FEARLESS WOMAN
pairing: patrick bateman x model!reader
summary: one of patrick's friends, brings his latest girl to show off.
word count: 4.2k (4231 words)
warnings: cursing, discrimination, misogyny, objectification of women, mentions of sexual intercourse, sexual jokes and remarks
a/n: I added another guy for more dialogue, Chase Prescott, imagine him to be like one of Patrick's friends, he is based on them after all. I am currently reading the book, and I tried my best to portray the behaviour of Patrick and his group. I also tried my best to make this long and detailed, for a reader to be immersed in the story, hopefully I have fulfilled that wish of mine. Also it’s intentionally a bit exaggerated.
It’s raining.
Hard. The kind of rain that smears across the massive pane of the office window like spit on glass. Madison Avenue looks like a wet ashtray. The taxis are slow, sluggish. Even the people look less human in this weather, just damp shapes wrapped in wet wool.
The clouds hang low like a hangover. Everything is gray and getting completely washed out. Umbrellas bloom and collapse in waves, the cheap ones easily flipping inside out. Some man just dropped his. Now he’s chasing it like a dog after a chew toy. Patrick watches him from his steady standing position. " It’s pathetic. " He thinks. People are weak, but in this chaos they are almost as light to squash as ants. As if the weather alone is enough to undo them.
The enjoyment this scene causes Patrick to almost smile. He is in his prestigious office, fully dry, dressed in his white Egyptian cotton shirt, navy high-waisted Turnbull & Asser, takes a sip of his mineral water, Perrier, chilled to exactly 39 degrees.
Across the room, the brushed steel clock clicks. He supposed to eave for lunch in 27 minutes. At Pastels, McDermott had to call twice to get the reservation, which undoubtedly scrapped his ego, not to mention this happened in front of Bateman and Price. And now they all will have to step out into that?
Patrick starts to stare harder, as if he can force the rain to stop. Of course it doesn't. His body leans back into Aeron chair, fingers steeple, watching droplets crawl down the glass window. His haircut, which he got freshly done yesterday, will be ruined, as will his tie and loafers and mood and...
He thinks about cancelling, he isn't too keen on drinks or chat momentarily, finding the current position comfortable enough not to be annoyed. A deep sigh grasps him by a knock on the door, he looks at his arm, at a shining Rolex, calculating 5 minutes passed. With his approval, Jean opens the door, with only her head poking.
"Patrick, your lunch at 3 PM." He notices her red stretched-silk jacket, almost whincing at the color, which in that top, doesn't suit her. His hand waves at her dismissively, standing up and walking over.
"I am aware. Cancel it." He says appuraply, about to reach the door.
"Reason?"
"I am not ruining my hair for these morons. Cancel it." He is close to push the door to close in her face as she pulled his black umbrella from the side. "Then you'll need this."
After they finished their lunch, yet not disgusted by each others presence, Patrick, Timothy Bryce, Chase Prescott and Craig McDermott went to a bar. Despite Patrick's stressing about taking an umbrella outside, thinking it would be too homo, he was relived when all the men brought their own umbrellas and he wouldn't look like a sissy.
The bar, this specific one, which they came back to for the first time in weeks, was now renovated. All brushed nickel and lacquered bamboo. McDermontt, who upon leaving the restaurant, believed the new interior is going to be trashy and ugly, proved himself wrong and even expressed his approval by complimenting it.
The rain became worse, but nobody is bothered by it.
"I swear to God, Patrick..." Bryce puts his drink down, looking to Patrick with eyes almost wide. "The guy was wearing a double-breasted polyester blend in a shiny charcoal with pinstripes. And he works for Carlyle. Can you believe that?"
"Depraved criminal. He should've been shot." McDermontt laughs.
"I would rather see him fed to the starving kids in the Bronx. It would be a fun circus performance to watch.” Tim adds, nudging Patrick who stared into his glass, neat J&B. He stops, looks to him and then to Craig, then at Chase, he looks for the fourth one and finds him missing, just now.
"Where is Van Patten?” Leaning more in his chair, but not too comfortably, face still serious. They all pause.
Timothy smirks, taking his cucumber gin, according to him " very clean " and sips it once. "Getting us a gift."
"Fingers crossed it’s something… finely powdered." Prescott rubs his hands together. He has been off all drugs for three weeks, a bet he won with a co-worker.
"Better. A model." He nods to everyone.
“Wait, like a fashion model or some girl from 57th Street with coke problems?" McDermott leans forward, getting intrigued.
"Supermodel. Came back from Europe." Timothy leans towards him. "Worked with Versace." Chase raises his eyebrows like a child hearing about a new toy.
"What's she look like?" Patrick asks, showing not even slightly the amused look of others.
"Let me guess. Blonde. Five-ten. No tits." McDermott.
"Wrong. Blunette. Five-eleven. Still no tits." Prescott says. They all laugh in approval of their remarks.
"I bet she does runway, looking like a praying mantis. Skeleton even." McDermott jokes, he fixes a look at others mindlessly, pressing his lips into a smile.
"Exactly. You could probably slice paper on her cheekbones. Legs like steel scaffolding. You'd dislocate a hip just climbing on." Bryce makes a motion at his hip, as if it hurt him, but of course, it's all for a show.
“That's what Van Patten is into. Girls who look like they hate being touched." They all laugh again, expect for Patrick, who, despite being amused and somewhat sharing their beliefs and thoughts, only observes emotionless.
"Did she actually work for Versace?" He asks, glancing at Tim.
"That's what he said. More recently for Fendi." He answers, looking at the other two.
"So what's the deal? He's just keeping her? Like a pet?” Craig, adjusts himself better, but stays casual, making no big movements.
"No, no." Timothy shakes his head. "He is doing business with her. You know." He winks, making air quotes, not resisting a grin which paints freshly across his face. "She is helping him diversify his portfolio." His voice lowers momentarily, until it breaks into a laugh.
“Should tell him when her IPO is. Make sure he does her before she tanks.“ Prescott mockingly grunts. Craig grabs his shoulder, slightly pulling him closer, however, his eyes look to the other two. “Oh, I trust there is going to be insider trading. Of fluids.“ This time, the noise they create catches the attention of a bartender. He quickly looks at their glasses and, as he sees each still has liquid in them, continues what he was previously occupied with.
In the meantime, Bateman observes the magazine a woman, two tables down, is reading. On the cover, the word FENDI is visible, as well as a model with net stockings, wrapped only in a big fur coat. She is too far for him to spot anything else, but it reminds him of the conversation being held in front of him.
“What’s her name?“ Patrick asks Timothy. “ Oh, I don’t remember. “The man answers him without hesitation. “Just know it is the type you moan with your mouth half open.” His mouth open in a said gesture, left without a sound.
The rain continues outside. The lights inside the bar flicker slightly, but no one notices. They’re too busy talking, their voices rising, drowning out the soft jazz playing through the overhead speakers.
“Okay, but seriously, how does Van Patten even know her?“ Prescott gave an interested look.
“He said they met at an art gallery. I guess a private opening. One of those not-on-the-list-you ’re-not-coming-in types. He was on a date with Melissa or Marissa…” he squints for a second. “Whatever girl he fuck then. She dragged him. And the model, she was with a gay French art dealer.“
“And she just went home with him?“ Craig held his lips next to his glass, waiting for the next words.
“That’s what he said. She liked his energy.” Timothy punctuates the last word.
“She liked his energy? What is this, Oprah?“ McDermott wasted no time to mock, settling the glass back on the table, right next to his grain leather Gucci Bi-Fold.
“Yeah, and listen to this Bateman…,“ he stares at him, even though Patrick has been listening this whole time, just not interacting. “She is staying in his apartment.” He nods as if it’s his own doing.
Prescott wolf whistles. “Jesus. So is he actually…” Tim doesn't let him finish. “He says he’s in deep.“ More information is needed for further discussion, as everybody waits to hear the rest.
“Yeah, yeah…“ Bryce waves a hand before stopping. “…like in her…“ He holds his hands up, as if he is going to show how deep. Or as if a speech is to follow. But he only opens his fist and holds it up in the air. “Five times a night. Allegedly.“ All chuckle, figuring out the exaggeration.
“Five thrusts, then sure.” McDermott says, then continuing. “So he keeps her around? Doesn’t wanna share?“ He shares a smirk with Chase, who seems keen on the idea.
“He says she is unavailable. But he is bringing her here.“
“Classic Van Patten. Show off.“ McDermott takes a cigarette and lights it up with S.T. Dupont Lighter. “Fucker gets one hot piece of Eurotrash and suddenly he’s acting like he invented sex.“ He makes eye contact with Tim, who instantly is aware he is about to ask a question. As if sending an invite, he moves his head. “You think he actually fucks her?“ They grin at each other.
Prescott finishes his vodka, quickly signaling the bartender over. “I want to see her.“ His glass is quickly filled with more liquid, he makes sure it’s just the amount he likes, slightly more than it should be before waving the man off.
“You will. They will show up.“ A pause occurs between all four men. Patrick glances towards the front door. Still no David, nor his model. He tries to picture her. Legs, like Bryce said, scaffolding. Collarbone like a blade. Voice like a cigarette ad. She is probably going to drink mineral water and stare at David the whole time, or whoever she finds most attractive out of them.
“You think he’ll let one of us take a test drive?“ Craig chirps, at which Timothy pats his shoulder, as if in comfort theatrically. “Only if you ask politely.“
“I want to see her.“ Patrick blurts out, facing his Rolex Datejust, stainless steel with Oyster bracelet and flat, three-piece links. It’s almost 6 PM.
“Don’t worry, Bateman. Your turn will come.” Prescott raises a glass to the man, still focused on his Rolex. Then, he squints at Timothy, slightly in suspicion, “Wait, why do you know all this? About the girl, and all the rest.“ Craig joins him. “Yeah, why are you all of a sudden the girl’s press agent? He didn’t tell me shit.“
Bryce holds a smug impression, deeply proud. “Because, gentleman, I listen. Unlike you morons.“ Despite waiting for it, he receives no reaction. “David and I had a talk.“
Finally, this stirs a reaction out of Bateman, who almost chuckles at it. “A talk? Did you hold hands, too?“ The other man only brushes the question off. “He trusts me.“
Suddenly, a loud storm echoes outside, the weather seeming not to have any mercy today.
“I hope he trusts his umbrella, too. It’s pouring like crazy.“ McDermott
“He doesn't have one.“ Everyone looks at Chase at once. He rolls his eyes, almost annoyed. “When we went for lunch, fucker squeeze under my umbrella. Told him it was gay. He said he forgot his umbrella. I felt like I was in a French art film.“ All remember the situation from earlier today, shaking their heads.
Craig, all of a sudden, violently leans forward, catching everyone’s attention. “Guys. Guys. What if, listen, what if he is getting her wet for us?”
Bryce chuckles in disbelief. “Because he can’t do it on his own. Needs weather assistance.“
Prescott takes off his Oliver Peoples glasses, wiping them carefully with his Hermès linen napkin. “You have to admit. It’s genius. Make her vulnerable. Let the city rough her up a little. Then walk her in here, wet and helpless.”
“Fuck, she is going to be all wet.“ Craig excitedly says.
“Moisturized.“
“Baptized.“ Bryce nearly chokes on his drink. Regaining himself, he starts to speak. “She’s gonna freak out. She’ll walk in, and her makeup will be ruined. Lipstick coming off her lip and all.”
“She’ll need a team of makeup artists to recover.“ McDermott.
“I bet Van Patten won’t even tell her. Just let her walk in here.“ Prescott.
“Then he will take her to the bathroom.” Bryce turns his voice into a whisper. “To…console her.“ Prescott nods at him. “Yeah, he’ll unzip his fly and say, ‘Here, cry into this.’“ They laugh harder, as the sound echoes around them. Some people quietly stare, but go unnoticed.
“He better bring her soon, before you animals start humping the table.“ For the comment, Patrick receives a devilish smile from all of them. In the truest sense, they are like animals, hungry for prey. That’s why they stay and wait for it to be brought to them. However, with little to do now, they wish to continue their heavily structured commentary on the woman neither has seen yet. Before either of them makes another joke, the door swings open.
First, they only see David, he is soaked, from head to toe, hair flatter than usual, but he's grinning. The cocky, overconfident one, like he just bought Manhattan wholesale.
Prescott perks his eyebrow upwards, getting nervous by his expression. “What the hell is he smiling about?“
But then you appears from behind him, taking his coat off yourself. The coat, camel brown, probably Armani, is now looking black from all the weather it endured. David immediately takes the coat into his hands as you smiles at him, not a forced smile you would need to put on for casting, no, a real one.
You are were the ankle-strap heels, matte black Gucci, that make you look taller than what you are. Legs stand like architecture, bare, perfectly shaved.
The rain, which you somewhat did endured, sculptured the fabric against your body, outlining your waist, hips, and breasts. You’re wearing a cream-colored Gianfranco Ferré silk slip dress. Straps are delicate, almost invisible, it's elegant, not desperate. No bra. None needed.
Your face is completely clean, with no smeared mascara or lipstick. No streaked foundation, you are not wearing any, or barely any at all. Cheekbones are sharp, however, not pointy. Big, heavy-lidded eyes. Lips like an Italian film actress. Your skin is glowing from the rain that managed to get to you.
A black slim Cartier Tank watch with the classic leather strap hangs on your hand. Earrings are golden Tiffany hoops, small yet shiny. You look expensive, but not flashy.
Van Patten, who has already hung his coat, links with you at the elbow as you move into the bar like you are walking on the runway. He whispers something to you, a compliment, you only laughs softly.
The guys don’t laugh. They all stare, eyes sharp, half in awe, half in disbelief. “How the fuck did David pull her?“ Bryce mutters, his eyeballs shift from your legs to your chest.
Prescott starts nudging everyone beneath the table, his face sternum gleaming with a grim shadow. “I’ll kill him. This isn’t fair.“ Craig nods, his mouth ajar.
“I’d trade half my portfolio to fuck that. Hell-two-thirds.” He announces.
As they reach the table, you smiles at them all. Charming. Not even slightly intimidated by the four strangers before you. Your hands are to your sides, which makes Van Patten slide his hand on your lower back. Patrick can’t help but follow this action in motion.
“Gentlemen. I’d like you to meet Y/n Y/l/n.” David says beamingly. He introduces each of his friends swiftly, mentioning only their first and last names and the fact that they all work at the same place. You acknowledge each one with a pleasant look.
Van Patten pulls out a chair for you, dramatically and performative. The rest of them are too stunned to move. You still hold a smile, warm, unbothered, oblivious to the acid bath you sat in.
Then, still grinning like a lunatic, Van Patten slides into the chair next to you. Close. Too close. Your knees are almost touching. You don’t mind. That bothers Patrick more than it should, just like the hand he held at your back.
“We heard you were recently in Europe.” Bryce starts. “She just flew in from Milan two weeks ago. Worked with Ferre, briefly.“ David says for you. He leans slightly in his chair, watching everyone's faces, soaking in the power he feels, cataloging their envy.
Patrick only watches you. The posture you holds is perfect, back and neck straight. Your head is turned to the bar, which you scan, as if you had seen better, undoubtedly, you have.
David’s hand rests on the back of your chair, it's a possessive mannerism, you don’t react to it, but the guys do. “Watch out, he is about to label her.“ Bryce whispers to McDermott and Bateman. The first one just shakes his head at the couple before him. He whispers back to Bryce. “No way he fucked her, already.”
“No way he didn’t.“ Prescott.
David breaks his intense watch of his date, now narrowed at his friends. “Whispering in the group and in front of a lady.“ He brings your attention back to him, by wording quietly on your neck. “Can’t believe they are being this rude, see what I have to deal with every day.” Your hand lightly pushes him, with no intention to create distance, more for dramatics.
“So modeling.“ Chase who is already growing tired of David and his tricks, tilts his head. “Ever worked with Versace or…Fendi?”
“Yes. Both. Versace couture and Fendi…“ You pause, chin tilting toward a woman seated two tables away, flipping through a thick glossy magazine. “That’s me. On the cover.“
The woman in question, a distracted Upper West Side brunette in a Burberry raincoat, is oblivious. But Van Patten isn’t. He sees the opportunity immediately, and without missing a beat, he pushes his chair back, adjusting his shirt cuffs with faux humility.
“Excuse me.” Only to you.
He strolls to the woman’s table charming and poised, leaning in politely. The woman looks up, startled. He points at the magazine, says something with a smile. She gives a confused look, looking behind him, sparring a glance at the men and the only woman with them. Then she hands it over, half annoyed. He thanks her and pivots back, presenting the magazine like he’s holding a golden trophy.
He slaps it down on the table. And there you are, an alluring muse in the black and white, wrapped in voluminous Fendi fur, legs in fishnets, very notable. The sensual grit of the soft opulence of the coat channels both raw seduction and unapologetic beauty. Powerful and untamed.
“Holy shit.” Craig voices without realising.
They pass the magazine around like it’s contraband. One whistles, second mutters and the third one says “fuck” under his breath in some reverent tone. You watch all of it with calm sitting, sipping your drink, which the bartender brought moments ago. Despite it, there is a shy smirk appearing on the corners of your mouth.
Patrick scans over the magazine, getting stuck on your legs, then to you, in front of him, like trying to spot a difference, except for the colour and outfit, you are the same. Guys around him got silent as Bryce nudged Van Patten. “So, come on. You two dating or what?”
“You lost a bet, didn’t you?” McDermott winks at you, you wave him one off, sensing David’s tension building in his jaw. Your hand touches his arm deliberately, because of it he immediately returned his face into a relaxed expression. He chuckled charmingly, putting his hands in the air. “Gentlemen. Please. I would never discuss such things.”
“Bullshit.” McDermott smirks.
“I’m not that kind of a man.” Van Patten shakes his head. You give him honeyed blinks in approval. You turn to the bartender. As your eyes move away from the table for just few seconds, David leans in, away from you and mouths, silently and steadily: “We fuck.” He makes a crude, but careful thrusting motion under the table. Prescott nearly chokes on his drink. McDermott stifles a laugh behind his fist. Patrick’s eyebrow arches heavily.
“You lucky fucking bastard.” McDermott mouths back.
You suddenly whisper in David’s ear, Patrick sees the unnecessary touch you hold on his shoulder, staying calm at it. You stand up, excusing yourself and walk off, legs moving unhurriedly. Every eye at the table you just left followed you.
When you are out of view, Prescott half whispers, leaning forward. “Okay. Spill. Now. All of it. Does she actually stay at your place? Like, overnight?”
“Every night this week.” He smirks, folding his arms like a smug televangelist.
“So what is she like…in bed?” McDermott lowers his voice.
“Yeah. Is she quiet and classy or does she get weird?” Tim.
“She doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask questions. She just performs.” He says in watchful admiration of his own description.
“What, like she’s auditioning?” A laughing and confused look appears on Craig’s face.
“No, like she’s fucking starring.”
“No way you got her to do anything weird.” Bateman judiciously declares, feeling uncomfortable from hearing of David’s success.
He got a proud nod. “Everything. Shower. Balcony. On the marble floor.”
“Jesus.” Craig murmured. “How do they feel?” Motioning at his chest, puffing it upwards.
Prescott, laughing. “Yeah, are they we perfect as they look?”
“Flawless,” he says flatly. “Round and plump, can bounce like crazy.”
McDermott, mock groaning, “Jesus, I’m picturing it now. Don’t do this to me, man.”
“So, what’s your goal here? Keeping her like some kind of an accessory? Or are you planning on letting the rest of us borrow her eventually?” Despite his words, Patrick was cold, with barely a movable expression on his face.
“You gonna share? Or just make us watch you live the dream?” Bryce wiggled his eyebrows.
“Yeah, Van Patten, come on. We all want our turn. We’re fucking invested now.” Chase voices.
Van Patten raises his glass. “Gentlemen, please. I am not a pimp.” He downs his drink, then slowly sets the glass on its place, grinning like a winner. “But if I were…you couldn’t afford her.”
“Okay, seriously, you have to share.” McDermott says, more sternly, Prescott nodded at it.
“I don’t share. But maybe…if you upgrade your suits, get real haircuts and stop reeking of desperation…I’ll think about it.” He smirks, looking back to see if you were out of the restroom.
“Fuck you.”
“Alright, David. If you’re not gonna lend her out like a gentleman, how about we work in shifts? I mean come on on. One of us gets the mouth, one gets the…” Bryce grins, seeing as everyone sharpened their ears.
“Fuck it. Double up. Bateman can film.” Prescott cuts in swiftly.
“You guys wish. She wouldn’t even look at you.” Rolling his eyes at his peers, overcome with utter amusement.
“She doesn’t have to. I’ll take her from the back. Eye contact is only optional.” Prescott laughs along with the other two, getting prominent pats on the back.
“You sound desperate. It’s embarrassing.” Van Patten smugly stares.
Patrick watches all of it. The conversation is escalating in volume and stupidity, full of snarling male fantasy masquerading a mutual friendship. Their eyes are alive, animated with a kind of rabid hunger.
Patrick found David’s behaviour irritating. The endless victorious glimmer he had, looking down on them, like he is sitting on top of the food chain, held his jaw in piercing grip.
He stands up, ignoring their glances.
“Leaving already, Bateman? What, too emotional for you?” Patrick manages to snare an angry glare, looking unbothered.
“Heard enough of this bickering.” He leaves the table, heading for the door, hoping he won’t be tortured with more of David’s talk tomorrow. But before he reaches them, your voice stops him.
“You’re leaving?”
He turns. You are standing just a step away, a fine mist dusting your shoulders. This is closer than he expected you to be. Within scent range, he discreetly sniffs something clean and citrusy. Maybe Acqua di Parma.
“Too much boy talk?” you ask sharply.
“Too much idiocy.” he replies. “You’re surprisingly calm.”
You shrug, your eyes holding him in place. “I’ve been around men like that before. They don’t surprise me.”
“David doesn’t surprise you?”
“He entertains me.”
Patrick nods awkwardly, looking above you.
“Jealous?” You nudge him with the teasing question.
“No.” he says, pausing. “But I think you can do better.”
You tilt your head, curious. “And you’re volunteering?”
“I’m suggesting.”
You step even closer. He doesn’t mind. The expensive smell of your perfume now more precise. Your lips part slightly, not smiling, but enough to make it ambiguous.
“When do you plan on showing me better?”
Patrick reaches into his coat, pulls out a clean card from the inner pocket. His name embossed bone-colored. He hands it to you.
You take it with a slow drag of your fingers over his palm.
“I’ll call.” You step back. And then you’re gone. He watches as you glide back to the table, sliding effortlessly beside David again. Like nothing happened. But Patrick knows, you won’t blow it off. You are in for fun, and it’s his turn to give it to you.
