I say goodbye with a sweet smile on my face then briskly walk to the elevator. I hit the button to close the doors before Wyatt is even out of the restaurant. I let myself into my room and shut the door, then let out a long breath. Phew. I did it. I made it to my hotel room without Wyatt Mills.
I take a long, hot shower, blow-dry my hair, and lay my clothes out for the next day. I hop on the bed and turn on Golden Girls. No one gets me quite like Sofia.
As I’m chowing down on another airport cookie, my cell vibrates. I grab it and see a message from an unknown number.
I made some last-minute changes to a few of my slides. Any chance you can review them?
How the hell does he have my number?
How do you have my number?
Nate gave it to me before we left in case we wanted to hook up while we were here.
I swallow as my eyes grow wide.
For dinner or anything, after the meeting.
Nice save.
Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Just send them over.
Actually, I sort of want to run through them. Do you mind being my audience?
I swallow again. No, no, Mr. Mills. Nice try.
I think for a moment, knowing that the disappearing and reappearing dots on his screen are probably driving him mad.
I remind myself that I hate him.
I don’t want him.
This will be easy. Just run through the slides and leave.
He ruined me; he ruined my dad; he ruined my family. It’s all because of him.
This will be easy.
Okay. Send me your room number.
807.
Be up in a few.
I go to the mirror and fluff my hair some and change into yoga pants and a t-shirt. I know he’s one of the partners at my job, but I’m certainly not dressing up for him. And aside from that, he’s already seen me naked.
I go to walk out of my room and pause. I turn back to the mirror and put on a few flicks of mascara.
You never know who you might see roaming the halls.
I feel bubbles in my stomach as I ride the elevator up the ten floors, tapping my foot anxiously. I find 807 and knock. He answers, and my insides melt.
He’s got on baggy gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt that’s tight around his muscles. His bright-green eyes are extra bright tonight, which I find extra annoying.
“Hey,” he says, standing back to let me in. “Thanks for coming up.”
I nod and breeze by him. His room is bigger than mine, with a couch in the corner and a desk where he’s got his laptop and notes all set up. I’ll give it to him: he’s a hard worker. And as much as it pains me to admit it, he deserves his position, too.
“So,” I say, sitting on the couch, “what do we got?”
“Okay,” he says, scurrying over to the desk to unplug his computer. He perches it on the dresser next to him, clears his throat, and begins his presentation. The first few slides are the same as they were before. I nod along with him, having almost memorized them from how many times I reviewed them. I checked them up and down, side to side, one million times, needing them to be perfect—for the Landry account, for Rex, for the company, for me. Maybe a teeny, tiny bit for Wyatt.
“Okay, now here’s where I changed it up a bit,” he says. He clears his throat again. “Landry has over 6,000 hotels spanning the globe. That’s 6,000 locations that some people have never seen. That’s 6,000 places to host a business retreat, a wedding, a 50th anniversary trip. Six thousand opportunities to show people all around the world the time of their life,” he says. He goes on, and I don’t even realize I’m gaping at him. The smoothness with which he presents, the confidence he exudes, makes me really fucking turned on.
He finishes the last slide and looks up at me.
“What do you think about that last part? Do you think it’s—”
“It’s perfect,” I say. His eyes widen. “It’s really fucking good. Don’t change anything. They will love it.”
He nods and closes his computer.
“Thanks for listening and coming up here. I know it’s late, but I just really want this to go well,” he says, and his moment of vulnerability catches me off guard. I stand up from the couch and start heading for the door. He follows behind me, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You’re gonna kill it tomorrow,” I say. “They are going to be so happy they signed this contract.”
And I hate how nice I’m being. How civil. But I think about what he said when those elevator doors closed.
Your father. I thought he did take everything.
He puts his hand on the door handle and looks down at me.
“You’re doing a really great job, Maryn. You’re a really good fit here,” he says. His eyes are moving back and forth between mine. I see them drop down to my lips, and I feel my tongue jut out to wet them. Suddenly, breathing feels a little bit harder as I start to stare at him. And then I can’t stop.
I step up onto my tip-toes and press my lips against his, sucking his bottom lip into my mouth. I sweep my tongue into his for a brief moment, then come back down to my feet, down to Earth, and step back. I’m staring at him now, waiting for his next move. He takes a step closer to me so that my back is flush up against the door.
“I’m not sure what you want from me, Maryn,” he whispers, “but whatever it is, you’re gonna have to lead the way. I know what I want, but I’m not taking anything else from you.”
It’s a sweet gesture, but it also sort of pisses me off that he thinks he’s being such a gentleman, protecting my feelings, not taking advantage of me. Well, that’s fine. Because I’ll just take advantage of him.
I kiss him again, pushing him further into his room until we reach the couch again. I slam him down and straddle him, and before I know it, he has my shirt off over my head. Ha, that was fast. He’s unhooking my bra as I’m tugging at his t-shirt, and I can feel him hardening under his sweatpants. I kiss his jawline and nibble at his neck. My breasts spring free from my bra as he tosses it to the floor, and he takes me into his mouth so slowly it hurts. He tugs at my nipples gently with his teeth then pushes me back gently so he can kiss my chest and neck.
“Maryn,” he says in a sort of groany whisper, “are you sure about this?”
I push him off of me and stare right into those big, green, shiny eyes of his.
“Fuck you, Wyatt,” I say just as I begin grinding my groin against his. He drops his head back, exposing his neck and his Adam’s apple, which my tongue gleefully trails, flicking back and forth, drawing lines. He moans again and then brings his head up.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says and pushes to his feet. He sets me down and kisses me one more time before dropping to his knees in front of me. He reaches up and tugs my yogas down, taking his sweet, sweet time. He loops his thumbs into the strings of my thong and shimmies it down my legs, sending chills up and down my whole body. He throws me back against the couch and pushes my knees apart, kissing me one more time before leaving a trail of kisses headed south. He pushes my legs even farther apart then breathes softly, slowly onto my center. I tilt my head back and clutch onto the couch for dear life.
His tongue starts to work on me, and I swear he’s finding spots I didn’t even know existed. He’s pumping it in and out of me, separating me, exploring me.
“Wyatt,” I moan, clutching onto the back of his head. He sucks and kisses and licks until I’m a soaking mess, then kisses his way back up my body. He kisses next to my ear and pushes my hair out of the way.
“Maryn,” he whispers.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me you don’t hate me,” he says. I lick my lips, my center throbbing, begging for more of him.
“I do. I do hate you,” I say, breathless, closing my eyes and soaking in the moment.
He stands up in front of me and pulls his pants and boxers down, and I almost forgot how impressive he is. Every single inch of him.
I reach out to touch him, but he pushes my hand aw
ay. He drops back down to his knees, his eyes trained on mine, and pushes one finger, then two fingers inside of me.
“Maryn,” he says again, his voice a little more stern this time. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”
His fingers are moving inside of me, fast then slow, circling, then in and out, hitting that spot with every fucking move. My whole body is squirming on the couch now, like I’m having a goddamn out-of-body experience.
“No,” I say again. He leans up to give my aching parts one last kiss then slowly slides his fingers out.
I know what he’s doing. He’s fucking teasing me.
And it’s working.
He’s standing in front of me, fully erect, the muscles in his body braced for action, braced for me. My heart is beating out of my chest, and my insides feel like they’re ready to burst. Is it possible to die from almost having an orgasm, but then not? Can girls get blue balls? Because I’m pretty sure I have them.
I reach up and grab a hold of his shaft, and before he can pull away, I take him into my mouth. I slide my lips down once, twice, three times, fast then slow, making his legs shake as he stands in front of me. When I have him at his most vulnerable state, I stand up and spin him around, pushing him onto the couch.
I’m staring at him like he’s prey—because maybe he is.
I take one step toward him then straddle him. He puts his hands on either of my hips, his head dropped back against the couch, his eyes closed.
“Maryn,” he whispers, but I know I’m winning this round. I ease myself onto him slowly, taking in just the tip and watching what it does to him. The way his eyebrows knit together when he feels my warmth taking him in is almost enough to make me come without even making another move. I wrap my hand around his neck and pull him into me. I kiss his lips one more time and press mine to his ear.
“I hate you, Wyatt Mills,” I say, and then I slide myself onto him, taking every inch of him inside of me, making us both moan simultaneously. “I. Hate. You,” I tell him, thrusting up and down on top of him.
I can feel my wetness running down the insides of my legs and onto him.
“Jesus Christ, Maryn,” he whispers, pulling me closer and burying his face in my neck. I press my hands to his chest, rocking back and forth as fast as I can, not wanting this build-up to ever end. But to my surprise, he takes over again. He somehow finds the will to move to his feet, holding me in the air as he’s still inside of me. He gently slides me off of him and brings me to the bed, turning me around so that I’m facing away from him. He moves quickly and pushes himself inside of me from behind. I’m on all fours, panting, clawing at his sheets, seeing fucking stars.
He pumps fast, then faster. And then it happens. I explode, my grip on the sheets finally loosening up.
“Fuck!” I call out as my head drops to the bed. He moans one more time, and with one more thrust, I can feel him shaking inside of me, emptying himself. He slides out of me, and we collapse onto the bed. He drapes his arm across my back, and I feel him tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
“I can tell you something, Maryn,” he whispers against it. “I certainly do not hate you.”
My head is turned away from him, and in a weird mix of emotions, I suddenly feel like I
want to cry. Tears are prickling at the back of my eyes, and I clear my throat to get myself together. I lie next to him for a few minutes, collecting myself, trying to figure out how the fuck that just happened...again.
Oh, my God. I fucking just fucked Wyatt Mills again. Fuck.
I slide out from under his arm and scurry to find my clothes. I rush into the bathroom to clean myself up and get dressed in a hurry. I pull my hair into a messy bun and walk out. I put my hand on the door handle, but he’s standing there in front of me. He has his pants on now, his bare chest taunting me, reminding me of what I’ve just done.
“Maryn…” he starts to say, but I open the door. I turn my head to him slightly.
“Fuck you, Wyatt,” I whisper then walk out the door. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears as I ride down to my room. I know he has to be confused, because I’m confusing myself. When I lose it like that, when I take him, let him take me, it’s like I can’t stop. Like I’m not me, and like he’s not him. We are just two people who have to have each other. And it’s frustrating as hell.
11
February 2015- Wyatt
She’s been gone for six weeks. Six weeks since I’ve seen her. Six weeks since we’ve heard from her. Six weeks since any signal could be detected from her cell phone. I swear I’ve watched the footage of her going into that store a hundred times.
Mom hasn’t slept. She wanders around the house like she’s possessed. She did all of Willa’s laundry then, once it was clean, began washing all of her clean clothes. She made her bed, then moved things around, then put them back in order.
She sent notes to Willa’s teachers, letting them know she would be out of class indefinitely, as if they weren’t already aware.
Dad…he’s just angry. He sleeps all day, stays up all night. Calls the detective on our case at least three times a day, asking for updates. He won’t look me in the eye. He hasn’t said it, but he doesn’t have to. I know there’s a part of him that blames me for not keeping an eye on her.
I haven’t said it, but I blame me a little bit, too.
It was a crowded night at the store. And it’s Tilden. Not much happens here. But something big happened that night, and I can’t take it back. I can’t go back and make her wait for me to park and go in. I can’t do anything about it except curse myself for being so irresponsible.
All I can do is focus on the fact that I saw that teacher there. I saw a car that looked like his speed off just a short while after he and my sister spoke.
I don’t know much about him, but I can’t shake this feeling. I know there’s something to it. I know there’s something there. There has to be.
We saw him walking into the station one day last week when we were walking out. I stopped in my tracks, giving him a stare that told him how badly I wanted to fuck him up. Dad gave him the same one, and Mom just stood there, staring down at her feet.
But the teacher, Mr. Porter, he just nodded to us, his eyes solemn, as he walked by. He didn’t exactly look guilty, but the guilty ones never do. Mr. Porter is a tall, slender man. You can tell he loves his history books, but he’s also fairly fit. Could certainly drag a teenager into a car if he wanted to.
Speaking of teenagers, I think he has some himself. His daughter is a year ahead of Willa in school. A few times, I’ve wondered about her. Does she know what he’s done? Does she know where my sister is? I try to avoid thinking the worst about people, especially the ones I don’t know. But in this case, if thinking the worst will bring Willa back, so be it. I don’t owe these people anything. But the world owes me my sister.
I’m supposed to go back to Melladon in a few weeks, but the thought of leaving is making me nauseous. My professors have all granted me an extension on my semester start and are letting me come back later due to the circumstance. But how can I leave my parents like this? How can I just up and go back, not knowing if she will ever return? The answer is pretty simple. As the oldest child, and as their only child currently, I can’t leave. So we have to find her.
I get inside from a short run and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Dad’s sitting in his big maroon recliner in front of the television, watching it with a blank expression.
“Hey, Pop,” I say as I sit down on the floor near him to stretch.
“Hey,” he says, eyes never leaving the T.V.
“Where’s Ma?”
“At the store.”
Oh, Ma. That’s the other thing she keeps doing: going to the grocery store. Like whoever took Willa, or wherever she went, she will come back to Migley’s Market. We’re both sitting in silence, watching reruns of M*A*S*H, when Dad’s phone buzzes on the chair next to him. His eyes drop down to it, and finally, the rest of his body reacts. He
moves slowly to answer it—so slowly that it physically hurts me.
“Yes, hello,” he says. “Yes, this is he.” He pauses to nod for a few moments, his eyebrows tugging together. I hate that look on his face. It’s usually one of anger, confusion, or just him wanting to be left alone. It’s almost become a permanent fixture on his face for the last few weeks.
“Certainly. My wife should be home momentarily, and we will make our way down.”
He hangs up the phone and calls Mom, letting her know the detective has some updates. He tells her to get home as soon as she can.
“I want to come, Dad,” I say, hopping up from the table. He doesn’t say anything, just sort of grumbles and nods. I skip over a few steps as I head up to my room to shower.
I have the T.V. on in my bedroom what feels like 24/7. It kills the silence, which prevents me from having to sit and think. Sit and wonder about all the possibilities, the terrible things that could be happening—or already have happened—to my little sister.
The sounds from the T.V. drown out the unpleasantries that have taken a permanent residence in this goddamn house.
As I’m toweling off, I hear the familiar voice of the evening news anchor, Lori Decklan, a long-time Long Island fixture.
“The town of Tilden is hosting a vigil at the high school this evening in celebration of Willa Mills’ sixteenth birthday. Willa went missing on the night of December 23rd when she went to the grocery store with her older brother and never returned home,” Lori says.
December 23rd will live on as my least favorite day, forever.
“We’re just all so broken up over this.” The camera shows Principal Pickett, whom I know has probably never spoken to my sister a day in his life. I also always suspected him of being a little bit racist, but that’s a different story. “Willa is such a bright soul. We just want her brought back safely and soon.”
I roll my eyes.
The camera goes back to Lori.
“Police are still not releasing the name of their person of interest, but Tilden County Public Schools put history teacher David Porter on administrative leave, pending his involvement in the investigation, back in January.”
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 275
