Don’t worry about it, I say to myself. It doesn’t really matter because I shouldn’t even have this job in the first place, given that I never applied for it! Were it not for Gatsby, I wouldn’t even be working there!
What would Ms. Greaves think if she ever found out about Gatsby and me? Who the hell cares what she would think? Who is she to judge me, anyway?
Gatsby leans closer to me. I can feel his breath on my face. He smells of mint and whiskey. He reaches down to the table and picks up the ornate silver spoon. The daintiness of the spoon makes his strong hand appear even more powerful. His fingers are long, but not delicate at all. He might not work with them for a living, but he works out, and his hands show it.
With one swift motion, Gatsby breaks through the masterpiece that is this cheesecake and lifts the spoon up to my mouth.
“Open wide,” he whispers. He places the cheesecake carefully onto my tongue, and I let it melt in my mouth. The aroma of real strawberries and the coolness of the cheesecake consume my senses, and I lay back in the recliner and disappear into another world.
Gatsby takes a bite and looks out the window.
“We’re landing soon.”
It is dark when we land, but through the lights of the runway, I can still make out the thick forests that surround us on all sides. The wilderness is so thick that it takes my breath away. It’s a different park and a completely different ecosystem than the one in which we met. But it reminds me of the first time we met anyway. It is in this kind of wilderness that I had first laid my eyes on this man who changed my life so much in only a few brief weeks.
Gatsby helps me out of the plane by holding my hand and doesn’t let go until we get to the lodge.
“Mr. Wild,” a pleasant young man greets, waving to us as soon as we step over the threshold.
Gatsby walks directly to him while I take a moment to take everything in.
The lodge is made of thick, whole pine trees, and the ceiling is at least twenty feet high, if not higher. It is pitch black outside, but there are windows lining one whole side of the lodge, looking over the wilderness outside.
I am relieved that the décor inside isn’t lined with busts of taxidermic animals. There is just one ominous chandelier made of antlers. At each point of the antler, there is a large lit candle. The candles bathe the room in soothing candlelight and put me at ease.
Gatsby makes small talk with the front desk attendant while I continue to explore. I have been to Yellowstone before, a long time ago, on a high school trip. But we stayed in a Motel 6 about twenty miles away from the entrance. I had no idea this place even existed.
Gatsby waves me over and leads me down one of the hallways on the other side of the enormous stone fireplace. We walk to the end of the rustic hallway to two double doors.
“This is our suite.”
When he opens the door, I am greeted by another gigantic fireplace made of rounded stones. The fireplace extends all the way up to the ceiling, which is made of exposed beams. The suite is elegant and five-star yet comfy in design. Somehow, this unusually refined style manages to evoke feelings of solace and tranquility.
“In the brochure, they call it rustic elegance,” Gatsby says. “What do you think?”
I don’t know what to think. I stand in awe. The suite is made of multiple rooms, each grander than the last. The grandeur does not come from expensive chandeliers and wide open spaces and modern design like it does in Los Angeles. Here, grandeur is evoked by simplicity.
“Rustic elegance is probably appropriate.” I nod. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“All the walls were created from dead standing trees, and the fireplace was built of locally quarried stones, which were found on the property. They are local in the truest sense; they weren’t even brought over from a neighboring county.”
I walk over to the fireplace and run my fingers over the smooth gray and tan stones that make up the fireplace. They have been polished and arranged so that the colors and sizes compliment their neighbors. There aren’t too many gray stones on one side. Instead, the gray and tan stones intertwine to make up a delightful tapestry.
“I love how organic they look,” I say. “It’s almost as if they were alive and moving.”
Gatsby smiles and puts his hand over mine. We run both of our hands together over the stones.
“It’s like they are taking on lives of their own,” he says and moves my hair off my neck. When he kneels down to me, his hair tickles my ears. I feel his breath on my neck and his lips on my shoulder. I close my eyes and enjoy the moment.
When I open them again, my gaze turns toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Millions of stars surround the full moon, and the path towards the suite is lit up. I spot something in the shadows near the pine trees.
“What’s that?” I whisper, pulling away from Gatsby.
“Oh c’mon.” He reaches for me, annoyed. But I run toward the window.
“It’s a buffalo! It’s an actual buffalo right outside the window,” I whisper. And then I see the other two.
17
Gatsby and I stand in awe looking at the majestic creatures walking through the snow peppered valley in front of our window. Their enormous heads are pointed toward the earth, chomping on the grass in the alpine meadow, and they move slowly and without worry. My heart skips a beat. Under the moonlight, their thick fur looks like a shawl, and their horns look like a crown. Bathed in moonlight, they look like gods.
I can’t believe that I am standing here watching these amazing animals graze only a few feet away from me.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Gatsby whispers.
I nod.
I cannot talk.
I am speechless.
We stand there in silence looking at the buffalo for a long time. Slowly, they start to move away from us, further and further into the grass prairie. Eventually, they are just dots on the horizon, dots that I still can’t take my eyes away from.
* * *
When they completely disappear behind the horizon, I turn back to Gatsby. He has lit the fireplace and is sitting on the bed.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to get room service?” I ask. He shakes his hand waving me over. I smile and slowly walk across the room.
“You don’t want dinner?” I ask again, already knowing the answer.
His eyes are twinkling in that familiar way that I am already used to. I know what he wants.
“No, I want you.”
I want him too. Being that close to a wild buffalo awakened something within me. It was as if the wildness in his eyes penetrated me, infecting me with an unfamiliar kind of hunger.
“I want you, too,” I whisper.
Gatsby is sitting on the edge of the bed. When I get close to him, I spread his legs and foist my body in between them. My hair drapes around his head as if it were a curtain, and he takes a deep breath.
“I love the way your hair smells,” he whispers as I move my lips down to his.
Then he surprises me. Instead of taking things slow, building up tension through teasing and time, he grabs my head and presses his lips onto mine.
With what seems to be one swift motion, he takes off my clothes. This time, however, I don’t give in. I push back against him.
He smiles. “And what do you think you’re doing?”
I loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. “I’m not going to be the only one naked this time,” I say and let his pants drop to the floor.
His body is chiseled, as if out of stone. The light from the fire dances across his pecks and hugs every curve of his six-pack. His shoulders seem broader now. I feel smaller.
I look down. His hands are on his hips. The veins in his forearms stand out and lead my eyes further down to his beautiful cock. Large and erect, it stands before me with an invitation. I wrap my hands around it and put it in my mouth.
Gatsby moans from pleasure and buries his hands in my hair. He pulls on it a little too tight, teeter totting on
the border between pain and pleasure.
* * *
***
* * *
Lost in a world of motion, I drift to another world until I hear someone say, “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Wild.”
Reality crashes into my world, and hatred and anger builds within me for the speaker of those words.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wild,” the man from the front desk keeps saying as two men barrel past him into the suite.
Quickly, I scramble for my clothes. They are scattered all over the floor, and none of them are big enough to cover me up completely without me first figuring out how to put my arms through the arm sleeves.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, I say to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an open closet door. A brand new bathrobe is hanging inside. I grab it and wrap it around myself. I take a moment to enjoy the warmth and solace of the bathrobe before turning around and facing the men.
Who the hell are they? What the hell are they doing here? How dare they interrupt us? I hate the front desk guy with all of my might for letting them inside, and I hate them even more for being here.
* * *
“What the fuck do you want?” I hear Gatsby say to them. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I turn around and face them. The men look roughly Gatsby’s age, maybe a few years younger. One is taller and the other is shorter, but both have similar shaped eyes and lips. The taller one has darker hair than Gatsby’s, and the shorter one’s hair is blonder. But other than that, they look just like Gatsby!
The men say nothing. They just stare at me with a whimsical look in their eyes. I know that they like what they have seen, and I hate them for it. How dare they impose themselves on our private time together?
“Well?” Gatsby crosses his arms. It is then that I look down at him and discover that he is still not dressed. I go to the closet and get the other bathrobe.
“Here,” I say, handing it to him. He looks at me, confused.
“No, Annabelle. I’m fine. If my brothers want to interrupt me in my own suite, then it’s their problem if they see me naked. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
His words pinch my heart. I’m not embarrassed by my nudity. I hate them thinking that I was. I just don’t want them to see me naked. Gatsby must’ve sensed my discomfort because he quickly adds, “I didn’t mean it like that Annabelle.”
Then he turns to his brother and repeats his initial questions.
“What the fuck do you want? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh c’mon, brother.” The blonder one comes forward. He’s just as lean and toned and tanned as Gatsby, and I hate how beautiful he is.
“C’mon, now. Don’t be like that. We’re just here to talk.”
“Oh yeah? Is that why you’re both barging into my room when I have company? Is that why you’re making this kind young man worry about his job?”
We all look at the man from the front desk. He is responsible for letting them in, and he is covered in sweat from head to toe. A minute ago, I wanted him fired, but now I feel sorry for him. He and I are the same. We’re not rich and wealthy, and we need our jobs to pay our bills. This is all he has. My pity for his situation softens my disposition towards him, and instead I focus my anger and discontent on Gatsby’s brothers.
“He had nothing to do with this,” the taller brother with the darker hair says. “He just ran up here to warn you, even though he wasn’t as fast as you would’ve wanted him to be. We have our own keys, and you know that. You’re not the only one who owns this lodge. Even though you have decided to hog the largest suite yet again.”
Own this lodge? Gatsby’s brother’s words echo in my head.
“Gatsby, we need to talk. You know that. That’s why you ran away to Montana like you always do when there’s something you don’t want to face,” he adds.
“Fuck you, Atticus,” Gatsby says. “It’s none of your business why I’m here.”
“And there, you couldn’t be more wrong,” the shorter one interrupts. “You may be the CEO, but you’re not the only owner of Wild International. We’re owners, too. And we need to know what’s going on. What would the shareholders think if they found out that their CEO ran off to Yellowstone with some whore right before one of the most important days in the life of the organization? Our father worked hard for this –”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Gatsby threw a punch that knocked him to the floor, and his nose started to bleed.
18
“Oh my God!” I yelp. “Gatsby, what are you doing?”
“Stay out of this, Annabelle,” he says.
I look at Atticus, who simply shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest.
“Can we please have one meeting that doesn’t erupt in violence?” he asks rhetorically. I stare at him in disbelief.
“Annabelle, is it?” he continues. “You probably don’t know this, but my brothers have been at each other’s throats like this since they were children. I’m just sorry Gatsby dragged you into this.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the shorter brother climbed back up to his feet.
“Man, you’re so lucky that you’re the fucking face of our company. Otherwise, I’d bash your head in for this!”
“Yeah, right,” Gatsby says mockingly.
I want him to stop, to apologize, but before I can get a word to him, his brother lunges at him and knocks him on his back. They start to tussle and hit each other in the face. I try to get in the middle, but someone pulls me away from them.
“Ms. Annabelle, please, don’t get involved,” he whispers. And I realize that the voice belongs to the front desk employee, who is still in the room.
Atticus jumps in the middle and pushes his brothers apart. It takes all the strength he has, but because he’s taller than both of them, they respond.
When they are finally separated, I see that Gatsby’s bleeding from his left eye and his lip is busted.
“Gatsby!” I run toward him, unsure of what to do.
I try to comfort him, but he pushes me away. He’s too focused on the anger and hatred that he feels for his brother, the one whose name I still don’t know.
“You don’t ever call her that!” He says quietly, somewhat under his breath. His voice is calm now, and I see his brother’s eyes narrow.
“Annabelle is different,” he explains. “But that’s none of your business, anyway. You don’t ever call her that again. If you do, we’re through. For good. Do you understand, Wyatt?”
Something in Wyatt’s expression changes. Remorse creeps onto his face. Reluctantly, he nods.
“Listen.” Atticus steps in between them and tries to make peace. “I need to talk to you Gatsby. Okay?”
“Don’t worry, your millions are safe,” Gatsby says.
“That’s not what we’re worried about,” Wyatt pipes in, even though Atticus tries to stop him. “We’re worried about our billions--”
“Wyatt, please,” Atticus interrupts. “Gatsby, please? We need to speak. Somewhere in private.”
Gatsby nods and points to the other side of the suite.
“Can you please put some clothes on first?” Atticus asks. Gatsby laughs mockingly, but on the way to the study grabs a bathrobe out of the closet.
They disappear behind a thick double door, and I am left all alone with Wyatt. I search the room for the front desk attendant, but he is gone. Now, it’s just the two of us. I don’t know what to say. Anger is bubbling within me, but I also have the urge to offer him something to eat or drink.
“Look, I’m sorry I said that about you. I’m sorry I called you that. I didn’t mean to insult you…” Wyatt says with his body turned away from me.
He’s looking out the window onto the grass prairie outside. It’s still pitch black. I yearn for the buffalo to return.
“Yet, you did.” I am not quick to forgive. His words weren’t meant for me. I know that. But I don’t care.
“I know, but I’m apologizing
now. Okay? I was really trying to insult Gatsby.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know.” he turns around to face me.
His blonde hair falls into his face, and his body exudes cockiness. It looks familiar. It reminds me of Gatsby, and I wonder if cockiness is hereditary. Or is it something you get from your environment? There’s no way to know because they are brothers, same genetics, same environment.
“Gatsby has always been a hothead,” Wyatt says, walking away from me. That hasn’t been my experience.
“And you?”
He laughs. “Me too. He just brings out the worst in me.”
Wyatt goes to the liquor cabinet, which I hadn’t even noticed before. He pours himself a whiskey and asks me what I want. I request a martini. When he hands me the drink, he apologizes again for what he had said, and this time, I accept his apology.
We stand in silence looking at the dark meadow outside. I take a few sips of my martini, and I feel myself relaxing as it courses through me.
I should’ve had a drink before getting here!
Transferring his glass from one hand to another, Wyatt takes off his jacket. He’s not wearing a tie, just a crisp, white shirt. He unbuttons the top button and adjusts his stance. I look down and see his beautiful Italian leather loafers. He’s wearing them without socks.
“I’ve always wondered what kind of girl would finally keep my brother’s interest,” he says, not so much to me but out into the ether.
“And?”
“From what I can see, you’re a good option.” He turns to me. His eyes are also piercing blue. His eyelashes are longer than Gatsby’s, which make his face look more delicate and fragile.
“How do you know that I’m keeping his interest? Or will keep his interest?” I ask.
Gatsby gives me butterflies, but given our working relationship, I’m not entirely decided whether this whole thing is such a great idea. Still it’s good to know that you’re keeping someone’s interest.
Acquired: A Billionaire Auction Romance Page 31
