Auctioned to Him 3: Back to the Yacht

by Charlotte Byrd

  * * *

  Chapter 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.

  “What?” I finally ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because you’re beautiful. It’s actually remarkable just how beautiful you are.” I blush. No one beside him has ever said that to me, at least not those words exactly.

  “Oh, stop.” I wave my hand at him. Gatsby grabs my hand and puts it in between his two hands. I feel a jolt pass through me as if he has just conducted electricity through my body.

  “Thank you,” I mumble under my breath and try to change the subject. I know I’m not particularly beautiful or that special looking, and compliments make me feel very uncomfortable. As if he is trying to sell me something.

  “I still don’t understand why I’m working for you,” I say.

  “Are you trying to change the subject?” he asks, leaning close to me. I feel his breath on my lips. Not able to help myself, I run my tongue over my bottom lip to catch some of him.

  “Now, that is very sexy.” He leans even closer, brushing his lips along mine.

  We’re kissing and not kissing at the same time. A warm sensation concentrates in between my legs and spreads throughout my body. My face is flushing, and even my fingertips, which are almost perpetually cold, get hot.

  “You don’t believe me?” he whispers. Our lips are still brushing against each other, and I can’t remember my name, let alone what the hell we are talking about.

  “One of these days, you’re going to see yourself the way I see you. If it’s the last thing I do.” Gatsby smiles and pulls away from me.

  Slowly, my ability to think and act returns. I order another drink and ask him why I’m working for him again.

  “I like you, Annabelle. And I don’t like many girls,” he says.

  “Really?” I furrow my brows. Now that, for sure, is a lie. “Those pictures of you in all the magazines with various models say otherwise.”

  Uttering those words hurts me more than they probably hurt him. Gatsby dates models! Many are Victoria Secret models. What the hell does he see in me? How dare he call me beautiful given who is on his regular roster? Does he think I am an idiot? I’m not as pretty as those girls, and those are his regulars.

  “Don’t believe everything you read.” He looks away.

  “Listen, I don’t have a problem with you dating. What I have a problem with is you pretending that you don’t date or don’t spend a lot of time with beautiful women.”

  “Yes, I spend time with women. Some of them are beautiful. Most aren’t as beautiful as you,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and start to gather my things. If there is one thing I can’t stand it’s people pretending that celebrities and movie stars and models aren’t drop dead gorgeous in comparison to regular people. 99% of them look better than 99% of us, including me. Maybe he is just trying to be nice and compliment me, but it’s ridiculous.

  “Where are you going?” he asks touching my hand again. Again, little sparks of electricity course through me, but I don’t give in. I’m too angry.

  “What? What did I say?”

  There’s a genuine look of surprise and awe on his face like he actually has no idea, so I explain.

  “I don’t think you see what I see in you,” he says. No, definitely not. I roll my eyes again.

  “You know, that’s very annoying,” he says. “Rolling your eyes like that.”

  “Well, you’re very annoying.” I can feel my blood boiling. “I don’t need you to give me shallow compliments. I appreciate it, but they’re really insincere. And I don’t need you lying to me about how much you love women. I thought we’d understood each other, but I guess not.”

  He grabs my arm, and I pull away. I turn around and leave him with the check. Outside the bar, I stop to gather my breath and try to figure out what to do.

  “Okay, you got me,” he says, walking out. “I do like women. It’s just that what the magazines report isn’t always true. I’m not dating those women.”

  “So what are you doing?” I ask without taking a moment to think about it.

  “We’re just hanging out,” he says.

  Of course, how stupid can I be? He’s just sleeping with them.

  “Okay, I get it.” I shrug. That’s fine by me. I had a good time. I’m the one who didn’t give him my number. What we had was fine, it was more than fine, but this is okay too.

  “But you’re different.” Gatsby comes closer to me. He puts his arms around my shoulders, and I look up into his deep blue eyes and see a lost girl looking back at me. It’s me.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  The moment we share is like the ones they show in the movies. The light is perfect; the moon is shining. The sky is big, and the street is deserted. The space we occupy is grand, and yet we are all alone – the privacy we share is deafening.

  “This all came out wrong,” Gatsby says, holding me.

  We’re breathing the same air, and I want to stay here forever.

  “What I meant to say was that I think you’re different. No, I know you are. I feel different about you than I did about those girls. I knew that right off the bat. Right, when we met. I’ve never met any girl out there all alone. I didn’t know girls did that. And I’m sorry that I ha
d to leave like that, but I did have an emergency at work. A fuckin’ helicopter came to pick me up from the clearing after you left. But because I lied to you about who I was, I couldn’t very well tell you the truth. At least, not right there.”

  I stare up at him. No one has ever talked to me like this. The truth spills out of him as if it’s beyond his control. I like it.

  “And so when I got home, I couldn’t put you out of my mind. I had to see you again. So I had someone look you up.”

  The words ‘look me up’ send shivers up my back, but they are good shivers. I’m not afraid, just energized. He cared enough to investigate me. I didn’t know someone could ever find me so curious.

  “What did he find out?” I ask.

  “That you were looking for work. That you have been out of work for sometime. That you owe a lot of money. I wanted to help. So I got you a job at Wild International.”

  I smile, and Gatsby exhales deeply. He has been holding his breath waiting to see what I will say. I like the power that I seem to have over him. It’s exciting! And then, with one swift movement, he takes it away from me. He leans down and presses his lips to mine.

  His tongue brushes the inside of my lips, and the warm sensations between my legs engulf my body again. My arms move up his face and bury themselves in his hair. His arms press the small of my back to him, and I can feel that familiar hardness through his pristine suit. I lose myself in him, and for a few precious moments, we are one. I push my body against his, and he holds me in his arms as if he has no intention of ever letting me go.

  I feel like we are falling. I never want to get back on that ledge without him, and I never want to hit the ground. I want to stay in this falling world always.

  But I involuntarily pull away. I don’t mean to, but there is a voice somewhere deep within me, the voice that I rarely listen to, that pushes me away from him.

  “Annabelle,” he whispers my name. The longing in his voice is indescribable. No one has ever wanted me more than he does at this moment.

  “I have to go, Tristan,” I whisper back.

  I don’t mean to say his other name – the name that I fear I will always think of him as – and the pain of his lies flood in. I hate him for lying to me. I hate who he is right now.

  Why did he have to be some rich CEO in a suit? Why couldn’t he just remain the beautiful rafting instructor who I met near Yosemite on that warm summer afternoon? Why did he have to take that person away from me?

  Gatsby must’ve seen the pain on my face. The expression on his face changes as well. An unfamiliar kind of intensity comes back, and a darkness that emanates from him engulfs both of us.

  “Annabelle, I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is confident and strong. He doesn’t whisper, and he looks me straight in the eyes. “Do you believe me?”

  “I have to go,” I say turning away.

  I do believe him. But that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make everything okay.

  How am I supposed to forgive him for making up the one person who made me feel as though he had understood everything about me without saying a word? It’s as if he made up my soul mate, my perfect guy, and then took him away. I hate him for that. Also, I wish more than anything that I can tell him this, but words are failing me.

  “Please, you have to believe me. I am sorry. Really, really sorry. I didn’t know who I was going to meet out there. I didn’t know I was going to meet you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have lied. I was there to not be myself. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be someone else. Someone who was just a guy living under those magnificent pines and breathing in that wonderful clear air. For just a couple of days, I didn’t want to be CEO of Wild International. I didn’t want to make a million decisions and be responsible for thousands of people’s jobs. I just wanted to be a regular guy. Someone who I used to be. Someone who I always found in nature. You know what I mean?”

  I don’t reply. But I know what he’s talking about. That’s why I went into the wild. I needed to find the person who I had lost. I needed to remind myself of the things that make life worth living in this world. The trees, the birds, the animals, the water, the sky, and the earth.

  “Yes, I know that you know what I mean. I can see it in your eyes.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. Again, I see the person, Tristan, who had caught my attention. The person who is endearing, disarming, honest, and yet full of lies.

  “I’m sorry, Annabelle. Will you forgive me?” Gatsby stands before me in a three-piece suit, but those words make him naked and vulnerable. It is as if he has nothing, and he is asking for a lifeline. He is asking for everything. His crystal blue eyes don’t leave mine until I nod. Is it a lie? Perhaps.

  “Yes,” I say. “I forgive you,” I add. The words come out before I can censor myself and a wave of relief sweeps over my body. I am speaking the truth. I just didn’t know it until I said it.

  I go home and immediately jump into the shower. I need to clear my head, and I am too tired to go for a run. The rushing water will wash away all of my confusion. Standing in the shower and rubbing my face with a delicious-smelling sugar scrub, I wait for my heart and my mind to stop fighting with one another.

  My head says to stay away, to find another job, to get away from him. But my heart says the complete opposite. Forgive, open yourself up to love, and you just might find it. But what is there even to open myself up to? We kissed and hugged, but we didn’t make plans.

  “Annabelle! Annabelle!!”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Maggie Mae’s voice at full volume pierces through the quiet moaning of Adele, who I am blasting to try to drown out my thoughts.

  “What?” I scream from the shower. Why can’t she just wait until I am out?

  Maggie Mae takes that as an invitation to barge in. Now there is just a thin shower curtain separating us. She doesn’t care, of course, because she doesn’t have any issues with her perfect 5’7” body and perky breasts. But I am not that tall. My thighs aren’t that slim, and my breasts aren’t that perky.

  “One of my apps wasn’t loading right, so I tried it on your phone.”

  “Okay?” The water is starting to turn cold, but I don’t want to get out as long as she is standing here. If she doesn’t hurry it along, I won’t have much choice.

  “I saw what he texted you!”

  “Who?”

  “Gatsby!” Maggie Mae screams his name even though we are in the same fifty square foot room. “He wrote, ‘I want to make it up to you. Please go on a date with me this Friday.’”

  The water turns ice-cold. I turn it off and peek from behind the shower curtain.

  “He wrote that?” I ask, unable to keep the excitement in my voice from escaping.

  She shows me the phone. I can’t believe the words on the screen.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, Annabelle! I can’t believe you’re going out with a CEO! Oh my god, this is the most exciting thing that ever happened to me!”

  I smile.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, trying to remain calm, but Maggie Mae’s excitement is contagious.

  Friday can’t come fast enough. It is four days away, and every hour that I spend at work not seeing Gatsby feels like an eternity. I hate this desperate, bored little girl that I am turning into. I’m not a teenager, for crying out loud! And even when I was, I didn’t behave this way. I always kept a level head. I always made time for my friends. I didn’t just sit around waiting. But Gatsby does strange things to me.

  I’m not expecting to see him the following day – I never see him at work. We met in secret after work, and I doubt that Ms. Greaves is aware that I had even met him. But I want to see him, and I wish that he would break the rules and call me into his office.

  But he doesn’t.

  Late Tuesday night, he does send me a text:

  * * *

  Still at the office. Swamped with work. Can’t wait until Friday!

  * * *

  My heart jumps into
my chest. I write a million text messages before sending one.

  * * *

  I’m home. Don’t work too hard. Can’t wait until Friday, either.

  I’m home. You work too hard.

  You work too hard. Can’t wait until Friday! I really want to see you.

  I want to see you. Kiss you. Fuck you.

  * * *

  Don’t work too hard! Looking forward to Friday.

  * * *

  The following day, he texts: Hope you’re having a good day. Friday is only two days away!

  * * *

  This time I don’t debate too long: You too. Can’t wait.

  * * *

  Short and sweet. Perhaps, too short. But it’s enough to keep him wanting more. At least, I hope so.

  On Thursday, Ms. Greaves has a lot of expense reports for me to do – not just Mr. Wild’s, but other people’s as well. They keep me busy through the morning and into the afternoon. I’m actually glad for the extra work and put all of my efforts into it. I need something to take my mind off tomorrow.

  “You’re working quite hard today, Ms. York,” she says with a smile.

  I am caught off guard. I didn’t actually know that she ever noticed how hard I worked or didn’t work. Suddenly, a pang of guilt and horror come over me. Shit. Maybe she also knows that I hadn’t been working that hard earlier!

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  “It’s good. Everyone here has been swamped with work recently. I’m glad that you’re pulling your weight. Your efforts aren’t unnoticed.”

  No, she is just being nice. Genuinely nice. It is so unusual that I don’t really know how to respond.