Chapter 8
It was the worst restaurant Gertrude had ever been in.
The menu consisted of like, six items, including that caviar Barret spoke about. The names seemed French, and the prices made her head spin. Half a month’s rent for a single dinner.
She didn’t eat out much; it was one of those things that were saved for her mother’s birthday or, lately, if the DNF wanted to go out after work. It made her uncomfortable, asking people for things, beckoning them around to deliver ketchup or salt. Being a customer was an act that made too much fuss of her existence. Sometimes she'd see a waitress looking flustered and feel a pang; a desire to put on an apron and help, even just a little. Carry drinks or something.
But that wasn’t the character she was being now. She was Billionaire Barret’s date, here to gasp in delight at the world of riches before her.
There was mounting pressure to flirt, to get him engaged and hanging on every word she was saying. Gertrude bought time by gazing at the menu, wondering what interesting thing she could glean to say that would tip the scales a little further in her favor. God, was this what dating was like? She’d had boyfriends, timid-yet pushy boys who grew frustrated with her after a while. As though they were expecting her to defrost after they had sex and become their sweet, angelic girlfriend. When she didn’t text or gush or ooze her wanting all over them, they withdrew to a cool distance. One had cheated on her, one had ghosted her, and one had parted respectfully enough when she asked that they wait to sleep together. She still saw that one at college, enough to throw awkward glances at each other like mages casting spells. But those interactions, as disastrous as they had been, were filled with a powerful lack of interest from her. She didn't want anything from them, really. They'd simply been the most persistent, so she let them get close even though she didn't feel much. One of her acts of trying to be a full-fledged person. That's what you did, right? You got boyfriends, you had sex, you broke up, you had exes that you told your friends "Guess who I saw at Wal-Mart?"
Dating was checking a box on the Real Human worksheet. But now she wanted something. Wanted this fucking guy to like her.
The date dragged on. She tried asking about his interests, but he either deflected or didn’t have any interests beyond owning things. When she asked about his family, he said bitterly: “My parents left me with only their expectations.” He drained wine out of his glass. “Which I am not fulfilling.”
He was perfect stereotype, Gertrude had to give him that.
Food was served, an unrecognizable mass of colors and shapes that tasted vaguely like salmon with some sort of red sauce, and a bizarre turtle soup. When she went to take a bite, he laughed and told her that she had to use the smaller fork, and dip it in the sauce, or the flavor would be off.
“Savor it, princess.”
He’d taken to calling her that. She was considering asking for a shot of tequila for every time he said it.
Whatever false chemistry they’d had in the car faded rapidly as sullen silence drifted between them, a wall of bricks slowly erecting down the center of the table, until they only focused down on their plates.
This was going to be impossible.
He asked a question, but she didn’t hear it, too caught in the depths of her own musings,
“I don’t like being ignored,” he said stiffly.
Oh well, she thought. If this plan was going to fall apart, then at least she could have fun taking down the ego of the asshole buying out the store. She’d mess with him, then text Olivia, and they’d figure out their next steps. This would just be a bad date, like a million bad dates people went on every day.
Another checkmark on the worksheet.
She bit her lip and continued picking at her food.
“I asked you a question.”
Gertrude pretended she didn’t hear. It was hard not to laugh. There was genuine distress in his voice.
“Gertrude!”
Coyly, she looked up. “Yes?”
“There seems to be a problem.” He gestured at the air between them. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”
“I don’t have a problem.” She tore a piece off a roll and ate it. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong idea about me. I’m not interested in all of this. I’m not impressed by it and I don’t care how many fast food-chains you own.” She settled back in her chair, folding her hands over her belly. She was full—the salmon red sauce thing was actually pretty good. Was it four hundred dollars good? No.
Barret was unbothered. He relaxed, his shoulders losing their confrontational posturing, his carefully arranged expression of amiable neutrality dissolving into a wolfish interest. That pissed her off; she didn't like him looking smug. His very face was a taunt.
Unfortunately, it made him more attractive. The self-possessed air he carried himself with gave way to easy confidence as both of them relaxed and put their cards on the table.
“Honestly,” he said, “I asked you out because you didn’t like me.”
“Is that your kink?”
“Women who hate me?” He shrugged. “It is a bit more fun.”
“Well, I don’t hate you, I don’t know you well enough for that. I don’t particularly like you though.”
“Why?”
“That used bookstore. I work there, you’re trying to put us out of business.”
“Yeah, one of our processing plants would go nicely on that block.”
His tone was light, teasing. Was he baiting her? Was he trying to get her to slip up?
Gertrude didn’t know and verbal sparring wasn’t her style. She was spending all of her social interaction ammo; this excursion already meant at least two days of rotting in her room, speaking to no one. “Fuck off, dude. Just… fuck off.”
“Oh you really don’t like me, huh?”
“Yeah, I said that. Does that get you off? I’d rather be anywhere else than here. I’d rather be with anyone else.” She folded her arms and glared at him.
“Mmm.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them to his forearms. “Why’d you come, then?”
“To be nice.”
He scoffed. “You haven’t been very nice. Let’s be real. Olivia Torres asked you to do this.”
“Actually, I volunteered.”
The words were out of her mouth. She watched his face light up, the way he licked his lips to taste her words. This fucking game of words—all she did was read, and somehow she was losing?
“So some part of you wants to be here.”
“No.”
“You probably find me at least a little attractive.”
A little. “No.” She refused to look away from him. That would mean weakness.
“You dressed up for me," he said.
“It’s a date.”
“Was the plan to convince me not to destroy that dumb bookstore? Did you think I’d get a whiff of your cheap perfume and fall in love?”
“This perfume was not cheap, it cost eighteen dollars.”
He laughed; Gertrude almost did too, but managed to bite it back, but a stupid fucking smile still broke across her face.
Fine. Nothing had changed because of one good moment. Desperate to get away from it, she asked: “Why did you pick me, exactly? I read about you. You normally date models. Why are you slumming it?"
He looked at his hands. “I was bored and you’re a challenge. I wanted to see if I could win you over. Is it working?”
A little. “No.”
“Not at all?”
“You’re very off-putting.”
“So are you.”
He crossed his arms and glared at her. She glared back. Mirror images throwing eye daggers across the table. The waitress arrived to check in and glanced worriedly at them. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but scurried away like a child scared to bother mom and dad when they were fighting.
The energy between them had a new energy. It was charged. Tense. It wasn’t a healthy liking, nor was it a pure attraction.
But it was exciting.
Gertrude thought of all the stories the women in her life seemed to have. The experiences. Rebecca’s ex-husbands and Ariana’s boyfriends-in-training. Gertrude didn’t have that—it was one of those glittering ornaments of life, that, objectively, she knew wouldn’t be all that great if she obtained it. She could have those experiences and realize them hollow and disappointing. But still, she wanted them. If anything, to relate more to the women in her life. A badge to show them, that yes, Gertrude does know what you’re talking about when you roll your eyes and say “you know how men are.”
Wonderful justifications, Gertrude. How about you just admit you want to get laid?
A second ticked by. Then two. Then three.
She took out her phone and texted the group chat. Then she set her phone face down on the table and drank deeply from the wine glass.
“You ask your friends to come get you from the awful man?” Barret jeered.
“Actually, I told them that I was going to that awful man’s house tonight.” She tried on a seductive smile, decided it felt lunatic, and instead looked off into a corner of the room, deliberately not making eye contact.
Barret, to his credit, did the wise thing and shut up. He did, however, stand too quickly, nearly knocking over the bottle. “Let’s go,” he said.
They left the table, striding quickly through the restaurant, drawing glances from the other patrons. He snatched his coat from the counter and demanded into his phone that his driver get here now .
“Don’t you need to pay? Like with a card or—?”
“They can bill my office,” he said. “They have Abe’s account. If they don't like it—" He shrugged. "I'll buy the place and bulldoze it."
***
His home had the sterile quality of a hotel or furniture store. It was at the tippy-top of a gleaming tower that jutted obscenely upward in the fall landscape. Its modern, metallic look and sleek black glass made it appear as though it were the lair of an evil sorcerer; a dark lighthouse gazing out into the harbor. It clashed so violently with the historic architecture of Salem that the city had filed complaints; they said it violated city codes. Gertrude remembered her mom complaining about it being built, remarking that “the rules don’t apply to the rich”.
His driver hadn’t stopped in front of the building. Around the side, a gate slid open and the car dove down a long, winding tunnel, white light bars guiding the way through the black. The car echoed against the concrete, the driver flooring the accelerator in the uncontested space.
Gertrude and Barret rode in silence. There wasn’t much else to say. There would be no loving relationship; this date would not be the cornerstone of a grand story they told friends and family until the end of their days. There wouldn’t be warm mornings together with coffee breath kisses or thoughtful, individualized gifts on birthdays.
All they really had, as Gertrude understood it, was this heated tension between them. They were both obstacles in each others lives and the only real way around it was to fuck and see if the problem resolved. An agitated standoff had existed in the car; he glanced at her chest; she glanced at his hands. He unbuttoned his suit; she uncrossed her legs.
The car stopped; the driver opened their doors. Gertrude stepped onto gleaming white floor into a cross between a showroom and a garage. It was the size of a football field, cars of exotic breed and variety, in gold, red, black and white lined the walls like obedient pets, their headlights lowered, submissive eyes as he tried to slip a hand around her waist and lead her down the long corridor. She knocked his hand away, glaring at him.
“Fine,” he muttered. He walked briskly, making her hurry to keep pace. His body language was that of someone forced to lead a building inspector around; he acted as though he had no time for this.
They got into a small elevator that moved silently. The only elevators she’d been on had rumbling, clanging gears and sudden drops that you felt in your stomach. Money, apparently, smoothed out the issues with elevator travel.
She watched the floor marker on the panel travelling up… up… up. Nine floors. Twelve. Fifteen.
“If you’re uncomfortable,” Barret said quietly, staring straight ahead, “You can stay on the elevator and ride it back down. My driver will take you home.”
It was a surprisingly thoughtful moment for him. She’d expected him to be barking orders by now, but this restraint was welcome. Of course, she couldn’t let him know he had done anything correctly; she had to twist the knife. “What, are you afraid you won’t be able to get hard or something?”
Later, back at the DNF, when she recounted this story, her friends scolded her, asking her if she was trying to get chopped into pieces. Olivia, in particular, gave her a long lecture on safety in the presence of men (“never get into an elevator alone with them what is wrong with you?”)
Barret’s expression remained blank. “Okay.”
On the twenty-second floor the door opened to a display of wealth that was so palpable it made her skin itch.
Stainless steel seemed to be everywhere. The gleam of it baffled her so much that, until her eyes adjusted, she didn’t realize she was looking at the kitchen. A wide island of silver-grey with bowls of fresh fruit in the center. A row of ovens, dishwashers, microwaves took up one wall, the dials and buttons arranged as though it were the cockpit of a jet plane. The kitchen itself had enough square footage to devour Gertrude’s home, and the loft style opened into a living room area that featured a deep pit of black leather seating, arranged in a semicircle around the biggest television she’d ever seen.
“The bedroom’s over here,” he said, pointing to an extended hallway off the living room.
“How about something to drink?”
He nodded and took her into the kitchen. One of the wall devices unsealed as he pulled it, revealing a refrigerator compartment of water in tall, glass cannisters. He handed her one, taking one for himself.
Gertrude leaned against his counter and drank, watching him.
He leaned against the wall, watching her.
“Just water? A little cheap for a billionaire. Don’t you have endangered seal blood to drink?”
“No point in spending money on someone who would be impressed with a date to Applebee's.”
His tone. Since the moment she'd gotten into his car, this tone. Condescending, nasally in a way she couldn’t stand, dismissive to the point where she briefly, briefly wanted to push him out of his giant glass window—all of it sent a spike of rage through her that overrode good sense. She wanted to hear him beg, moan, squirm with worry that he wouldn't get what he wanted. She wanted to break his life apart and see him crumble.
Her water was uncapped, roughly half full.
She tossed it in his face.
A brief, ugly look of shock crossed his face before he recovered. He didn’t bother wiping the water away. He crossed that gap between them until he had her pinned against the counter.
“Don't—” she said.
He uncapped his water.
“Do not. ”
He caught her chin with his hand and tilted it up to him. His face was dripping, his hair coming undone. His cologne had worn off—it wasn’t as overpowering anymore. Now it was distinct; dark and masculine.
They held eye contact for a long, long moment, Gertrude enjoying the way his thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, his hands large, warm, reassuring.
Then he poured the water on her head.
A sharp plunge of icy cold drenched her hair, matting it down. She closed her eyes and felt it stream down her forehead, her cheeks, dripping in rivulets off her chin.
With a flat palm, Barret tapped the side of her face, making her scowl. “Oh don’t be mad,” he taunted. “That water is imported from Norway. It’ll do wonders for your hair." He grinned sadistically. "Tell me, do you getit cut at a shopping mall?”
Gertrude bit his lip, dragging him to her like he was meat off a plate. She grabbed his tie and pulled, hoping it choked him, as he cupped the back of her head within one hand and shoved his other between her legs, ripping a hole in the leggings. He grabbed the elastic band of her underwear and pulled, letting it snap back in place as he explored her with his greedy hands.
“How much did these cost?” he hissed in her ear.
She squeezed her thighs together, clamping them around his hand, pulling her hips back, drawing him into her. She put her lips to his ear and bit that too— why do I keep biting?— whispering back: “Eight dollars.” His hand on her pussy slid upward as he curved his fingers and slid them into her. She tensed. The shock of his touch made her face very warm. “But I got them for three.”
He groaned, his breath hot on the side of her neck.
Whatever this was, it was working. On Gertrude, too, which was baffling but whatever, it was making things so much easier. She grabbed his face with both hands and turned his head sideways to bite his neck. “I got them on clearance, " she growled.
“Oh my,” he moaned, bucking against her. His cock was bulging against her leg; it seemed impossible someone could be so hard from her words but here he was, about to explode in his European-made slacks.
“My room, now,” he ordered, and she almost laughed, but he touched her clit when he said the word now and suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
"Lead the way," she said, "I might get lost in your big ol' castle. "
"Shut up, princess."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her, walking backwards. He was cute like this; his self-possession dissolved into pure, needy want, his hair half-wet and messy, his face bereft of that smug look. She gave him a little resistance, setting her feet to get him to pull, enjoying how eager he felt. She understood it now, a little bit. What fun this could be. Her boots clunked on the tile, and she had a brief mental image of stepping on his face with them, but that felt like a different version of her, a darker version where she handed out black cards to men who would pay to be destroyed by her.
She could wear even more black…
One identity shift at a time, she decided as they got to his room. She didn't have time to examine the bed that was the size of a landing pad, or what appeared to be a swimming pool sized hot tub. She got a glimpse at a minimalist, IKEA-set style decor before he was grabbing her ass, squeezing, murmuring: "Get this off, get this off" as he tugged at the dress.
"It has a zipper!" she exclaimed, laughing. She turned around to face the bed, pulling her hair out of the way. She wiggled her hips. "Unzip me."
A wet kiss found the back of her neck as he slowly unzipped the dress, peeling it away from her body like the petals of a black flower. He held her hand as she stepped out of it, watching her with a quiet awe that was both alarming and gratifying. It made her self-conscious; the momentum of the night stuttering as she crossed her arms in front of her, hiding her chest, suddenly unsure about him actually seeing her body. The dress had been the armor; she could be the dark princess or whatever the fuck with it on, but now it was gone and she had to be just Gertrude.
Luckily, they appeared to have crossed some threshold for Barret. He didn't hesitate when he gently took her hands and pulled them away from her body, pinned them against her sides and leaned down to kiss each of her breasts, inhaling against her skin. "Get on the bed," he said quietly.
She was obeying before thinking, and it was nice not to think as she lay on her back, wearing only the ripped leggings and the necklace Olivia had given her. Barret kneeled at the foot of the bed and tore the leggings even more, then shoved her panties to the side to give her pussy a sloppy lick.
It felt good but tickled, so she laughed, tilting her hips to the side, and she heard his neck crack.
"Ow!""
"I'm sorry! Are you alright—?"
With a grunt, he placed both of his hands on the inside of each of her thighs and forced her legs wide open, turning his head sideways to open mouth kiss her exposed pussy, his mouth wet and sucking and licking.
"I love how your cheap cunt tastes," he said, and she couldn't believe her ears. She snapped her thighs against his ears and squeezed, making him laugh into her as he stood up, bringing the lower half of her body with him. Now they were in a bizarre jiu-jitsu hold, this awful man's face against her, his smug eyes giving her a knowing look over her mound.
With her legs still wrapped around his head, he took out his wallet again and pulled out a black credit card.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
She felt him smile. In a muffled voice, he said: "Making a transaction. Is that okay with you, princess?" Then, as she watched, he twisted his neck to free himself a little, took the card, turned it vertically, and swiped it along her slit. She felt the slim plastic edge part her lips, the corner entering her before hitting Barret's chin as he fought against the strength of her thighs to swipe the card fully.
"Cha-ching," he said. He was still smiling, obviously proud of himself.
And for the life of her, all she could think was:
"Please remove card."
With a groan of rage, she threw her lower body to the left, wrenching herself so hard that her hips shrieked in pain. Barret was thrown to the floor, laughing.
She sat up, grabbed the card off the bed and stood over Barret. She placed the card back in her pussy, holding it there with one hand, and sat on his face, hovering above his mouth. "Your card is declined," she said, crushing it against his teeth.
It stopped him from smiling, at least. He was forced to gingerly bite the card and turn his head to spit it away, otherwise he'd get lacerated by credit card plastic.
Their sex started to lose all structure after that. It became a haze of half-angered, half-lustful wrestling moves as they shoved and pulled each other into new positions, biting and snarling at each other like beasts. She found herself laying prone, her head shoved underneath the bed as he pounded away at her from behind, the hard floor forcing her to absorb his weight with each thrust. A few moments later, she had one of her boot heels—somehow her boots were still on—planted on his forehead as she sat on his cock, one leg draped over his thigh as she did a bizarre form of splits, yelling at him to lick it while his cock pumped furiously into her.
Throughout it all, he called her names. Made fun of her job. "Fuck me like the rent is due," he said. "That's right, bounce on it like your checks bounce."
She tapped his head with her heel. "Shut. The fuck. Up!"
"Go on girl, earn those food stamp benefits."
She changed positions, laying on his chest, gasping for breath as his cock teased her slowly, bending inside her to accommodate the new angle. "I don't qualify for EBT," she muttered to him. "I make too much money."
He smacked her ass. "Wow, you're basically a one-percenter."
She sat up and began riding him. They were glaring at each other again, the same way they had in the restaurant. He was silent for once, and she began to relax, thinking she might actually orgasm from this.
Until he said:
"If I cum inside you, is it a charitable donation?"
Her hand fumbled on the floor around them, found his stupid black card, and shoved it in his mouth. Then she turned away from his face, holding the card down like he was a chip reader, and started bucking her hips as hard as she could. "Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up!" she growled. It helped— being aggressive helped, his cock never quite hitting the spot so she had to get there herself, frantic thoughts hitting her as she got closer (the way he poured the water on her) and closer (when he unzipped her dress) and closer ( Olivia , clipping the necklace around her neck) and the image of Olivia's face started to really get her there, and suddenly things started to click for Gertrude. The way they kept glancing at each other. The way they seemed to wait around for everyone else to leave. The little hints of jealousy from Olivia as she'd gotten ready for this date.
She slammed down on Barret's cock. His voice, seeming to be very far away and thickly slurred as he choked around the card, calling out that he was going to cum, but she didn't really register it, because she was thinking of Olivia shoving her down onto the bed and spreading her legs like Barret had, tossing her hair out of the way before placing those beautiful lips on her, and boom, pow, Olivia, Olivia, Olivia , boss me around call me into your office tell me I've been a bad girl I'll do whatever it takes—
The entire situation, the end result of a very weird, identity challenging month converged on this single point, a billionaire's dick inside of her while her legs shook at the thought of her female boss who was at least fifteen years older than her.
It was just a used bookstore.
The job was supposed to be lowkey.