Chapter 98

SUGAR DADDY INFLUENCER

The California sunshine beams down on the wooden roof of the beachside bar and glitters across the golden sand.

It’s a stunning, clear day here in beautiful Malibu, and there’s so

much to take in. The crystalline water lapping at the sandy shore, with the sapphire sky reflected above it, not a cloud in sight.

There’s the plaintive call of sea birds flying through the air in curved formations. They swoop and dive for bits of french fry or bread in the sand, waddling on their spindly legs.

Further out, I can see flocks of them swerving around the surface of the gleaming white-capped waves in their search for fish to nab. They don’t have a care in the world, just coasting along on the delicious balmy sea breeze.

Down the beach I can see the enormous outcroppings of reddish-brown cliffs emerging like behemoths from the earth.

I make a mental note to explore those cliffs when I get a chance; the area should make a perfect photo spot, and I’m always on the hunt for new, exotic places to snap pictures.

The beach is spotted with little groups of sunbathers, swimmers, and people wanting to see and be seen.

Candy-hued rainbow umbrellas brighten the scene here and there, and no matter which way you look, there’s always someone conventionally beautiful to behold. Women in bikinis and beach dresses, flaunting their curves.

Men in swim trunks or even speedos, spread out on towels, sunning themselves like exceptionally vain lizards. Malibu is a magnet for the rich and beautiful, many of whom are here today, crowded around the small but charming tiki bar.

On either side of me, the bar is populated with gorgeous girls and boys. All of them young, stunning, and camera-ready. I am no exception-- I’m one of them.

I flash my bright, naturally-straight pearly whites for a photo. I raise my tropical coconut drink to my lips and pose like I’m taking a sip. I make sure to pout my lips a little, to emphasize how full and luscious they are.

I need everyone on the receiving end of these photos to be overwhelmed with my charm, my sex appeal. After all, that’s how it goes, right?

Sex sells.

It’s how I picked out my ensemble for this not-quite-impromptu beach bar shoot. I’m wearing a skimpy, trendy scarlet bikini that accentuates my round, plump breasts, waspish waist, curvy hips, and juicy butt.

However, I know there’s an art to being ‘effortlessly’ sexy: instead of giving my audience a full view of my killer body in this bikini, I wear a flowy white beach dress over it. The dress is ruffled and light, fluttering in the salty breeze. It’s modest enough to turn my bikini look from hardcore to softcore, but it’s revealing enough to keep viewers reeled in.

The delicate golden necklace I got as a brand deal is nestled cozily at my collarbone, showing off my chest and slender neck. My long legs draw the eye, up to my white dress or down to my strappy wedge heels that make my calf muscles pop.

A pair of dangly earrings, also gifted to me for a brand deal, nestle into my long, thick mane of beachy blonde waves. Two artfully-messy locks of golden waves frame my face on either side.

I tilt my head and bat my long lashes as another camera phone flashes. I bite my lip, relieved to be wearing my favorite non-transferable red lipstick, from a high-end brand I would never be able to afford years ago.

I scrunch up my nose and poke out my tongue for another picture, hoping my youthful expression and pretty, freckly face will draw in a lot of views.

My manicured fingers pluck the colorful toothpick umbrella out of my drink and tuck it playfully into my blonde hair. I lift my phone and pose for a selfie, then immediately check my gallery to assess the photo.

The picture shows me, looking radiant and dewy with the California sun beating down on my bare skin. The salt in the sea air gives my hair extra curl and volume. There are several bar-goers in the picture behind me, all good-looking in their own right. Some of them pose for their own pictures, even tapping me on the shoulder to get me to turn and look in the right direction.

That’s one thing always on my mind: angles. Always looking for the most flattering angles. The most flattering light. The most exciting backdrops and props. It’s a lot to keep track of. I take a deep, needy sip of my tropical drink, feeling the booze flow through me and assuage my nerves a little. Why are my nerves so shot when I’m just chilling at a beachside bar in one of the most enviable vacation spots in the world?

Well, because I’m technically not on vacation. I mean, for all the world it looks like I am, but that’s just part of the act. That’s the hard work of it-making it look effortless. Making my life, my persona, my experiences feel both magically exotic and fully authentic. I’m always working, even when I look relaxed.

My gorgeous smile and passion for luxury travel are my trademarks, so I have to get that right. Even though I’m surrounded by friendly faces, I’m on my own. I’m here to work, to get the photos and content I need to post on my social media accounts for my massive following. They hang on my every picture and caption, flocking to comment, like, and subscribe.

Leaving compliments and declarations of love under each photo set, demanding always more, more, more. My audience can’t get enough of me, and I need their support to keep jumping from one project to the next.

Even though I’m here acting and looking the part of a wealthy heiress with no responsibilities or fears, I don’t come from big money. This isn’t my world, I’m just masquerading through it.

It’s not all glamour, either. I’m naturally shy, but I have to play up my personality for the cameras. For my fans. For my reputation. So when a guy on the bar stool beside me starts getting a little too close for comfort, there’s little I can do but smile. I’m not famous for sticking up for myself. I’m famous for being beautiful and easygoing.

“Hey, I recognize you,” the guy says, leaning in to whisper in my ear.

I can smell the rum on his breath and I have to force myself not to physically recoil.

“Really?” I reply, as if this isn’t a conversation I’ve had a million times.

The guy grins and nods, his eyes looking me up and down with no shame. He’s clearly tipsy, and whatever boundaries he may have had sober, they’re gone now.

“Yeah, totally. You’re some kind of actress or model, right?” he asks.

“Sort of,” I answer. “But not quite.”

He squints at me for a moment, thinking. Then realization dawns on his face.

“Ohhh! You’re that internet girl. That influencer. Vanessa Cherry!” he bursts out.

I smile. “That’s me.”

“Oh shit. You were in Costa Rica just last week, and now you’re here.

What’s next? Bali or south of France?” he goads me.

“Not sure yet,” I answer truthfully.

I try not to let the question get to me, but it makes me nervous to be reminded of how precarious my lifestyle is. I never really know where I’m going next. It depends on whatever brand deal, sponsorship, or promo event I get invited to. And the only way to keep getting invited is to keep showing up. Keep playing the game. Paying attention to the numbers, the algorithm, the trends. I need to emulate what my fans want. I don’t go where I choose- I go where I’m invited. This isn’t an extended vacation, it’s my life. Never knowing where my next flight will take me or where my next meal or bed will come from gets exhausting. But I can’t quit now. People rely on me for my travel posts or even just my flirty selfies. Besides, I do love traveling, I love connecting with fans, I just wish I had a little more control.

“Well, if you need a tour guide to show you all the cool spots around Malibu, I’m totally your guy,” says the tipsy man beside me.

“Thank you. I think I’ll be okay on my own, but I appreciate the offer,” I reply politely.

No sooner have I fended him off than a whole group of shirtless bachelors flock me for photos. They hang on me, their arms around my shoulders, their hands on my lower back or my waist. They’re always like this, trying to touch me and get as close as they can. I’m used to it, but at the same time, you never really get used to the invasion of personal space. These guys feel entitled to my attention and time. They feel entitled to touch me without permission. When they pose with me for photos, they always find a way to grope me or get too close. I can smell their mustiness. I can feel their sweat on my skin. I see their eyes rake over my curves. They see me not as a human, but as a commodity. A living doll meant to look pretty and please a crowd. Besides, a photo with me is guaranteed to blow up on social media. My fans swarm me for a little taste of my fame. I’m a golden goose, and they want in on the feast. They fire off questions and comments so fast I can hardly keep up.

“Damn, baby, where are you staying tonight?”

“I have your photos saved on my phone!”

“How long are you in town?”

“Can I get your number?”

“You’re even sexier in person.”

“I’m your biggest fan, can I get a kiss?”

“You got a boyfriend?”

I volley the questions with a breezy smile or a generous giggle. I manage to extricate myself from their groping hands and roving eyes. I take a deep breath as I polish off my mai-tai and leave the fancy glass on the bar counter. I turn and start to walk away from the tiki bar, giving the crowd one last flirty wave goodbye. Everyone waves and shouts their goodbyes enthusiastically before they start whispering to each other about me. It’s expected. As long as they’re talking about me, right?

I start walking toward the water to dip my toes. The salty wind whips around my face and lifts my blonde waves. I love the feeling of sand between my toes and salt air on my tongue. I’m finally starting to relax a little when I’m rudely interrupted by the same guy who tried to hit on me earlier. By now, he’s gone past tipsy and straight into sloppy. He grasps a sweaty beer in one hand while he reaches out to touch my arm with the other. I take a step back, dodging him.

“Where d’you think you’re going, gorgeous?” he slurs.

“Just dipping my toes in the ocean. You seem a little wobbly. Maybe you should go back to the bar and sit down,” I tell him in the sweetest voice I can manage.

“Only if you come with me,” he replies. “But I can think of better things to do.”

“Is that so?” I answer. I look around frantically for an escape route.

He steps closer and alarm bells start going off in my head. This guy seems to have misconstrued my upbeat attitude as interest. In him. Somehow, this always happens. All I have to do is smile at a guy, and suddenly he thinks I’m his property.

“Don’t run away from me. I know you want it,” he says.

He waggles his eyebrows and reaches out to grab my arm. As soon as his sticky fingers close around my wrist, my heart starts pounding. Panic sets in.

“Please let go,” I insist.

“What, you think you’re better than me because you have a zillion followers? Big deal! I have followers, too. And money. And clout. You should want to get with me,” he declares.

“Leave me alone,” I assert.

I try to rip my arm away, but he holds tight. I see anger flash in his eyes.

“You’re a fake, that’s what you are. A fake and a tease!” he accuses. “You think you can flirt with me for the camera and then just walk away?”

I’m desperately searching the beach for someone to intervene as the guy drones on.

“I’ve heard the rumors, you know. That you’re not really rich, you’re just some backwoods white trash who’s faking it for the internet fame!” he hurls at me.

My stomach churns. I don’t know how he figured it out, but he’s right. The rumors are true. He could totally ruin my reputation if I don’t do what he wants. I’m about to give in when suddenly, a slightly older guy in sleek, beachy loungewear comes swaggering up to us. My eyes are drawn to him instantly. He has the dark, tousled hair of a soap opera heartthrob and the bone structure to match it, visible even with his designer shades on. He’s tall, with broad, strong shoulders and an assured smile on his handsome face. He’s walking right up to us. I feel a rush of relief looking at him. Somehow, I understand that I’m safe now. The older man steps right up and slides his arm around my shoulders, peering down at the pervy guy over his shades.

“Oh, honey! There you are. I thought I’d lost you in the crowd,” he says in a deep, commanding voice.

“Who the hell are you?” the first guy demands.

The older man smiles. He looks pointedly at the guy’s hand on my wrist.

“A friend of Vanessa’s. Now, would you kindly remove your hand from her arm? Or would you prefer that I remove it for you?” he warns.

The pervy guy’s eyes go wide. He pulls his hand back as though he’d been burned by a hot stove, and takes a few staggering steps back. He holds up both hands-- one holding a beer-- in surrender.

“Hey man, not looking for any trouble,” he says.

The older guy smiles wider. “Great. Then get a move on.”