He deserved Natalie.

9

The Drink

Natalie’s gloved hand gripped the railing as she descended the front steps to her Uber. To calm her nerves, she’d had a coffee mug full of vodka and Sprite while she’d straightened her hair. Then, when she was applying her makeup, she’d had another one to steady her hand. The drinks, her nerves, and the pair of high-heeled boots she’d donned for the occasion, were a dangerous combination.

Thankfully, she made it to the idling Toyota Camry without incident and climbed into the back seat. She couldn’t afford the Uber, but she couldn’t afford to show up late for this meeting, either. What was the protocol for a sugar date gone wrong? Was money deducted for tardiness? For not laughing at his jokes? For showing up tipsy? God, she hoped not. As the youthful driver shuttled her to her destination, she opened the dating app on her phone and read up on Angeldaddy.

He had messaged her his real first name: Gabriel. Like the angel. His username was clever. Gabriel’s age was fifty-five. How old was her dad? In his late forties, but he looked older. When she’d last seen Andrew Murphy, a life of depression, cigarettes, and booze was already taking its toll. Rich people could pay for private chefs, personal trainers, even plastic surgery. But Angeldaddy would not be handsome. If he was, he wouldn’t have to pay five hundred bucks for a date. Nat was prepared for the worst in the looks department.

She hadn’t asked Gabe to send a picture before their rendezvous because his appearance was not relevant. Neither was the fact that he enjoyed good Scotch, a good workout, and a good movie. This was a glass of wine. This was five hundred dollars. This was a means to an end.

The Uber pulled up in front of a brick warehouse conversion just as she was beginning to feel woozy from staring at her phone while in motion. The bar was very cool, very hip, very intimidating; a place she would never have set foot in under normal circumstances. Tumbling out of the car, Nat moved toward the wine bar, checking the time on her phone. She was a little late. She was a little carsick. And she was a little drunk. But she was here. With a fortifying breath, she pushed open the glass door.

The bar was warm and cozy, with wide plank floors, brick walls, heavy wood tables. As soon as she entered, the manager, a stocky guy in a starched white shirt and jeans, greeted her.

“Are you meeting a gentleman here?”

Did he know? Was he judging her? She felt compelled to explain: I’m not a prostitute. I have debts and bills. It’s just one drink. Instead, she said, “Uh . . . yeah.”

“Right this way.”

Obediently, she followed him, ignoring the tiny voice in her head that told her to turn around, to leave, to not look back. It was her conscience, reminding her that she was about to sell herself. Ava and the website could spin it, make it sound like a business deal, a mutually beneficial transaction, but at her core, Nat knew this was glamorized prostitution. You don’t have to do this, the little voice said, but she did. If she backed out of this date, she wouldn’t be able to repay Mara and Toni. She’d be evicted. She wouldn’t have the money for the deposit on a new apartment. She’d have to drop out of school, go back home, work at the Greek restaurant again. She’d be a failure, a laughingstock. She instructed her conscience to shut the fuck up.