Page 20 of Brat Baby (Sugar Life #1, #3)

Emery

I stare at my phone.

Eight-fifteen.

How could they not show up? They know I’m here. I sent them the picture.

Was I wrong? Was the gift giving and the Thai and Xavier checking up on me only about them meeting the terms of our previous agreement?

No, that can’t be it. The dinner date with Darcy was set in the text messages on Monday morning.

And Xavier told me about the photo requirement after the contract was signed.

And all the rewards, yeah, they’re from the weekend, but they could have just sent me one dollar eleven times.

Instead, they are sending me incredibly thoughtful gifts.

And the last one? A heart with a key? A Tiffany heart with a key? As in, I have the key to their hearts?

And they didn’t remove my access to the apartment.

I don’t get it.

Fuck, this is all so confusing. Them and their fucking mixed signals.

Why are they showering me with rewards but not showing up at the apartment?

Even just to talk, to figure all of this out.

I get it—their jobs are on the line. Possibly even my status as a student at NU.

But we have this completely private, very secure apartment that no one can see into or potentially knows about.

We could have worked this out. Kept everything confined to the apartment. No public dates. They could continue to ignore me on campus, but this time, it would be mutual. Not just them tossing me to the side.

Acid turns in my stomach and my skin prickles.

Does this mean they are really done with me? That’s all I get? Not even a proper goodbye? Just them yelling at me, in a semi-public place, humiliating me with a breakup that anyone could have heard?

Heat fills my eyes, and I stare down at my sketched attempt at Xavier’s back piece. I looked up the words after I’d found them scribbled on an earlier page.

Nulla voluptas sine dolore.

No pleasure without pain.

So, what? I got my one weekend of pleasure with them, and now I get my pain? And how is that going to be measured, exactly? Like, is it a minute-for-minute thing? Or does pleasure have a higher weight than pain, so I’ll be in pain longer than the two nights I was with them for?

Which totally tracks—it’s already been five days of pain.

I sigh and reach for my phone for the four hundredth time in the last hour and hope I’ll see a message from them, letting me know they’ll be here soon. Fuck, I’ll take a message that says they aren’t coming so that I can pop this goddamn bubble of hope.

That’s the worst part of it all. The hope.

Everything that has happened so far this week, barring the Monday morning situation, says they still care. That they still want me.

Swiping, I open the message thread and see the picture of myself that I sent several hours ago and want to scream when there is nothing in return.

Why the fuck are they playing with me like this?

Xavier ate my fucking ass, for fuck’s sake.

So why the hell aren’t they here yet?

And why—

A whimsical electronic bell sounds through the apartment, cutting off my careening thoughts.

What the fuck is that?

I swivel my head to look toward the kitchen, the source of the noise clearly coming from that direction. Clenching my phone in my hand, I get up and pad over toward the counter, eyes scanning all the cabinetry for whatever is making that noise.

It’s definitely not the fire alarm. I have a feeling I wouldn’t even be able to think with how loud that would be.

All my senses are on high alert, and my skin feels ready to snap off my bones with how tense I am.

The last time there was a suspicious noise while I was alone in the apartment, I ended up on the sharp end of a blade, strapped to a cross, and had a knife slicing through my skin, all while I was strapped to a vibrator.

A shiver runs down the length of my spine, heat pooling in my core at the memory. But the trill of the bell sounds once again, re-centering my thoughts. When I’m closer to the kitchen, I spy a panel in the wall that has a blue light that flickers in time with the bell.

I stare at all the buttons for a moment; the fancy screen is all lit up with a bunch of options and a message across the screen.

Incoming Call: Reception.

Why the hell is reception calling me? Oh shit, did the guys call and tell him to kick me out?

My breath locks in my chest. Nope. No. Not going to catastrophize until I know for sure.

Slowly, not one hundred percent sure that I do want to answer this call, I touch the green answer button on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Miss Nicholas?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes? That’s me.” I resist the urge to face-palm myself. Of course, he fucking knows it’s me. He called me .

“It’s Aiden from the front desk. Your food delivery has arrived.”

I frown. My what? I didn’t order anything—yet. I was planning to do that once my daddies arrived, since an earlier check of the kitchen revealed it’s empty of food. Plenty of bottled water, though. Eye roll. “Ah, no. I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Emery Nicholas, order from Lizotte’s. One large fettucine carbonara. One cheesy garlic bread. One Coke.”

My brain goes a little staticky and my lips suddenly feel numb.

Did he organize this? Did Derek send me food? From his restaurant?

“Could you come down to reception to collect it? I can’t leave the front desk.”

Aiden’s voice propels me into action, and I immediately start patting my pockets for the security card. “Ah, yes. Yep, I can do that. I’ll be down shortly.”

After locating the key and a trip down to the lobby and back, I return to the still-empty apartment with the food I did not order.

I empty out the brown paper bag onto the kitchen counter—a takeout bowl of pasta, a tiny container filled with parmesan cheese, a brown, now oily, paper bag filled with cheesy garlic bread, which has my mouth watering. And lastly, my bottle of Coke.

There is no note.

No details about who sent this, but I think I’m right in thinking it’s from Derek. So, what… He can send me food but not show up? What the fuck is that shit?

The moment I take the lid off the pasta, a heavenly smell slams into me. All the creamy, bacony, cheesy goodness that floats up on the steam is almost overpowering.

Knowing I can’t possibly eat all of this, and with the dominant people not being here to force me to, I take half of the food and put the rest in the fridge for tomorrow.

It takes two trips to get it all over to the couch, but eventually, I’m curled up with my feet tucked under me and that rom-com about the girl living in Paris on the TV as I slowly consume the pasta. My thoughts whirl and spin, trying to make sense of everything, but nothing is connecting.

They are still treating me like I’m theirs. Like they want me. Like they can’t let me go.

They are still looking after me.

Maybe me being here tonight took them by surprise? It’s not like I gave them any notice. They could have had plans or something.

And now that they know I’m here, they can come tomorrow. They can get out of whatever they have planned, and they can come and be here with me tomorrow.

Yes. Tomorrow.

I tear a huge bite out of my garlic bread, trying not to moan out loud at the taste.

Tomorrow. We can figure everything out tomorrow.