferson Street stop was suddenly upon her. She disembarked the train and walked toward home. It was early evening but already getting dark. Nat huddled into her thrift-store coat, buried her face in her scarf, the midmorning promise of spring forgotten in the wintry chill of night. Turning onto her street, she saw that her building was lit from within, its warm glow menacing instead of welcoming. It meant that at least one of her roommates was home. Since her written second warning, she’d become a master of avoidance. Her luck would run out eventually, but not now. Please . . .

  As she let herself in, she heard banging from the kitchen, smelled frying onions. Someone was cooking. She closed the door softly and silently removed her shoes. Scurrying down the hallway in her sock feet, she planned to slip into her room, unnoticed. But before she could reach her door, Mara materialized before her.

  “Hi, Nat.” Her red hair was pulled back, her face pointed. Like her words.

  “Hi.”

  “Toni and I have been wondering when you’re going to pay us the money you owe us.”

  “Next week,” Nat said, forcing a confident tone. “I get paid on Friday.” Her final pay, she knew, would not come close to covering her debt. But if she could arrange a couple of pay-per-meet dates with sugar daddies, she would have the cash.

  “We actually need the money by Tuesday,” Mara said, and there was a wicked glint in her eye. She was enjoying her power, lauding it over Nat. “If you can’t pay us back, you’re going to have to find another place to live.”

  “Tuesday it is,” Nat snapped. She marched into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Her fingers trembled as she pulled her laptop out of her backpack and turned it on. What if none of these rich men were interested in her? What if only perverts or sickos had sent messages? Her roommates wanted her out, that much was obvious. This website, these men, were her only hope.

  Settling onto her unmade bed, she logged into the website. Next to her in-box, there was a red number: 13. She had thirteen messages. Her profile had been up for less than an hour! Feeling slightly sick (fear? panic? excitement?), she scrolled through the missives. Some of the men had posted a profile photo, some had not. The lack of an image was not subterfuge, Ava had advised. Some of these men were high-profile, well-known in their industries. Some—probably many—were married. She opened the first message from YezPlz.

  I’m a very sucessfull business man looking for lovely lady to spoyl.

  His spelling did not inspire confidence in his success, nor in his ability to spoil.

  She moved through the messages. BKdaddy, a flabby-looking tech multimillionaire, would pay her four hundred dollars to wear lingerie and massage his feet. Will.I.Be would love to treat her lavishly, but only if her blood type was A positive or O. (According to Will, blood type was the greatest predictor of relationship success.) RealDeal invited her over to his East Village apartment, where he’d pay her six hundred dollars to take a bath with him. (The blank stare in his profile picture screamed serial killer.) Wes-Jen was looking for a playmate for him and his wife. And then, there was Profman, a retired professor who was seventy-five . . . but don’t worry, his age wasn’t a factor, downstairs.

  There were more messages, ambiguous one-liners complimenting her looks, wanting to get to know her better, suggesting they exchange cell numbers. Nat didn’t have time for niceties or banter. She was considering the foot-massage guy when she opened the final message from Angeldaddy.

  I love art and creative people. Would you like to meet for a drink tonight? $500.

  She clicked on his profile. There was no photo, but she found out he was divorced, a nonsmoker, a social drinker. His occupation was listed as lawyer, his net worth at $10 million, his annual salary at over a million. Jesus . . .

  Before she could stop herself, she replied.

  I’d love to. I’m in Brooklyn. Where are you?

  The response was almost instant.

  I’m in the financial district. Meet in DUMBO? I know a little wine bar.

  He could be Splenda, or salty. He could be a murderer for all she knew. But Nat didn’t have time to be picky, didn’t have time to do her due diligence. She was desperate.

  Sure. Send me the address.

  And just like that, she had a date.

  8

  * * *

  The Baby

  Gabe Turnmill was committed to his marriage. The fact that he was currently in the back of a town car, on his way to meet a hot young art student for a drink, was not a contradiction of this fact. He remained devoted to his wife, Celeste, had been since they met during their first year of law school at Yale. She’d been seated across a vast lecture theater the first time he’d spotted her—so bright, so engaged, so ethereal. Gabe had openly watched her, gawking at her composed beauty. She hadn’t even noticed him.

  He’d inveigled an invitation to a party Celeste was attending—even then, he’d been unafraid to go after what he wanted. He’d approached her, a tepid beer in hand, and sparked up a conversation. He learned she was the daughter of a Haitian doctor and a French-Canadian folk singer. She had grown up in Montreal; spoke fluent, unaccented English and French; had done her undergrad at McGill University. Unlike most of his Yale alumni, she was impressed by Gabe’s humble beginnings. With Celeste, he didn’t have to hide the fact that his father was a taxi dispatcher, that his mother ran an elder-care facility. He could admit that he had attended Princeton on a lacrosse scholarship, that law school was funded by an enormous student loan. She thought his accomplishments were more impressive because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

  Celeste had been a serious law student, top of the class, determined to have an impact on the world. She wanted to be a public defender, representing the disproportionate number of people of color who ended up in the justice system. Gabe’s grades were decent, his goals less altruistic. He wanted a lucrative career in corporate law. He wanted to be a one-percenter, a big shot, the guy behind the tinted windows in the back of the town car. Even then, Gabe knew what it took to get to the top and stay there: a ruthlessness, a moral fluidity, an in-depth knowledge of loopholes and gray areas. After law school, his mercenary approach built his reputation in the upper echelons of the business world. His finesse and discretion had kept him, and his clients, out of trouble. Out of jail in some cases. Back then, he’d had to spin his avaricious plans for Celeste. He wanted to make a difference in the world, too, he said, but he’d do so via the economy. She’d bought it. She still did. Gabe had
charmed her, wooed her, and, eventually, married her.

  That was twenty-nine years ago, and Gabe still cared for his wife in a platonic, companionable way. The morphing of his affections was only natural, given the changes in his partner. He’d married a passionate public defender, vehemently advocating for the wrongly accused, the marginalized, the victims of a broken system. Now, Celeste was a stay-at-home mom, having left her job when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer six years ago. After a lumpectomy, radiation, an estrogen-suppressing prescription, she was in full remission. But she wouldn’t go back to the law. Her illness had been a wake-up call. Celeste wanted to focus on her health, spend more time with their daughter, Violet. Of course, Gabe had been supportive. He’d just made partner at his Wall Street firm. Celeste’s salary had been negligible in comparison.

  His wife was still beautiful, in a mature, maternal way, but he was no longer sexually attracted to her. Her health struggles had taken a toll, etching lines into her luminous dark skin that could have been erased with injectables or fillers, but Celeste didn’t want a frozen face full of poison, she said. The medication had made her gain weight that no amount of tennis or Pilates classes could budge. Parts of his wife’s body were starting to sag, but Celeste eschewed plastic surgery. She’d moved out to the Hamptons four years ago, rarely came into the city anymore. Celeste said she liked the serenity of their country estate, but she felt out of place in New York now, inferior to all the smooth, svelte society wives.

  In contrast, Gabe had only grown more handsome, more distinguished over the years. His thick silver hair, his expensive clothes, his cool confidence were like catnip to females. Women flirted with him regularly, coming onto him like bitches in heat. He ignored their overtures. Given the current climate, he wasn’t going to get involved with a colleague or, God forbid, an underling. He’d been reckless in the past, but not anymore. He would not make that mistake again.