Page 3 of Sugar Baby

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.