“What? What’s wrong?” He takes my face in between his palms and lifts it to his.
I pull away.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’ve had enough drama for this week,” I sob.
“What are you talking about?”
I wipe the rest of my tears away. I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
“I’m sorry for crying. I don’t know what came over me. But it won’t happen again, Mr. Wild.”
“Annabelle, please,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, okay. I got angry. Not with you. With Atticus. And I took it out on you. And the desk.”
I shake my head.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. Gatsby pauses for a moment. His face grows serious and determined.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this. He won’t get away with it.”
I nod. “Okay, that’s good.”
I’m about to walk away. But he takes my arm and turns me around to face him again.
“Thank you. Thank you very much for bringing this to my attention.”
I give him a slight nod. I’m relieved that he’s come to his senses. I’m glad that he believes me.
“Annabelle…” Gatsby takes a step closer to me.
There’s barely any space separating us. I look into his piercing eyes and wait for a chaste hug. I want to kiss him, but I don’t dare make the first move. I’ve put myself out enough.
He takes another step forward and runs his fingers over my neck. Our eyes meet and his shift back and forth as if he were asking my permission to kiss me. I don’t give it and wait for him to act.
Carefully, he leans close to me and puts his lips on mine. His lips are silky and taste of chocolate. I close my eyes and give myself over to the moment. He parts my lips with his tongue and slowly enters. Finally, I kiss back. I push back into him, and he wraps his arms tightly around my body.
“Annabelle, I’m sorry…” he whispers through his kisses. His hands are buried in my hair. He pulls it back slightly, sending shivers up my spine.
“It doesn’t matter,” I manage.
“It does. I’m so sorry about this weekend. I was such a dick. I want to make it up to you.”
“You can’t,” I joke.
“Oh, I think there must be a way.”
He picks me up and carries me to the couch. He lays on top of me, wrapping his body around mine. Our kisses become frantic. Gatsby’s hands caress my skin and sneak their way up my shirt. I moan and arch my back into him.
He starts to unbutton my shirt. I want him to tear off my clothes, but I stop him.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I don’t know.
“Nothing. I just…I just want to take it slow this time.” I pull back and look at his face. His eyes are twinkling.
“Is that okay?”
He smiles. He brushes his fingers over my lips, sending sparks through my body.
“Slow is perfectly fine,” Gatsby whispers.
I pull him closer to me and part his lips with mine.
30
I love him. I love him. I love him.
* * *
I realized this last night, the one night out of the week that we have spent apart. He wasn’t there with me within arms reach. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I lay in my bed all night keenly aware of two things. How crappy the mattress is and how much I miss him. Not just the sex, either. I miss all of him. His presence. His almond shaped eyes. The sweet smell of his coconut shampoo. Even his five o’clock shadow that comes in around three o’clock two days after the shave.
* * *
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
* * *
This man is starting to have a crazy amount of power over me. Influence. Whatever you want to call it. It’s like there’s this gravitational pull between us. He’s the North Pole. I’m the South Pole. I’m a positive charge. He’s a negative charge. And when we come close to each other, we have to collide.
“Hey darling.” Gatsby waltzes over to my desk and plants a big wet kiss on my lips. I tilt my head back. He takes the opportunity to run his fingers in between my thighs.
Dammit. I should’ve ‘forgotten’ to wear underwear again. Like I had on Wednesday. When he discovered that I wasn’t wearing panties, we used our lunch break for something other than lunch. Gatsby kisses me again. His tongue runs around along my teeth. I arch my back forward and run my fingers through his hair. But I don’t get up.
* * *
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Mrs. Gatsby Tristan Wild.
* * *
The thought just pops into my head. Agh! No, no, no, I say to myself. Don’t even go there, Annabelle. It has been a week! Only a week! It has been just one week since our first disastrous date and since I showed Gatsby Atticus’ incriminating email.
“You look very pretty today,” Gatsby says, lifting me out of my chair and wrapping his arms around me. I love the feeling of his strong, powerful pecs against my breasts. But what’s also nice is that he had noticed that I’d gone the extra mile today.
Maggie Mae had helped me pick out a brand new pair of four-inch heels and a sensible, yet sophisticated sexy suit. A matching skirt and jacket and a beautiful pink blouse to go on the inside. I love the way the flowing material peeks out from underneath the tailored jacket giving my outfit a sense of femininity.
I’m also wearing my hair down at my shoulders, not up in a bun or a ponytail, and the waves give my face some sort of glow. At least, according to Maggie Mae. The makeup is also all her. Instead of simple eyeliner and mascara, she gave me exquisite smoky cat eyes, brushed and lined my eyebrows, and even made me wear foundation, blush, and lipstick. To complete the look, she added eyelashes. I hated them at first. They nearly glued my eyes shut completely, but once they were set, they did make my eyes appear to be at least twice as big.
“Well, today’s a big day. I am meeting your father, remember?”
Gatsby rolls his eyes. Sighing, he drops his arms and turns away from me, toward the window.
“Don’t remind me.”
“What?” I stare at him. In the glass, I see my reflection. The eyelashes make me feel like Marilyn Monroe, and I try to pull off her innocent open-eyed look. I flutter my eyelashes at Gatsby and wait for his response.
“What are you doing?” he asks, clearly not getting it. Nope, I didn’t succeed at all. Not even in spirit. I’ve just confused him!
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Not looking forward to your dad coming?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m not ready to see him.”
Gatsby’s been dreading this meeting since he told his father about the Atticus situation. Ever since I got that email from Atticus accidentally, Gatsby has been doing some investigating. And found a number of unpleasant things about him and his situation.
Apparently, Atticus has manipulated Wild International’s financial data to artificially depress the share price of the company prior to the IPO. He has done this in exchange for a bribe from the investment bank. Gatsby thinks that he has done this because Atticus’ shares are held in trust, and he can’t get access to any proceeds from the offering anyway.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“Um, let me think. It’s been a few months. Probably not since Easter.”
“Was that the last time you spoke to him?”
Gatsby nods.
“I can’t believe it’s been that long.” I shake my head. “My mom and I used to talk almost every day. I can’t imagine not seeing her for that long. Or talking to her for that long.”
As soon as we got back together after our big fight last weekend, I told Gatsby everything. I told him about my mother and how close we were. I told him about her death. I told him how much I missed my sisters and that I hated how we no longer spoke. These were all the things that I regretted not telling him before, and I had to make it ri
ght. We stayed up almost all night talking even though he had a very important meeting the following day with the partners from the investment bank. I really appreciated it.
Gatsby chuckles wistfully. “My father and I have a very complicated relationship. We’re not at all like you and your mom.”
“Do you ever want it to be different?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle. I don’t even think it can.”
I can’t believe that. It is his father. I just couldn’t understand why they were so distant from one another.
“Dr. William H. Wild is a very complicated man. He is my father, but he has never been a dad. He has spent my entire childhood building Wild International into the world class pharmaceutical company that it is. He’s accomplished a lot. But he also missed out on a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like my childhood. My brothers’ childhoods. Definitely my sister’s childhood. He has been there for us in the sense that he lived in the same house, and we saw him for a few dinners a week. But I frankly don’t remember him ever doing anything with me or taking me anywhere or teaching me anything. He was a ghost. A phantom. Someone who just paid the bills.”
“And your mom?”
“She wasn’t really around much either.”
“Why was that?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle.” Gatsby is getting exasperated. “Why do young mothers with rich families not spend time with their kids? Because they can, that’s why. Because there are lots of other people around who pick up the slack. Is that what you want to hear?”
“No, not at all.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear some sociological explanation of what happens in rich families. I want to hear what happened to yours.”
“Agh, you’re impossible.” Gatsby shakes his head and walks away from me. Getting any information about him and his childhood is like prying jewelry from a dragon. He guards it with all of his might and is incredibly cautious about anyone who he lets into his space.
But I just stand here and wait. I am not going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Fine, fine,” he finally relents. A little smile dances on my lips, but I try to keep most of it at bay.
“My mother is fifteen years younger than my father. They are not a good couple. They have hardly anything in common except for their obsession with this company and their family. No, let me correct that, the family name.”
“Were you two ever close?” I ask.
“You mean when I was a baby?”
I nod. He thinks about it for a moment. His eyes smile, but his face remains steadfast, unemotional. Some memories are creeping up, but he won’t share them with me.
“It’s complicated. Maybe when I was really young, but I don’t really remember. Most of my memories are of my nanny. We were really close.”
Now his face relaxes entirely.
“I called her Abuelita when no one else was around. It was our little secret.”
“Abuelita?” The word sounds familiar.
“It means grandmother in Spanish. I had to call her Ms. Isabel when my parents were around, but when they weren’t around, she was my grandmother. She taught me everything I know. She taught me how to cook and how to clean up after myself. She taught me about patience and honesty and integrity.”
Suddenly, Gatsby’s eyes tear up. He looks away trying to hide his feelings from me. I go over to him and wrap my arms around him. It’s not that I want to see him cry or want him to be in pain, but I’ve been waiting to see this side to him for a long time.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Nothing.” He turns away from me, rejecting my embrace. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not. Your Abuelita was important to you.”
He shakes his head, and I feel him breaking down a little inside. His shoulders slag and his head bows down.
31
The door slams and a deep, thick voice startles me.
“Oh, Christ! Are you still on that?” A tall man with cruel eyes looks at me. Gatsby gathers himself so quickly I start to doubt whether what I just experienced actually occurred.
“It’s nice to see you again, father.” Gatsby walks over to him and shakes his hand as if they are strangers. I’ve seen Gatsby give warmer handshakes to his business enemies.
“I see that you’re still dwelling on the past, Gatsby.” The man laughs and smiles at me.
“I’m Dr. William H. Wild.” He extends his hand to me and gives me a firm handshake. “You must be Annabelle York.”
I nod.
“Very pretty, as always,” Dr. Wild says to Gatsby. “Some things don’t change, I see.”
Gatsby doesn’t say a word. He hides behind a blanket of coldness, which I fear I will not be able to penetrate again.
“You see, Annabelle, when Gatsby was young, Mrs. Wild and I got him a nanny from Mexico. Isabel was a nice older woman who took care of him well. Her problem was that she didn’t know how to set up boundaries. She didn’t know how to create distance.”
“And distance is the most important thing in the Wild family,” Gatsby explains sarcastically.
“Yes, it is. Distance creates decorum, a state of politeness,” Dr. Wild says.
“Without decorum, we are without civilization. And without civilization we are beasts,” Gatsby adds sarcastically.
“Yes, you are right,” Dr. Wild nods. He is deliberately ignoring Gatsby’s anger.
“Well, when Mrs. Wild and I found out that Isabel let Gatsby call her Abuelita, we couldn’t just let that slide.”
“So what did you do, father?” Gatsby narrows his eyes, challenging his father.
“We sent her back to Mexico, of course,” Dr. Wild says without a tinge of remorse.
“Why?” I gasp. “Just because of a word?”
“Words are very important. Words are thoughts. I couldn’t have my son thinking or believing that this peasant woman from some god-forsaken village in northern Mexico was his grandmother.”
“No, no, no.” Gatsby shakes his head. “You couldn’t have me loving her as my grandmother. You couldn’t stand the fact that I loved her more than I loved any of you. Especially you.”
“Oh, please.” Dr. Wild waves his hand as if what Gatsby said was beneath his consideration. “I don’t care about love. Love is just an invented sentimentality. It means nothing.”
I stare at Dr. Wild, dumbfounded. It’s as if he’s from some other world. I have never seen a man like this, and I didn’t know that people like him even existed. The coldness emanating from him could freeze over hell.
No wonder Gatsby has so many issues expressing his feelings. The one person whom he loved and cared for was taken away from him. I look at Gatsby. I yearn to see the vulnerability that he shared with me earlier, but it’s too dangerous now. Dr. Wild is here, and he’s remorseless and cruel. He has absolutely no feelings. He doesn’t even believe in love!
“But of course, I’m not here to talk about Isabel, am I, Gatsby? There’s no secret intervention that you’ve set up for me with some half-witted shrink who’s supposed to bring me to my senses. Oh, you should’ve been there, Annabelle. It was quite a sight. Gatsby actually thought that this shrink, with some community college degree, would make me admit that I was sorry about sending Isabel away. That I understood how much I hurt my son. He thought he would make me admit to all the other supposedly un-fatherly and insensitive things that I’ve done.”
Dr. Wild tilts his head back and laughs. But neither Gatsby nor I find any of it funny. I can’t stand it any longer. Dr. Wild’s mocking him, and Gatsby is just standing there like a stone. Taking it. All of it.
“Oh you should’ve seen this ludicrous display, Annabelle,” Dr. Wild laughs and put his arm around my shoulder. I hate how familiar he is allowing himself to be with me. We have just met, and he is using me for approval!
“He couldn’t even get any of his siblings to come.”
“Why?” I whisper, clearing my throat.
&nb
sp; “Ha,” he laughs, sending shivers up my spine. “Because they all knew better than to show up. Isn’t that right, Gatsby?”
Gatsby ignores him, continuing to stare into space. The expression on his face is entirely blank. As if he has checked out of this conversation long ago.
“Only O showed up,” Gatsby finally says. “She was always braver than my brothers.”
“Braver? Oh, please.” Dr. Wild waves his hand mockingly. He’s still holding me by the shoulder, and I finally pry free.
“Maybe he was just trying to show you how he felt.” I jump to Gatsby’s defense. “Isabel took care of Gatsby for a long time—”
“Yes, ten years.” Dr. Wild narrows his eyes. All of his hatred and contempt now focused on me. Bring it on, asshole!
“She broke the rules. Actually, both of them broke the rules. Gatsby was thirteen at this point. Old enough to make his own decisions. Old enough to live with the consequences of those decisions.”
I turn to Gatsby. I feel like he’s actually turning into stone now, as if he’s calcifying. I have to look closely just to see that he’s still breathing.
“So you just sent her away after ten years?” I shake my head. “Why?”
“He didn’t just send her away, Annabelle,” Gatsby finally says. “He put her on a plane and sent her away while I was gone for a weekend. And he refused to tell me where he had sent her. I didn’t even get the chance to say good-bye.”
“So you don’t know what happened to her?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. His eyes are dry, but I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.
“Isabel lived with us for ten years. She had family in East Los Angeles. But she’s not there.”
“Really?” Dr. Wild chuckles to himself. “I thought she would’ve made her way back eventually.”
“She was an old woman. You broke her heart.”
“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic, Gatsby.”
Gatsby turns to me. “I could never find her. I talked to every one of her family members in East LA, and none of them know what happened to her. When I was in college, I even went down to Copper Canyon area, where her family hails from. But none of them know what happened to her. Where did she go, father?”
Auctioned to Him 6: Damage Page 46
