Auctioned to Him Book 8

by Charlotte Byrd

  Of course! How could I be so stupid? I should’ve done this days ago, but I finally go online and look up Mr. Wild. What prevented me from doing this before is that I was afraid to find out that he is some grotesque old man. But now that he is being gossiped about in magazines, I have to see for myself.

  And there it is! An article in Fortune magazine on one of the most eligible bachelors around – Mr. Gatsby Wild.

  For some reason, the picture of him is taking a while to load on my phone, so I scroll down and skim the article.

  “Gatsby Wild, only 27, is about to become a billionaire after Wild International goes public…Is famous around the LA club scenes…often seen rubbing elbows with models and celebrities…”

  And then I stop reading.

  His photo loads.

  I drop my phone.

  Tristan! Gatsby Wild is Tristan from the lake.

  9

  I come home in a daze. My mind feels like it has been put through a blender. I have no idea what to do. Or what to think. My mind is going around in circles. It is Tristan. My boss is Tristan. How can that be? What the hell is Tristan doing running this company? What the hell is my boss doing hiking along in the Californian wilderness? Tristan said that he was a skiing instructor – a ski bum. He said that he rafted in the summer – a river rat. How can a river rat and a ski bum run a multi-national corporation?

  “How was work?” Maggie Mae asks without looking away from some reality television program she’s watching. I’m a sucker for reality TV too – together we enjoy all the favorites. Real Housewives of New Jersey and Atlanta are my true guilty pleasures.

  “You’ll love this one,” she says. “It’s about these five girls from Alaska who’ve had enough of dating men in Alaska. So they’ve gone down to Miami to see what else is out there. Apparently it’s been out for a while; I don’t know how we’ve missed it.”

  “Sounds good,” I mumble and stumble into my room. I can’t deal with other people’s problems right now. I have plenty of my own reality. Too much, actually.

  Maggie Mae must’ve sensed that something wrong. I am in the middle of pulling off my pencil skirt, which is now suffocating me when I hear her standing in the doorway.

  “What’s up? Is something wrong?” she asks.

  I can’t turn around. My eyes are welling up with tears. My shoulders collapse, and I burst out into tears using my skirt as a tissue.

  “Okay, okay, okay, Annabelle.” She puts her arms around me. “Let’s not ruin my skirt over this.”

  Shit! I can’t believe I did that. This is her $100 skirt! “I’m so sorry, I forgot,” I mumble through my tears.

  “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” she says. The tone of her voice is so calm and steadfast that I have no choice but to believe her.

  She helps me get out of my clothes and put on a set of sweats: a pair of comfy black tights and my favorite USC sweatshirt.

  In the kitchen, she hands me a glass of Smart Water – my favorite, even though it’s ridiculously expensive and I only buy it on special occasions. I drink the whole glass and feel a bit better. At least no new tears are rolling down my cheeks.

  “So, can you tell me what’s going on?” she asks. “If you lost your job, it’s going to be okay.”

  Wow, I must’ve really freaked her out. No, this news isn’t that bad. Or perhaps it is equally bad, just about something else. I have no way of evaluating the degree of badness right now.

  “No, it’s not about my job,” I say. “Well, that’s not entirely true.”

  I have no idea of how to go about trying to explain what has happened. I only briefly told Maggie Mae what had happened with Tristan. Or whatever his name is.

  I had said that we parted, that I would probably never hear from him again, but I didn’t exactly tell her how disappointed I was.

  “Do we have any wine?” I ask. I’m not a big drinker, but I need a drink to go into all of this in detail and not start bawling again.

  “No, we don’t,” Maggie Mae says, opening the refrigerator. “Damn it, we don’t have any alcohol at all.”

  “Would you mind going out?” I ask.

  The bar on the corner is dingy and quiet. The seats are made of worn leather and, judging from the lines on their faces, the clientele is leathery as well. For some reason, it’s one of Maggie Mae’s favorite places, and she often goes here for her dates. I never liked it here much, but tonight it feels just right.

  I order a Bloody Mary and tell Maggie Mae everything that happened. She listens carefully, nodding the whole time.

  “So let me get this straight,” she finally says. She finishes her margarita and waves to the bartender for another. “You slept with this wonderful guy who you thought was just a hiker and a ski bum or whatever, basically a guy with no money.”

  I nod.

  “And you had a great time, and then he had to go because of work and you thought he was blowing you off. And then you got this new job for which you didn’t even apply and discovered that he actually heads the company?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble.

  “And this is bad news why?”

  “Well, the way you just summed it up…it’s true and not true,” I say.

  “What’s not true?” she asks licking the rim of her second margarita.

  She opens her blue eyes wide, and I lose my train of thought. Something is still wrong with the whole story, but now I can’t really remember.

  “You just don’t get it,” I finally say. “He lied to me.”

  “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “He didn’t lie to you. He just didn’t tell you everything.”

  “What about the whole thing with his job? He’s clearly not a skiing and rafting instructor.”

  “Eh, okay,” she gives in. “But so what? He was probably there to get away from work. God knows why people like you and him go out there into the wilderness and feel the need to get lost there.”

  “I don’t feel the need to get lost in the wilderness,” I say. “I wasn’t lost. I was there hiking. Thinking.”

  “Okay, fine. To each his or her own. Well, maybe that’s what he was doing there too. Thinking.”

  Maggie Mae goes on and on arguing that this whole thing that happened isn’t actually a tragedy at all.

  “Don’t you see how exciting this is? This is probably why you even got called in for that job since you never sent in an application.”

  She’s right, of course. Now it all makes perfect sense.

  “But why did he want me to work there? Wasn’t he worried that I would find out?” I ask.

  “Maybe he wanted you to.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. I hadn’t considered that before. “You think this was some sort of ploy to get me to forgive him? Forgive him for what?”

  “Exactly.” Maggie Mae smiles in her mischievous way. The smile that can make men everywhere swoon.

  Lying in bed later that night, I try to convince myself that what Maggie Mae said is true. I want to believe that I now have some sort of upper hand over Tristan, or whatever his name is, in this so-called relationship. But I don’t feel like I do. Maggie Mae said that I should feel empowered somehow, but I don’t feel like that at all. Instead, I feel lost. Like I no longer belong there.

  But what can I do? I have to go back to work. Quitting isn’t an option. The job pays more than any other job that I’ve ever had. And next week, it will start paying even more. I have way too much debt, and this is my only way out.

  I have to face him. I have to make him admit that he had lied, or at least acknowledge me as the girl from the lake.

  Will you do that, Tristan? I whisper into the darkness.

  The Tristan that I had met would, but would you? Whatever your name is. I’m not so sure.

  The following morning, I wake up with an unfamiliar amount of inner strength. Who the hell does Gatsby think he is lying to me like that? Playing these games with me? Does he do this to all the girls that he
meets? Does he expect me just to roll over and let him make a fool of me?

  10

  I arrive at work with a new sense of determination and focus. I picked out the blouse with the most plunging neckline, the tightest skirt, and the highest heels I could find from Maggie Mae’s closet. I am wearing a lot more makeup than I usually do, which doesn’t say much since I barely wear any on any given day. And I flat-ironed my hair.

  All of these things - new outfit, hair, and makeup – are my suit of armor. Today, I am going into battle, and I just hope that this is enough.

  I take a deep breath before the elevator doors open to the 67th floor and go straight to Ms. Greaves desk.

  “Ms. Greaves, I really need to speak to Mr. Wild,” I say. She pulls away from her computer with an incredulous look on her face.

  “Pardon me?” she asks.

  “It’s very important,” I say, hating the hesitation that my voice suddenly acquires. I need to be more direct. Strong. Be strong.

  “I really need to speak to Mr. Wild. It’s very important,” I say.

  She takes a moment to think about it. It feels like a century passes before she speaks again.

  “I’m sorry, Annabelle, but that’s impossible.”

  Annabelle? Why the hell did she call me Annabelle? My knees go weak, and I need to sit down. But as a result of some invisible force, I remain standing. It’s as if she knows what I am talking about or why I want to talk to him. I search her face for answers. But it remains flat, revealing nothing. I’m just about to open my mouth and try again, but she cuts me off.

  “You will not meet Mr. Wild until he is ready to meet you,” she says and turns back to her computer.

  Defeated, I go back to my desk. There is a large sticky note with Ms. Greaves elegant handwriting near the keyboard. It has five names on it.

  Ms. Allison Read

  Mr. Thomas Lane

  Mr. Samuel Johnson

  Mr. Tanner Hall

  Dr. Elizabeth Cullen

  To say that Ms. Greaves is detail-oriented is an understatement. Ms. Greaves is a borderline compulsive obsessive. This is just a simple note with five names of people who are supposed to be put through immediately to Mr. Wild, no ifs, ands, or buts. I certainly don’t need to know their formal titles – Mr., Ms., Dr. – but Ms. Greaves includes them anyway.

  Her handwriting is impeccable, and it actually makes me a little jealous. I’ve had a very limited amount of exposure to handwriting and only write in blocky print letters, occasionally connecting the y’s and the e’s, but never the n’s or s’s. Every afternoon, when the office gets a little slow and the calls aren’t streaming in, I try to copy her handwriting but fail almost every time. Well, today is a new day.

  The first call comes a minute or two after nine, just as it has all the previous days. It is someone’s assistant from Japan calling about setting up a meeting. I’m supposed to put the call through to Ms. Greaves to ask whether it should be forwarded further on down the line, but I don’t. I don’t really know why except that I can’t. I need to talk to Tristan, and he is going to talk to me one way or another. Instead of putting Mr. Yokomoto through, I write down his name and number and wait for the next call.

  The second call of the day is from Ms. Allison Read. She sounds young, and I don’t have to wait on the line for her assistant to put her on. She actually calls herself, and her voice sounds urgent.

  For a moment, I waver. I want to put her through, but I don’t. This is the only leverage I have. This is the only way that I knew how to get the chance to talk to and confront Tristan. Er, Mr. Wild.

  By lunchtime, both Dr. Elizabeth Cullen and Mr. Thomas Lane also call, and I don’t forward either of their calls. Though no one seems to have noticed anything unusual, I start getting worried. It’s not just Tristan who I am messing with. It’s also all of these other people who have urgent business to conduct with him, and it isn’t right for me to keep their calls.

  So I decide to go directly to the source. Mr. Wild’s email is on his expense reports.

  Tristan, Mr. Wild,

  I know who you are.

  I know that you know who I am.

  We need to speak.

  Annabelle York

  The words on the screen seem so threatening, and I debate whether I should make them kinder and sweeter somehow.

  More personal.

  No, fuck him. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve kindness I decide and go to lunch.

  Hours pass and nothing. I thought that he would have written me back immediately. I thought he would have gotten scared that I knew the truth, but he’s not. I can see that he read it almost a minute after I sent it, but he still chooses not to reply.

  Agh! What a dick! I want to scream.

  But instead, I write another email.

  I’m holding all of your calls until you meet with me.

  This one gets his attention right away.

  Annabelle,

  Fine. Meet me at 6 at Louis’ at the corner.

  I’m done with work at 5:30 and the half an hour before our meeting is the longest of my life. Time doesn’t just stop. In fact, it seems to be moving in the opposite direction. I get to Louis’ early and find a seat near the wall. I’m not in the mood to talk or chitchat, but I do need a drink. My hands are shaking, and my heart feels like it is going to jump out of my chest.

  I’ve never been to Louis’ before. It’s a ridiculous place with special lighting for expensive bottles of cognac and vodka that line the back shelves. Everything here seems to be made of glass and mirrors, and I hate the reflection that I can see in the mirror.

  I am still wearing my suit of armor, but my makeup is a little worn and smudged, and the position of my body says that I am a lost kitten looking for a home. Luckily, I have a chance to correct this before I see him.

  I go to the bathroom, apply extra eyeliner and mascara and toss my hair. I broaden my shoulders and remind myself that if it hurts my stomach to breathe that means that I was sitting up straight.

  “You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I say to myself in the mirror.

  When I come out again, the population inside Louis’ seems to have multiplied threefold. Almost every seat is taken by men wearing $3000 suits who are talking to women in $1000 heels. I make my way back to my old spot, but it too is taken. The man in it is facing the bar nursing beautiful Old-fashioned. The orange peel floats on top and dances in the light.

  “I saved you a seat,” the man says without turning around.

  I recognize the voice immediately. It belongs to Tristan. My heart starts to beat uncontrollably fast, but I try to disguise my apprehension as best I can. I sit down next to him.

  “Apple martini, please,” I say to the bartender without making eye contact with Tristan.

  “So what did you want to talk about?” he asks.

  I turn to face him. He looks different. Completely different from how he had looked in the woods. His hair is freshly cut, his face smooth and closely shaven.

  And yet, he looks kind of the same. There’s a deep golden hue to his face, and his eyes are blue and effervescent. I look at the way my drink reflects in them, and it takes everything I have not to pull his face close to mine and kiss him.

  11

  “Why am I working for you?” I ask.

  “I knew you needed a job. And there was an opening,” he shrugs.

  “But why go through all that? Just to get me to work for you. Why do you even want me to work for you?” I ramble.

  Once he makes eye contact with me, he doesn’t let me go. His eyes are disarming.

  “Which one of those questions do you want me to answer first?” he finally says.

  “I don’t know.” I give in, looking away.

  “Listen,” he begins, softening up. He places his hand on my arm, sending shivers up my spine. “You didn’t believe that I had to go, and then I found out that you were out of work, looking for a job. I wasn’t sure that you would take
the position if you knew the truth. So, I didn’t tell you.”

  I shake my head. None of this makes any sense, and yet it does.

  “But why did you tell me that your name was Tristan? Why did you lie about being a CEO, about everything?”

  He looks away for a moment. “I didn’t lie about everything. I was a ski and rafting instructor five years ago before I started working for my father. I didn’t tell you everything about who I was because I had just met you. I didn’t think it would matter.”

  I don’t say anything. I didn’t tell him everything either. But I hate that he has lied to me more than I hate myself for lying to him. I, at least, had good reasons for lying.

  “And my name is Tristan. It’s my middle name. Gatsby Tristan Wild.”

  “Gatsby?” I ask. “Really? Like The Great Gatsby?”

  He nods.

  “And you go by that?”

  He nods again.

  “Why would your parents want to name their son after one of the most disappointed and unhappy men in all of American literature?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You’re going to have to ask them about that.”

  The way he says it makes me feel really sorry for him.

  “Listen, I’m not here to talk about my parents,” Gatsby says. “If you want to talk about them, then I’m going to go.”

  This sounds familiar.

  “Okay, fine. I’m sorry.”

  We sit in silence for a while. I have a million more questions, but something keeps me from unleashing them on him. It’s nice just to sit here and enjoy each other’s company. I can’t remember the last time I sat like this with a guy and actually felt comfortable and at peace, all without saying a word.

  He takes a deep breath. My eyes meet his, and we hold each other’s gaze for a long time. In his eyes, I can see kindness and sweetness with just a tinge of danger. I feel his gaze pulling me toward him, but I remain where I am. I still have questions, and I can’t let my feelings for this man overpower me.