Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  “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.

  Wyatt turns to me with a perplexed look in his eye. “What are you talking about? He brought you here, didn’t he?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. So he explains.

  “This place used to be our summer home. It’s something of an ancestral home. It was first built by our great-grandfather, and for many years, it was the only private residence in Yellowstone. Our great-grandfather was a good friend of Teddy Roosevelt, and he refused to sell this place when Teddy wanted to make Yellowstone a national park. So they came to an agreement. The land belongs to the Park, and the house remains in the family. It was called Wild Yellowstone back then.”

  “So what happened?”

  “My father decided to sell it to the Park a few years ago, so it was converted to a lodge for the public. I’m not exactly sure why, and Gatsby has never forgiven him for it either.”

  I had no idea. I thought this was just some sort of five-star hotel. Exclusive and private, but not ancestral.

  “Gatsby has always loved this place. We all did, but him especially. And he has never invited any girl here before. Not even his high school girl friend who he had dated for close to a year. That’s how I know you’re different.”

  I shake my head. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t know why Wyatt i
s sharing all of this with me, but I don’t stop him. I want to know more about Gatsby. As much as I can.

  “We grew up in LA, so we didn’t technically grow up here, but this place has always felt like home. It was the closest thing we had to a home. This was our grandparents’ house, and we spent a lot of time here as children. Every summer, every holiday, and occasional weekends whenever we got tired of our parents and all of their bullshit.”

  For a moment, he says nothing. We look into the distance – on the sea of grass dancing under the moonlight. A small fox runs across in front of the window, bringing a smile to my face. In the shadows, the fox looks black, but I imagine the vibrant orange color of his fur and how it shines in the sunlight.

  “And it was here that it happened,” Wyatt finally says.

  19

  I have no idea what Wyatt is talking about.

  “What happened?”

  He says nothing and continues to stare into space.

  “What happened?” I repeat myself. For a moment, I think that he hasn’t heard me, but when he turns to face me, I know that he has and is just trying to decide whether he should tell me.

  “The accident,” he says under his breath.

  His cryptic words are starting to annoy me. What accident?

  I want to ask him. But I need to pace myself. He has already revealed a lot more to me than Gatsby has. It is through Wyatt that I realize that I know next to nothing about Gatsby and his life. I didn’t even know that he had brothers until an hour ago. Gatsby shields himself in mystery, and if he’s not willing to tell me about his past, I can’t make enemies of people who are.

  Wyatt stares at me. The expression on his face tells me that he had no idea that I didn’t know. I ask him to explain. Reluctantly, he gets into it.

  “This happened a few years back. When Gatsby wasn’t part of the family business. When our father still ran things. Atticus was still in law school, and he was planning on getting involved after graduation because Gatsby turned away from the family. Or, at least, that’s what our father liked to call it.” Wyatt laughs.

  “To tell you the truth, even though I’d never admit it to Gatsby, I kind of admired him back then. I was still in college, and I really liked how he stood up to our father and followed his own path. Even if he was just some ski bum. It meant a lot to me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because no one ever stands up to Dr. William H. Wild,” Wyatt says.

  He looks me straight in the eye and then looks away. All families are complicated, but I am getting the sense that the Wild family is particularly complex.

  “So what happened?” I ask, unable to conceal my anticipation in hearing the rest of the story.

  “I was home from school for the summer, and Gatsby showed up for a few days during July 4th weekend as well. At that time, Atticus was living at home and shadowing our father. Man, he’s always been such as kiss ass. Anyway, the whole family was over. Our uncle Henry, our aunt Mary, and their two grown sons, Harry and Logan. They are both our age. Logan’s a few years older than I am, and Harry’s between Atticus and Gatsby.

  “What you have to know about Harry and Logan is that they’re avid hunters. Uncle Henry’s a hunter too, but our father has never liked it much, much to the disappointment of his own father. But that’s another story. Anyway, Gatsby’s not a hunter.”

  I nod. I didn’t know that, but it makes perfect sense.

  “And not only is he not a hunter, but he’s also vehemently opposed to it. He’s always loved animals, but it’s also because of that thing that happened when he was younger.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “That’s a whole other story. If you want me to get into that, I can, but it’s best that Gatsby tells you himself.”

  I nod reluctantly and wait for him to continue.

  “Well, Logan was sick, and I wasn’t in the mood, so Harry and Gatsby decided to go hiking themselves. They pack their backpacks for a day-long hike and leave early in the morning.”

  Wyatt stops talking and looks away again. Why can’t he just go on with it? I feel myself getting angry.

  “So what happens?”

  “What happens is that Wyatt should keep his dumb mouth shut,” Gatsby says.

  His voice is deeper than Wyatt’s, and he startles me. Where did he come from? How long has he been here?

  “Sorry.” Wyatt shrugs. He doesn’t seem bothered at all. “I thought she knew and then she insisted that I tell her.”

  “Fuck you, Wyatt.” Gatsby shakes his head.

  “No, it’s true,” I insist. I’m trying to cover for Wyatt, but I also want him to finish. I want to know what happened.

  “So what happened?” I turn to Gatsby.

  I reach out to touch him, but he’s steaming. His face is flushed. He is still wearing a bathrobe, which he takes off. He starts changing into a pair of jeans and a light sweater, which he retrieves from the closet. Wyatt excuses himself and leaves the room.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Atticus is nowhere to be found. I figure it didn’t go well.

  “I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing here,” he says. “This is supposed to be our weekend. I don’t need all this family drama in my life right now. I’m here to unwind. I just hate them for bringing all this shit here.”

  I don’t know what to say to make things better, and I really want to hear the rest of the story. But I need to give him time, so I suggest that we go on a little walk instead.

  The air is crisp, and a cold front is blowing in. I take his arm and lead him through the sea of grass toward the pines. We don’t speak for awhile and just enjoy the silence instead.

  “You know, I’m starting to think that I’ll always associate you with nature,” Gatsby says, finally breaking the silence. I nod. I feel the same way.

  We had met in the wild. And now, in my mind, the wide open sky, the effervescent pines, and the green grasses remind me of Gatsby. His kind eyes. His rough hands. His wide shoulders. His toned body.

  But my feelings for him are starting to develop into something else. It isn’t just his physical attributes that draw me to him. Now it is beyond that. It is the way he smells, the way he treats me, the way he looks at me. He is a mystery that I want to unravel.

  “The story that Wyatt started to tell you wasn’t his to tell.”

  Gatsby looks into the distance at the eagle floating among the clouds. He is holding my hand so tightly that I can feel his heartbeat.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Harry and I were just supposed to go on a hike. That was it. And if it weren’t for him, none of that would’ve happened.”

  He stops talking, and I give him space to continue. I want him to get lost in thought and let the words just spill out without a filter. I fear that if he remembers that I’m here then he won’t tell me.

  “We packed for a day-long hike, not an overnight, and drove to the Gallatin Mountains. It was a beautiful early summer day, and I don’t let those pass me by without going outside when I’m in Montana.

  “Deep in the Gallatin Mountains, the wildlife just takes your breath away. There’s elk, moose, wolves, coyotes, tons of rabbits. I want to take you there sometime. I think you’ll really appreciate it.”

  I smile. I want to go.

  “Harry and I don’t have much in common,” Gatsby continues. “He’s brash and boisterous and unkind in many ways. But we used to be really close when we were little. And he wanted to go, so I thought, what the hell? What’s the worst that could happen?” Gatsby laughs sarcastically under his breath.

  “It happened in the afternoon. After we had been hiking for a few hours. We came upon this meadow with pines all around. The sun was shining brightly in the sky. In the middle of the meadow, we saw a sleeping grizzly. He was gorgeous. Large and imposing and yet so peaceful. We were so close to him we could hear him snoring.

  “But I knew that it wasn’t safe to be so close to him. He could wake u
p at any moment, and then we could really be in trouble. So I signaled to Harry to get back. I wanted us to back up into the woods and just make our way around the meadow.

  “But Harry had other ideas.”

  20

  Gatsby stopped talking and dropped my hand. I wait for him to continue.

  “What?” I finally ask. “What did he do?”

  Gatsby turns toward me. The only thing I see in his eyes is pain.

  “He reached into his backpack and got out a gun. A nine millimeter. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The gun was already loaded, and he pointed it at the sleeping grizzly.”

  “Oh my god,” I whisper and put my hands over my mouth. I don’t want to hear what happened next. I can’t stand the idea of someone shooting a sleeping bear.

  “I didn’t know how much time we had. But there was no way he was killing that bear while I stood and watched. So I knocked the gun out of his hand. It fell to the ground, and we started to fight over it. He grabbed my hair, and I punched him in the stomach. Somehow, he got on top of me, and then I managed to push him off.

  “I have no idea what we were doing really. We were tussling and fighting and grabbing for the gun, paying no attention to the fact that it was a gun or that there was a sleeping grizzly less than fifty yards away.

  “And then the gun went off. Startled, I jumped back and saw that Harry was hit. He was crying and moaning and holding his right shoulder. Blood was gushing out all over his arm. I froze. I didn’t know what to do.

  “It was then that I remembered the bear. He wasn’t that far away from us, and Harry was bleeding so much, I could smell his blood!

  “But when I turned around toward the bear, all I saw was his huge behind disappearing into the forest at the edge of the meadow. The gunshot must’ve scared him, and he got the hell out of there. I remember letting out a huge sigh of relief.”

  “It could’ve been much worse,” I say. “You were lucky, really lucky. That bear could’ve just as easily rushed both of you.”