Editor's note: This is another non-consent/reluctance tale, a prequel to my first three stories. It is told mostly from the perspective of the villain of those first three stories.
***
"Can I bring you a cocktail, while you peruse our menu? Some wine perhaps?" inquired the handsome man in an unidentified European-accent, smiling performatively.
Gary opened his mouth to respond, but Claire jumped in -
"Great! Yes! We'll take this one! The Veuve Cliquot Brut. We're celebrating!" She smiled brightly at the waiter then turned her dazzling wattage toward Gary.
Gary's lips pulled wide into the formal shape of a smile, even while his eyes remained unmoving. He didn't like her jumping in like that, cutting him off. And he didn't trust this waiter with the fancy foreign accent.
In his discomfort at being upstaged, Gary looked down at his sleeve and pulled on his left cuff sharply. Then the right. This had the advantage of reminding anyone watching - especially Claire and that foreign waiter - that Gary wore expensive cufflinks tonight. Also, it called not-so-subtle attention to the GAC logo monogrammed just below the left cuff.
The GAC stylized monogram logo was of course for Get-A-Head Cash, his lending empire. But also, not-coincidentally, Gary's initials. One of Gary Chisholm's favorite conversation pieces with new guys he met was "You know what the A stands for, don't you? Guess. Guess what the A is for!"
The new guy inevitably mumbled some lame guess like "Adam? Albert?" (The new guy, if at all perceptive, would silently start to wonder whether maybe it stood for..."Asshole?")
And then Gary would jump back with his version of a joke-plus-banter: "It's for Alpha. Cause I'm always the first. The top. The best. Everybody knows that."
Sometimes, if he wanted to mix it up, he'd say "It's for Apex. Because I'm the Apex Predator. You know what that is? Did you ever study that in biology? Did you?"
And then, regardless of their answer to that question, Gary liked to go on to explain that as the apex predator, he was always on top. He was always ripping people's faces off in business, never letting anyone get the better of him. Winners just win. Gary figured people should know this about him, if they were all going to get along. It was good to get that out there on the table, early.
So anyway, it bugged him that Claire, this girl just getting her business off the ground, had ordered the fancy champagne without even asking him. Ordering the booze at dinner was the guy's role. That was GAC's job.
Sometimes when he was feeling indignant, Gary referred to himself in the third person, as GAC.
Maybe he shouldn't have even said yes to this dinner. I mean, the girl was hot, he'd give her that much. And she had half of East Hartford's city government eating out of her hand by now. So it made sense, strategically, to align himself to her rising star. Be seen out with her. To have her think of him as some kind of older business mentor, more than just the guy who put together the loan syndicate for her new manufacturing plant build-out.
But there was plenty about her style he didn't like. She just rubbed him the wrong way.
Although, Gary thought, he wouldn't mind rubbing her the right way. Ha. She did have great legs.
The waiter returned to the table, displayed the label, popped the cork with a flourish, and poured an ounce into a champagne flute for Claire. She took a moment to eye the bubbles and then sniff, before swallowing a hearty gulp. She smiled at the waiter and nodded her assent. He refilled her flute, and then one for Gary.
Gary wasn't used to being semi-overlooked like this. Maybe because she'd made the reservation? So far the waiter had treated her like she was the boss.
After the waiter walked away, Gary decided to reassert control of the situation. He leaned across the table toward Claire, and with a conspiratorial sneer at the waiter's back he said in a half-whisper.
"That guy's probably a faggot, right?"
"What?" Claire looked pained.
"Look at him. I mean he's like French or Italian, right?"
"Who, Alex? He's Croatian. He's married. I don't..." Claire sighed. She seemed unwilling to continue this line of conversation.
Gary felt he'd regained the upper hand. "You know, it's all the same with those guys. It's like in Ancient Rome, they were always into doing each other. They were perverts, all of them. The wives and girls were just for show. I don't know where Croatia is but it's probably the same thing there. It's fucking gross is what it is. I know I'm not supposed to say that, because we're all so damned PC and feminist these days. But I just tell it like it is. That's what people like about me. You get the real Gary. Not filtered."
Claire looked down at her menu, seemingly engrossed in the detailed descriptions found there.
Gary felt better, like he'd regained the momentum of the conversation.
This girl. She was hot. And ever since she'd returned with the gold from the '92 Games in the 4x400 she'd been the celebrated Golden Girl of East Hartford. People fell all over themselves to help her. He had to admit, she had a pretty good knack for turning that buzz and good will into a great business. Olympic Sportswear made money from the start, without much capital. She took over the old empty factory space just off Main Street, and suddenly the Chamber and the local business community had decided she was everyone's favorite flavor of the year. Now, with the favorable zoning and tax abatements, and of course a sizable bridge loan from Get-A-Head Cash, Claire and Olympic Sportswear were about to become an even bigger deal. Like New York Times-featured and Connecticut Business Woman of the Year-nominated big deal.
Which, Gary thought on the one hand was cool, but on the other hand also bugged him. Like, even after her full build-out of Olympic Sportswear, his lending business would have about 25 times her revenues, and probably 100 times her profitability. But noooooo. People didn't want to celebrate his business.
The East Hartford elites - assholes, most of them, if you asked Gary - would never nominate him for the awards. They liked to have a woman to invite to the banquets and awards ceremonies. Fuck those guys. They didn't particularly like payday lenders and high-interest bridge loan lenders like Get-A-Head. Probably because the City of East Hartford government people were pussies.
The funny thing about the awards and recognition was that Gary actually didn't care that much about it. It wasn't what got him up in the morning. It also wasn't really about his profits anymore. Well, the money was great. He liked talking about his money and profits. It was cool.
In his heart of hearts though, he could live without as much money, and he could live without any awards banquets for him (as he always had.)
What he lived for instead, what got him going in the morning and even - he readily admitted - turned him on, was the power he held over other people. He loved the fact that by lending out his capital he held guys by their balls. By lending out his capital, he held the girls by the hair on the back of their necks. He got off on that feeling.
He fondly remembered his first payday loan shop. He worked behind the counter himself in the early days and he had a big smile for his customers when they took out their first loan. He grinned enthusiastically. Gary was genuinely good at the customer service and sales relationships.
"I own you from now on," he'd think silently to himself, as he handed out the initial loan amount. And it was true. Few customers, once hooked on the convenience of a Get-A-Head payday loan, ever kicked the habit. Every two weeks they'd come in to pay the interest and fees. Anybody stupid enough to pay the equivalent of 80 to 120% annual interest was stupid enough to stay chained to the financial prison of their own making.
That control he held over his customers - far more than the profits - got him up in the mornings.
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