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!!”
* * *
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.
“What do you mean everyone? Why has there been so much more work recently?” I ask.
She stares at me, and her mouth falls open. “Oh, I’m sorry, I completely forgot. You’re quite new here.”
I nod.
“Well, I thought you knew, but I guess not. You’re just the assistant.”
That hurts my feelings, but I need to know what she is talking about.
“Wild International is in the middle of going public. Berkshire Brothers, the investment bank, is taking it public and if everything goes well then Mr. Wild is going to be a very, very rich man. Not to mention powerful as well.”
I’ve heard the phrase ‘going public’; it is something many companies do. But I’m not entirely sure what it means.
“You do know what going public means, right?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, of course.” I nod confidently.
Thankfully, she explains anyway. “Wild International is currently a private company, but if the deal goes through then it will be available on the stock exchange. Anyone can buy shares in it. It’s a good way to go for some companies. Ours included.”
I nod.
“As you can imagine, Mr. Wild is under a lot of pressure as a result of all this.”
“Yes, it must be tough.”
And then she seems to have forgotten that I am here. “So I have no idea why the hell he’s got it in his head to go away this Friday. There’s so much to do. I just hope his personal life doesn’t interfere with this company’s future.”
I’m nodding along until I realize that she is talking about me. Me! I am his personal life. I am the person he is going away with this weekend. And I didn’t even know we were going away. I thought we were just going on a date.
“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry!” Ms. Greaves suddenly remembers whom she is talking to. “That’s none of your business. It’s not even any of my business. Forget that I said anything. Please. And go back to work.”
I go back to my desk. I am both excited and scared. I pick my phone and start texting. My hands are shaking, and I have a hard time spelling everything correctly. The damn autocorrect keeps correcting to words that I don’t mean to say.
* * *
Are we going away this weekend? I thought we were just going on a date.
* * *
I wait for his reply. I thought he would reply right away. But nothing comes. I don’t hear from him for the rest of the day. I don’t know what to do. Did I text something wrong? Did I do something wrong? I start drowning in doubts.
On Friday morning, I make an executive decision. I am taking back control of my life. I am no longer going to be a sad little teenage girl spending all her time checking her phone to see if her boyfriend called. He’s not even my boyfriend! He is my boss. My lying sack of shit boss!
Whatever takes place or does not take place tonight is out of my hands. I promised him that I would go on a date with him, and that is what I am going to do. Nothing more, nothing less. He doesn’t owe me texts, so I’m not going to expect any more texts from him.
No, I can’t control him, nor do I want to really. What I can control is my reaction. What I choose to do. And what I choose to do, starting with right now, is not sit around waiting.
In the precise moment I make this decision, my phone vibrates.
* * *
Just wanted to confirm our date tonight. Meet me on the roof at 5:30 pm.
* * *
I gasp. Before I get the chance to ask him about my previous messages, he texts again.
* * *
Sorry, I didn’t text yesterday. I dropped my phone in the bathtub, so I just got this one. To tell you the truth, it was kind of nice being disconnected for once. The only thing that sucked was not texting with you.
* * *
Goosebumps dance up my arms.
* * *
I gotta go. Big meeting. See you at 5:30. On the ROOF.
14
Three executives who have been waiting patiently in the lobby for close to half an hour stand up. The double doors with murky glass, which holds on to both light and secrets, open and Gatsby comes out.
His impeccable suit hugs his body in all the right places, showcasing his powerful thighs and broad shoulders. He is wearing a bright blue silk tie, which brings out his eyes. I watch him give each of the men a firm handshake and flash his beautiful smile. He invites them through the double doors and waits for them to go inside. Right before he disappears, Gatsby gives me a brief nod, and his platinum cufflinks catch the sunlight, blinding me.
I have never seen him emerge from his office and, as I sit there at my desk, staring at the computer screen, I wonder if I had imagined it.
“Ms. York, please put away the tea set,” Ms. Greaves says, walking past my desk. Her voice breaks through my trance, and I realize that I wasn’t dreaming.
The three men in expensive suits were all tall, poised, flirtatious and had one of those British accents that make all American girls panties melt away. Ms. Greaves always makes sure that all of Gatsby’s – er, Mr. Wild’s – visitors are comfortable and calls ahead to their assistants to find out what kind of drinks and snacks they prefer. These men were served the highest quality loose leaf Darjeeling tea she could find along with an assortment of miniature pastries.
They drank all the tea but left the pastries untouched. This is a common occurrence. At first, I thought it was rude, but then Ms. Greaves explained that the visitors often left the food untouched because they didn’t want to get their suits dirty or have crumbs on their hands. What’s more important is to have it out for them in case they do want something.
It’s five o’clock in the evening, so I make my way to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. In the morning, I didn’t know whether we were still going on our date, and now I have no idea why I am supposed to meet him on the roof. But I still wish that I wore some sort of clothes that were more date appropriate. Not that the pencil skirt with a pale pink satin blouse and Maggie Mae’s stilettos aren’t sexy, this outfit just feels like work. It had Ms. Greaves all over it.
But I don’t really have a choice. I have no idea what is happening or what Gatsby has planned, so I have no way to dress for it properly. I wash out my mouth, reapply the lipstick, and touch up my eye makeup. I flip my head upside down and toss my hair, giving it some volume and life. I look back in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all, I say to myself.
There’s only one elevator that goes all the way to the roof, so I decide to take the stairs instead. I have no idea why we have to go to the roof. My overactive imagination takes over, and a million different thoughts run through my head. What is there even to do up there? Does he really want to take me on a date on the roof? Maybe he has set up a table, and we are going to have dinner up there. Could be cool.
I push on the metal portion of the door and the exit sign above my head flashes. The unforgiving sunlight hits me like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, I go blind. My sunglasses are in my purse, so I block some of the sun with my hand. And then I see it.
A helicopter.
I stop in my tracks, staring at it. I have never been so close to a helicopter before. Is this the LAPD? Is there some sort emergency? Am I on the right roof?
“Hey, Annabelle,” I hear Gatsby’s muffled voice. He is standing right next to me, but I can barely hear him. The helicopter’s propeller is so loud that I can only make out his words by reading his luscious lips.
Gatsby takes my hand. He is wearing the same suit. Again, his cufflinks send the sun’s rays into my eyes. But this time, they are so close to me; I can make out the details. They are an elegant square design, studded with little diamonds.
“C’mon, let’s go,” he screams in my ear, but I barely hear a word. I just let him lead me up to the helicopter and help me inside.
The helicopter takes off, and the complicated and convoluted city of Los Angeles descends away from us. We fly higher and higher up, near the clouds it feels like we aren’t just above the traffic but also above all the other petty problems of everyday life.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Gatsby says. His mouth forms into a mischievous little smile. I look around the inside of the helicopter. I don’t see a suitcase. So probably not far.
The helicopter lands at an airport that I’ve never been to before. It’s small and relatively empty. Gatsby helps me out of the helicopter. Continuing to hold my hand, he leads me across the runway.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Burbank Airport.” I didn’t even know there was an airport in Burbank.
“It’s a private airport,” he explains.
Gatsby leads me up the stairs to a luxurious white plane. It’s unlike any other plane I have ever been on. It only has a handful of seats, and all are facing each other as if t
his isn’t a plane at all but a coffee shop. The space smells of lavender, and a tall, gorgeous woman only a few years older than I greets us at the door.
“Welcome, Mr. Wild. Ms. York.” she nods. “My name’s Stacey, please let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I sit down in a large recliner seat with a little table in the middle of the plane. Stacey closes the door of the plane as soon as we get on, and we start moving down the runway. There are no announcements or annoying safety precaution instructions.
We don’t even have to buckle in. We take off, and Stacey comes around with the menu. Gatsby orders a whiskey, and I order a Bloody Mary. Stacey comes back a few minutes later with a delightful Bloody Mary.
“This is amazing,” I say, taking a sip.
“Well, all the tomatoes are organic and local. I like supporting local farmers. They work really hard.”
I smile at him. Who is this man? I have underestimated him so much. Here I am thinking that he is just some self-obsessed millionaire playboy who doesn’t give a shit about how hard other people worked for their paltry salaries. But he is really surprising me. He gives big tips, he is generous, and he seems to really care.
For dinner, Gatsby orders Tuscan vegetarian soup and an assortment of sushi. I have an open-faced salmon sandwich with avocado.
After devouring my delicious food, I turn to Gatsby and ask the question that has been gnawing at me for some time now.
“Why are we taking a plane on our date?”
“Because it would take too long to drive.” He cracks a smile. He is a smart-ass, one of his most annoying yet endearing qualities.
Auctioned to Him Page 30
