Page 6 of August’s Thief
CHAPTER 6
Sugar daddy . Despite my elation, that phrase had lodged in my brain, and not in a pleasing way.
“In my mind, sugar daddies are old ,” I mused to CUPID. “Leathery, tanned, old men wearing Gucci loafers and weighed down by fat gold chains and a showy Rolex. With shiny bald heads, an unquenchable thirst for twenty-somethings and an unlimited bank account. Sugar daddy signifies a very transactional relationship.”
I had become much better at expressing myself into the void since Dawson. Less self-conscious.
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” responded CUPID. They sounded amused. “Fat gold chains? I hadn’t realised you were such an old-money snob.”
“I’m not!”
Yes, definitely amused. I was being heckled by a fucking bot. “Surely there must be a dusty Rolex buried at the bottom of a drawer in that ancient pile you insist on referring to as home .”
Home. Home is where the heart is . Wasn’t that the expression? In which case my home was now a shabby one-bedroom flat above a betting shop. Because my heart stayed behind every time I reluctantly left Dawson and Mikey to drive back to my stately pile. Could I ever persuade them to move? Mikey would love the fields and gardens, especially in the spring when the lambs appeared and the daffodils pushed through the rich, damp…
I was getting way ahead of myself again. Moreover, I had a bot to argue with. “And, in exchange for lavishing cash on the pretty young things dangling from their arms, a sugar daddy is convinced his friends stuck with jaded older partners are jealous, when in fact they’re all just thinking he’s a sad bastard. So yes, to my mind that’s very transactional. And already, I feel what Dawson and I have isn’t, even though I’ve spent my money on whatever he needs. And even though he’s pretty and young.”
“He is,” agreed CUPID. “Were any of the things he needed gifts for himself?”
“No.”
Though I wanted to buy him things. I’d love to lavish him with presents. I’d start with a sleek wristwatch, matching my own but made for a slimmer, more elegant wrist. And a soft cashmere sweater that fitted him properly, along with a winter coat, a whole palette of eye make-up, and tubes of lip gloss in every subtle shade of?—"
“Tell me, August Angel, in return for the money you have spent, what has he given you?”
“It isn’t transactional,” I snapped.
CUPID made a weary, electronic sigh. “Okay, let me assist you. He gives you joy. Helping Dawson makes you happy. You gain pleasure because you’ve direct experience of pain and distress yourself. You have a lot of empathy for him and Mikey and their financial struggles, so you want to take that pain away from them. That transaction is nothing to be ashamed of.” They paused. “Your turn, August.”
I winced. This bot understood me better than I understood myself. Huffing, I crossed my arms and pulled a face. I had no idea if CUPID could see me. I thought of our sex, how right it felt cuddling on the sofa with him, how perfectly Dawson fit in my arms. “He’s given me a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. A purpose. And um… perspective on… on this.” I waved my hand at my monstrous face. “And…” My pulse quickened as I recalled Dawson greedily begging for more when I’d finger-fucked his arse.
“And the best sexual encounter of your life?”
I groaned, a rush of heat climbing my neck. “Jesus, CUPID. Don’t be coy, just bloody get it all out there.”
The odd sound of a bot sniggering echoed around the empty room. “So it is transactional,” CUPID continued in a satisfied monotone. “But, ask yourself this, August: on balance, who is gaining the most?”
That was a no-brainer. “Me. Obviously.”
“And one last thing. Tell me, August. You must know by now. Does your perfect match have pretty feet?”
A memory of them snuggled in my lap last night, as we pretended to watch the television but mostly watched each other, filled my head. Slender and pale, I’d kissed the tips of each of his ten toes, making him squeal with delight. Toe sucking. Not that I was going to share that with CUPID. “The prettiest.”