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Chapter 7
She was quiet at first. Barret didn’t know exactly how to approach this; normally his reputation did the work for him. It had worked with Liza; hell, it would probably still work with Liza, even though they broke up. She was a nice fallback, he could text her in two months or wait until she aged out of being the hottest thing on the planet and then she would be much more malleable to him.
Gertrude required work.
Gertrude was a dark little puzzle he wanted to solve.
Maybe she just didn’t know his reputation. That happened, sometimes. Poor people often weren’t connected to the world. They drank their Pepsi-Cola and let their teeth rot in their dirty little homes as they puttered back and forth to work in their rusty cars, refusing to better themselves, or accomplish anything. He’d taken his father’s fortune and turned it into an empire, why couldn’t they?
That’s what made Gertrude interesting. She held herself differently. With an elegance indifferent to her station. Like her whole life was one of his grocery store roleplays.
He faltered, somehow running out of stuff he owned, and was considering talking about his collection of cars, when she glanced at her phone, typed something, read the vibrating responses, then put the phone in her purse. He watched as she crossed her legs and shifted closer, giving him a wide smile.
“Wow," she said. "That's a lot of stuff you own." She hesitated, then put a hand on his thigh. "But, I don’t know anything about you.” She twirled her black hair. “I don’t understand much about stocks and business. I ride a bike to work, most days.”
That did something for him. He felt a warmth in his lower half, and wanted more. “You don’t have a car?”
She shrugged meekly. “Money’s tight—"
I bet your pussy is too.
“So having someone like you pay attention to little ol’ me is…” she stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the warm sun. “I feel like a princess.”
“If this goes well, maybe you could be my princess.”
She slid closer. “I’d like that. Do you have a big, big castle I can live in?”
He wraps his arm around her shoulders. This was going brilliantly. He barely had to try. He was a little disappointed; he expected more out of her, but women always lost their sense when it came to money. That woman who took his virginity had thought he'd make her his wife until his father forced him to end it.
Oh well.
Now he had Gertrude.
Come here little nugget. With your cheap perfume and your thrift store dress. You didn't think I could tell? I can see the seams wearing out, I can still smell the mothballs. It's fine, princess. I’ll rip you out of it and place you on sheets that are so expensive, so rich on your skin you’ll break out in hives. I’ll fuck you until those sheets are soaked and then I’ll smack you on the ass and send you home with a hundred-dollar bill tucked up your twat.
And you’ll thank me for it.
The driver rolled down the partition. “We’re here, sir.”
Barret nodded. “Gertrude, have you ever had—" he thought for a moment, casting his mind about for a food she would recognize but still understand as expensive. “Beluga caviar?”
“Nope,” she replied brightly. “I’m more of a fish sticks type of woman.”
“...the frozen finger things?”
The driver came around and opened the door for them. They stepped out. Gertrude shivered in the chilly New England air.
Barret buttoned his suit. It was a little brisk.
***
Abe Shah had suggested the restaurant, and an assistant had booked the reservation. He wasn’t expecting much; Abe didn’t spend money as liberally as he did.
It was a dark, moody place nestled between high end clothing stores. “Bateman's” was one of those dining experiences with a limited menu; their chef some illustrious culinary sorcerer trained at an academy with an impossible to pronounce name.
At the counter he checked in his jacket and a slim-waisted waitress in black checked his name before leading them to their table.
His assistant, he forgot her name, had done well. Their table was in the center of the room, with the surrounding tables purchased as well, ensuring they’d eat without feeling crowded. The tablecloth was dark burgundy, with gold trim. Wine was placed before them and the menu; a singular sheet of thick paper.
