Sugar Daddy✔️

R

THE FLOWERS ARRIVED FIRST, THEN THE CAR, THEN THE STOMACH ACHE. The stomach ache for now is the biggest problem at hand and what an awful problem it is. I grunt in pain as I grope around in the dark cupboard for a tablet of Panadol. I give up when I can't find any and shuffle to the table where the cold bottle of water I have been drinking sits open—half of its contents remaining.

After a few gulps of the strangely un-refreshing liquid, my eyes fall to my phone and I pause to mull over the message I received less than five minutes ago. Whatever does he mean by that? I wonder silently.

The car is parked right in front of the apartment with its hazard lights blinking on and off. It is a Camry Toyota sprayed a grey-metallic colour, but I don't care. I think I would appreciate the carriage better if I wasn't so nerve wrecked.

So much for making a wise decision. I sigh deeply as I sniff the flowers, caress their soft petals then toss them in a random corner closest to my hand's reach.

The posy is a pretty orange in colour, but me being the novice that I am in the art of horticulture fail woefully to identify what its name is or what type of flower-plant it could have come from. I would google it but there is so much more of pressing importance direly in need of my full attention other than dying plants.

I wish terribly that Dessy is here with me. She always knows how to make me feel better by making light of any situation. But even I am not so sure how she could make this seem less worse than it is. Because really, nothing can change the fact that just for the love of money, I have signed myself up for a deal where I could be kidnapped or killed or used for rituals or...

"Shut up and keep moving." I stop myself from pondering any further on ways my life could be ruined. I can't foretell for certain what the future will be no matter how good I am at predictions, so it is better that I don't. I can only afford to be careful. And that is plenty possible for me.

Before leaving, I capture a few shots of the plate number of the taxi from the window, then I grab my clutch purse and head outside after making sure to fix my wig and lock up our room.

A young–yet surprisingly scanty-haired with a huge bald patch–man is the driver assigned to my ride and I eye him warily. He smiles at me as I get in and I return the smile only on a painfully trepidatious scale.

"Good evening." He greets and the car rolls forward into drive.

"Good evening." I murmur so quietly that I can hardly hear myself. I hope he does not think I'm being rude for no reason. I know how annoying it is when people are disrespectful, and I would not exactly like to be seen as one.

The car smells weird like it was washed recently but not left to dry well enough and it coupled with my floppy stomach makes me want to throw up. I groan and roll down the windscreen to let in a fresh rush of air.

Quickly, the wind carries in prodigious wafts of exhaust fumes, and fried food and burning wood smoke, but I embrace them willingly. Normally I would frown at such mixtures of pollutants but now they seem to be the sweetest scents ever, saving me from the torture I am slowly losing myself in. Truthfully, no designer perfume could compare.

I gulp in a clean breath, then another, then another and soon enough all I'm doing is focusing on breathing–which is kind of a dumb thing to do. Maybe it's only because I am trying hard to avoid thinking of the reality at hand. It's too bad it doesn't work.

Now, I'm breathing and also overthinking. It really sucks.

My phone lights up with a notification from Instagram, and I use the opportunity to glance at the time. 5:11pm. I nod my head slowly, satisfied that whatever "formal meeting" I am supposed to attend would not have me arriving late as it starts at 7:00pm (according to the schedule sent to me by the way).