The Lowest Maintenance Sugar Baby novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Schwinn Ask
At a flea market Carlton begs Millie to ask for something expensive, she asks for a bicycle, and a friend films it. Carlton's stepmother wants to meet her.
The first time my sugar daddy begged me to spend his money, I was checking a stranger's T-shirt for loose stitching.
"Three for forty-nine ninety-nine," the vendor said.
"Two for thirty," I said.
"It's a bundle."
"Then it's a bundle with a missing shirt," I said. "Two for thirty."
"Lady, are you a cop?"
"I'm a customer. It's worse."
I knew what those shirts had cost him off a liquidation pallet, down to the cent, and he knew I knew.
Carlton Rainsford stood behind me in a navy suit that cost more than every table in the row.
He was holding my reusable tote bag.
"Millie," he said quietly.
"One second."
"You've been haggling for ten minutes to save three dollars."
"Four, if you count the tax."
"There's no tax. It's cash."
"I counted the tax he was thinking about charging."
He closed his eyes.
"I own forty hotels," he said.
"You own forty hotels," I agreed. "Do any of them sell a T-shirt for under fifty dollars?"
"The gift shop at the Grand sells one for ninety."
"And that's why I'm here."
I got two shirts for thirty.
We walked on through the stalls with one lemonade and two straws, because the second straw was free.
We'd been doing this for eleven weeks.
I'd joined the sugar-dating site on purpose, with my terms in plain writing.
Dinner, company, no surprises.
Most of the girls on the site asked for rent and a handbag with a name.
I texted Carlton a fourteen ninety-nine UberEats group order every Thursday.
He paid it every Thursday, like a man feeding a very small, very stubborn pet.
At a stall full of old records he turned to face me and put his hand on my arm.
"Okay," he said. "I need to say something, and I need you not to laugh."
"I'm not going to laugh."
"You're already smiling."
"That's my face."
He took a breath.
"Everyone I know says a woman in your position should ask me for things. Expensive things."
"Everyone you know pays retail and calls it a personality."
"Millie. You have never asked me for one thing that costs more than a burrito."
"The burritos are good."
"I want to buy you something." His voice cracked on the last word. "I'm begging you. Please ask me for something expensive."
Two women at the next stall had stopped pretending to look at candles.
One of them mouthed, "The watch."
I looked at his face, and he meant it.
He looked like a man who had spent months trying to hand someone a present and kept getting handed back the receipt.
So I thought about it, honestly.
I thought about a watch.
A watch is a price tag with a strap.
Then I looked past him, across the aisle, at a dusty green bicycle leaning against a folding table.
It had a leather seat, a chrome bell and a price tag on the handlebar that said $140.
Somebody had written GARY on the frame in marker.
I'd wanted that bike since the second I walked in.
I put my hands together.
"Could you buy me a Schwinn?"
Carlton looked at the bike.
He looked at me.
He laughed so hard he had to grab the record stall, and a Neil Diamond album slid off into his free hand.
"It's a hundred and forty dollars," he said when he could talk.
"It's a 1974 Varsity. It's practically a collectible."
"That is not what I meant by expensive."
"It's the most I've ever wanted anything."
His face went soft in a way I wasn't ready for.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. Yes. Come on."
He paid the man in cash, without haggling, which I allowed because he looked so happy.
I'm cheap, not a monster.
I ran my hand along the handlebars.
"Hi, Gary," I said.
"Millie!"
I knew that voice.
Margo Farragut was crossing the gravel in a magenta pantsuit and heels that had never met gravel before, her phone raised.
She was the girl who'd shown me how to build my profile, how to write my terms and which restaurants to avoid.
She'd called me her favorite baby in the whole circle, which I took as a compliment and a little as a threat.
"Oh my God, you two," she said, filming. "This is the cutest thing I've ever seen. Say hi!"
"Hi," I said, to the camera.
Carlton gave her a polite nod.
"I was just passing," Margo said. "I'll leave you to it. Bye, babe! Love you!"
She left, thumbing her screen, and I rode Gary home grinning.
At nine that night my phone buzzed against the arm of the couch.
The clip was already up.
Two million views.
The caption said, "She asked a BILLIONAIRE for a bicycle. This is who we're protecting from the circle."
The comments were not kind.
One said I was a coupon with legs.
I screenshotted that one for my wallet.
A message from Margo popped in under it.
"Don't be mad! I told Vera it was cute. She's so excited to meet you."
I read that twice.
Margo had never once mentioned a Vera.
Then Carlton's text came in, a minute behind hers.
"Millie, my stepmother saw the video. Her name is Vera. She wants you at brunch on Sunday."
Two Veras in one minute is not a coincidence.
I don't believe in coincidences.
I believe in clearance racks.
I looked at the green bike leaning against my wall.
I typed one line back.
"Tell her I'm bringing the bike."
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