He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it low, next to his right knee. His wife kept filming, didn’t even notice. The number on the tiny screen was not familiar but he read the message.

Do-over? I promise not to drink too much this time.

And then, below it.

It’s Natalie btw.

The drunken mess from the other night.

He couldn’t suppress his smile as he remembered the girl: cute, funny, inebriated, sloppy. . . . But Gabe had liked her. There was something real and raw and refreshing about her. He’d even enjoyed taking care of her: helping her out of the bar and into his waiting car, escorting her to her door where she’d given him a clumsy hug of thanks. It was the way she’d looked at him, with such gratitude, respect . . . almost awe. His wife and daughter did not look at him that way. The other sugar babies he’d dated did, but it was practiced, fake, professional. Natalie’s admiration was authentic. He suddenly realized how much he needed it.

Stealthily, he slipped the phone back into his pocket before his wife noticed. When the play was over, he would head to the restroom and text Natalie back. He’d take her for dinner this time, somewhere in Manhattan, close to his apartment on the Upper East Side. If things progressed like he hoped they would, they would have easy access to his place. A thrill ran through him at the thought of her naked, in his bed, her eyes on him, hungry and adoring.

Celeste lowered her phone then and smiled over at him. Her eyes were full of proud, happy tears. He smiled back at his wife, gave her knee an affectionate squeeze. Dutifully, he turned his eyes back to the stage, saw that Violet’s monologue was over. She was now being arrested by a teen in a cop uniform and a fake mustache. He watched his kid being dragged off to a cardboard jail, his thoughts firmly entrenched on Natalie.

13

The Call

Natalie’s resolve to leave the sugar bowl lasted roughly two hours after her disastrous date with Nick. When she’d gotten home and showered away the filth of the encounter, the reality of her situation had dawned on her. She had tuition and rent to pay. She could not afford to take a moral stand. All she could do was brush up on acronyms for kinky sex (BDSM equals bondage, domination, sadomasochism; RP equals role-play; DMLB equals dominant mommy–little boy) and read the men’s profiles carefully. She would ensure that the next daddy she met would not expect her to dress up like a dominatrix, a toddler, or the slutty pizza delivery girl.

She had scrolled through her messages (they continued to pour in), her cursor landing on the conversation with Gabe. He’d been so kind to her, so patient and understanding. That was not something she was used to with her temperamental father, nor her aloof stepfather. Her boyfriend, Cole, had seemed doting at first, but he had quickly turned cloying, smothering, controlling. Nat had stared at the phone number Gabe had sent after he’d had the Thai food delivered. It couldn’t hurt to see him one more time, could it? But when she had gone to text him, her stomach had filled with nervous butterflies and she’d returned to the new messages.