author's note: this is a pretty light and fluffy short story, that I originally bashed out and posted elsewhere. Finally got around to doing a light edit and posting it here.
Gabbie and Max
by Tad
It was after two o’clock when I finally lifted up my head from the stack of papers, and marvelled “I think this is acceptable, if you are willing to take it.”
Gabbie checked one more time “They formally acknowledge stepping on my patent?”
“Yes.”
“They are offering a lump sum, plus royalties?”
“Yes--although they may have plans for weaselling out of royalties downstream.”
“And the settlement doesn’t impact my ability to sell rights to anyone else?”
“Nope. Honestly, it seems like a pretty good deal--I really don’t see any ‘gotchas’ hidden in here. There is a few minor wording things I’d want cleaned up up, but if you are willing to accept the amounts offered, then I think that provisionally you could tell them that you would accept this, and we could put the court case on hold. So what do you say?”
Gabbie let out a sigh, and I could see tension drain out of her shoulders. Then she smiled that smile I remembered from more carefree days, and exulted “Then I think you should tell the judge he can call it a day, and we should go to the best steak house in the city to celebrate.”
My stomach chose that moment to growl, and she laughed “After all, they did intercept us before lunch to present the offer, and it is mid-afternoon by now. With this deal coming, I think that instead of that cheap Chinese buffet, I can afford to stand you to a top notch meal.”
Well, I wasn’t going to turn down an offer like that, was I? Although I was regretting having held off on buying bigger pants--my size 42” waist trousers were feeling snug already. I resolved to have a good, but small, steak. As Gabby had said, she could afford to pay for it now.
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I’d met Gabbie in our first year of college. We’d been in the same residence complex, and had both been studying biology. We’d always gotten along well, Gabbie had always been friendly with everyone, but we’d largely moved in different circles--perhaps different leagues.
For all that Gabbie always announced her love of food and encouraged everyone around her to enjoy their food, she’d been restrained at the table, keeping a curvy but trim figure all through our undergraduate years. She was Italian by heritage, with gorgeous olive skin and dark eyes you could fall into. Beyond that, in ways that were hard to define she was simply gorgeous, not in the cold, structured, way of some models, but in a vibrant and lively way that always attracted me to her-- even if she was thin by my standards.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one attracted to her, but she held off from dating, joking that she was holding out for a sugar daddy. Well, maybe joking--certainly she always made efforts to move in the sort of circles where you’d find the most successful or at least the most wealthy. Which is not to say she was just at college for an MRS degree, she was also very, very, smart.
Me, on the other hand, I was just this pasty skinned, slightly short, slightly chunky, guy of no particular note. I got decent marks but by halfway through undergraduate I’d realized that I was no scientist--I could learn the material well, but scientific research was not my thing. I did complete my degree and then managed to get into law school, and proceeded to get into patent law after graduating.
This was what had brought us back together. Gabbie had carried on in biology, getting her masters and then her Ph.D. She’d developed what she called an ‘artificial plant’ that could plug into the fungal networks in the soil to get an accurate read of micro-nutrients in the soil, and could wirelessly communicate that information to farm equipment to allow pin-point application of appropriate fertilizers. It was novel enough to patent, but Mono-Grow Corp. had announced something amazingly similar not long afterwards. Through extended social networks she’d known I was involved in patent law, and had contacted me to see if she had a case. This led to my firm taking her case, with me doing most of the day-to-day grunt work in the courtroom, while more senior partners set the strategy.
Two months of preparation and then court hearings had been enough for us to develop a routine: meet for coffee and muffin in the morning, grind through the morning’s activities, go out to a nearby Chinese buffet restaurant at lunch, grind through until late afternoon, then wave good-bye and head our own ways to work into the evening. I say that we developed the routine, but really Gabbie insisted on, having observed early on that my concentration flagged when I was hungry. She may have been right, she may have been wrong, but she was the client and I did love my food, so I went along with her plan.
The side effect was that the 42” waist trousers I’d had to buy not long before starting on that case were already getting uncomfortably tight by the time that the trial was done. Gabbie herself had started the trial not as trim as she had been in our undergraduate days--although not nearly as chubby as me. Whereas I thought I looked like a dumpling, she looked spectacular, all appetizing curves and enticing roundness. Society at large might have said she’d let herself go over the previous decade, but I thought she looked sexier than ever. Even more-so as I noticed subtle signs of her wardrobe also getting a little tight.
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By the time we actually made it to Sampson’s -- the sort of old money steak house that was all dark wood paneling and sound muffling rugs and upholstery-- it was more like 3:30, and I was ravenous. I chided myself for having gotten into such a routine of big lunches, because not so long ago I’d not had much trouble spending all day in court without eating more than a vending machine candy bar.
Once the silky-smooth waiter had left us alone with the menus, Gabbie announced “There will be wine, and there will be very, very, large steaks. And appetizers, maybe more than one each. And dessert. This is a celebration feast.”
I gave a tight, awkward, smile, and suggested “You won, you should have whatever you want. But my trousers are already pinching…” I mentally slapped myself for admitting what a lard-ass I was becoming.
Gabbie wasn’t having any of it “For Frik’s sake, undo the button and enjoy the feast. You know this win was mostly your work, don’t be a pansy about it now.”
She was right, I had done a hell of a job in the prep work and in the court--in fact I figured this win should smooth my way to junior partner. I stared into her dark eyes, and they looked sincere, not mocking. I took a deep breath and did as she said--unbuttoning my slacks and even loosening my belt to its last hole to give me more room.
“Good! Now, do you know anything on this wine list? Nothing on here has featured in my post-doc research assistant budget. Ah, screw it, we’ll just grab a couple of different bottles that the waiter suggests and we can start educating our palettes.” She sounded positively giddy at this display of excess.
It was close to two hours later by the time we’d finished our food, and a third bottle of wine. Somewhere in there I’d taken off my belt, as even its last hole had seemed tight, and my stomach was groaning with all that I’d eaten.
Somewhat blearily, and out of the blue, Gabbie said “Remember, back in college, I said I was holding out for a sugar daddy? What I really wanted was someone smarter and more successful than me, a guy who was established and substantial. A girl likes to date up, you know? But somewhere in my Ph.D. I realized I was smarter than than most of the guys around me, and even the older guys who had those positions, they weren’t really all that. I promised myself that I’d become my own sugar-momma--and now I can.”
I might have been well intoxicated, but I was enough of a lawyer to follow a convoluted train of thought all the same. “Objection: this settlement will leave you better off, but I think it falls short of ‘sugar-mamma’ status.”
“That is because you don’t see the big picture. That company in Denmark that is interested in my work, they were waiting for this case to be settled. And I have ideas for variants on this, for the consumer market and for the third-world, that can be read by a cell phone. I think those, plus this, will take me to sugar-mamma status. And, now that I’m a proven success, I’m pretty sure I’ll start getting offers for faculty positions.”
“OK, that does sound pretty good. So what does it mean, to be your own sugar-mamma?”
“It means that I have to take care to please myself.” she shot off a grin that I could only describe as wicked and wanton.
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