Punitive Damages

by Charlotte Byrd

  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 this 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.

  “I know.” I roll my eyes. “But if I remember correctly, I said yes to a date, not a trip.”

  “I am taking you on a date. It’s just that this place happens to be a little too far from LA, and this is the quickest way to get there. You can leave anytime you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  He is toying w
ith me, and he knows it.

  “Oh yeah, and why is that?”

  “Because I know you’ll love it.”

  15

  Now, I know he is wrong. But his confidence is disarming. “What makes you think so? You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “I may not know much about you, yet,” Gatsby says. His lips pause a bit on the word ‘yet’, as if they are massaging the word. “But I do know one thing. Maybe one of the most important things about you.”

  I stare him down. I challenge him to tell me what it is that he thinks is the most important thing about me.

  “You’re not just a regular girl, Annabelle. You’re quite special. Regular girls don’t go hiking for five days in the wilderness. Alone.”

  I want to say maybe they do if something really bad has happened. If they really need to clear their heads. If it’s the only place in the world where they can be somewhere else. But I don’t.

  “No matter what caused you to do that,” he says, as if he’s able to read my mind. “But ordinary girls don’t go into the wilderness unless they really love it there. Unless it gives them solace and hope and life. So what I know about you is that you love the wild.”

  I give up my stare and look away. He’s right, of course. I do love nature. I love its beauty and its life. I love the animals, the trees, the bugs, and the earth.

  And the thing that I love most about it is that it lacks people. People and their complications. There is no traffic, no cars, no waiting around. There is just you and the world how it is meant to be.

  “Okay, yes, I like the wild,” I say.

  “Well, that’s how I know that you don’t want to cut this date short. If you like the wild, you’ll love this place.”

  I nod and give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Besides, this place isn’t just for you. It’s also for me. I like the wild too. And with everything that has been going on at the office, I needed some time away. Sometime somewhere else. In nature.”

  “Because of the company going public?”

  “Yes, the IPO process has been a big pain.”

  I want to offer words of encouragement, but nothing comes to mind except, “I heard that it will make you a very rich man.”

  This time, it’s he who rolls his eyes.

  “I’m already a very rich man.” He shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t really want to get into all of this in the first place. It was my brothers’ idea. And it’s my father’s company, so I’m trying to keep the peace.”

  I had no idea any of this was going on. But then again, I hardly know anything about him in the first place. Gatsby stops talking and looks away. I want to push him for more information, but I feel like he needs space.

  We sit in silence for a while, the airplane cruising through the air barely making a ripple. There is a familiar sound coming from the surround sound. And then I realize that it is Adele’s song Rolling in the Deep without the words. Just the instrumental part. An instrumental version of My Immortal takes over after that.

  I cross my legs in the seat and close my eyes. This is the most comfortable place, and not just for an airplane. We might as well have been in a luxurious hotel room. The flight is so smooth that the water in my teacup barely moves.

  “The air here is different somehow, right?” I ask. “It doesn’t feel like typical airplane air.”

  Gatsby shrugs. I stick my tongue out and taste it. “Most of the air on planes is dry, sort of lacking in moisture. But here, it’s different. Humidified maybe.”

  Lost in my thoughts, I look at Gatsby and am caught off guard by the strange look on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips part in a small smile.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What are you doing to me?” he demands.

  I blush. I’m honestly not flirting. I’m just tasting the air.

  “Come here,” he says, tapping his hand on his leg. The sternness in his voice turns me on, and I obey.

  “Am I supposed to be out of my seat like this? I don’t think the FAA would approve.”

  “This is my plane, and if I say it’s okay, it’s okay.”

  My knees grow weak, and I melt into his lap. I want him to pull my hair back and kiss me forcefully, but he just moves my hair off my shoulders and lightly kisses my neck. This small erotic gesture drives me wild, and I lean toward him and kiss him on the mouth. I bury my hands in his hair and tilt his head up to mine. His hands remain at his sides, but his lips kiss mine, and his large cock swells beneath me.

  “No, we can’t do this here.” I suddenly remember where I am. I pull away from him and look around for Stacey, but she is nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere near the cockpit.

  “Oh yes, we can.” He wraps his arms around me and draws me back to him.

  “Should we go somewhere more private?” I ask. I can’t stand the fact that Stacey will know what I am doing here with him. I’m not this kind of girl. Gatsby just does something to me. He makes me do crazy things.

  “Like a bathroom, you mean?” he mumbles through the kisses. I nod. Suddenly, he pulls away from me and looks me straight in the eyes.

  “We don’t need to go to the bathroom, Annabelle. You see that button over there?”

  A small button with the words ‘Private’ on it is glowing. “That means no one’s going to bother us.”

  Gatsby presses another button, and the light around us dims. Wrapped in a soft light as if from a candle, I look at him.

  “No one is going to walk in on us, Annabelle. You don’t have to worry,” he whispers and moves closer. Wordlessly, he pulls off my work jacket and untucks my blouse from my skirt. He runs his fingers over my thighs.

  “I don’t know…” I mumble, but he silences me with a kiss.

  He positions me across his chest, pulling off my blouse and undoing my bra, freeing my breasts. He runs my fingers up his arm, feeling the veins that bulge out of it, as he cups my breasts.

  His arms are strong and powerful, much stronger than they look in that tailored suit of his. Kissing me along my neck, he pushes me back to my feet and takes off my shoes. Once I am barefoot and topless before him, he unzips my skirt and drops it down.

  I thread my fingers into his hair as his lips graze my nipples. Shivers run up my spine. His thick hair is so silky that my fingers can’t find traction, and I end up just caressing his hair instead of tugging on it as I had planned.

  Completely nude, he sits me back down on his lap, facing away from him. His fingers find my clit, and my pussy begins to throb. I resist the urge to clench my thighs and open up instead. I pull up my feet to the top of his knees and open wide. He is still fully dressed, yet I am completely naked and spread wide like an eagle. It’s not like me. I’m not this girl, and yet I feel no shame.

  He starts to kiss me behind my ears as his fingers find their way inside of me. The faster his fingers move, the more energy starts to build up within me. It builds quickly, spreading from my clit outwards toward my toes and fingers.

  I let out a moan. “I’m getting close.”

  “I know.”

  His fingers swirl faster.

  “Come for me,” he orders.

  That sends me over the edge. The orgasm pulsates throughout me, and my body starts to shake. My mind goes blank, and my body goes limp on top of him. The release is so intense that I close my eyes and disappear as if into another world.

  Whenever I come back, I am wrapped in a blanket in a fully reclined seat with Gatsby lying next to me.

  “How was that?” he asks, pushing hair out of my face.

  “Wonderful,” I mumble.

  “Good. We’re almost there.”

  I look out the window, but it’s pitch black and I can’t see a thing. “Where?”

  “Yellowstone.”

  16

  Gatsby is so close to me. I want to rip off his clothes. I want him to have his way with me. But Stacey, the flight attendant, is back with dessert. We’re having
strawberry cheesecake made with real strawberries and delicious organic cream from grass-fed, free range cows.

  The gorgeous cheesecake is presented to me on a plate monogrammed with the initials GTW.

  * * *

  Gatsby Tristan Wild.

  * * *

  Gatsby Tristan Wild, the owner of this private plane, and my one and only one-night stand.

  Gatsby Tristan Wild is also the guy I met in Yosemite National Park after I had spent days alone in the wild without seeing another soul.

  But I’m forgetting something. Oh yeah, Gatsby Tristan Wild is also my boss.

  It’s our first date. I thought it was just going to be dinner, but he decided to take me to Yellowstone on his private plane for the weekend.

  The trip is an apology. It’s supposed to make up for his lies. It’s his way of showing me how sorry he is.

  I try not to be impressed. I’m trying to stay cool. I don’t want to forgive him just because of all of this. But I know that I would’ve forgiven him even if he had just given me flowers.

  Glancing over at Gatsby staring out of the window, I again see the hiker who I initially fell for deep in the woods, under the bright starry sky and away from all this civilization.

  He has kind eyes and a relaxed demeanor. His tan skin compliments the hair that’s falling into his face. It’s a little longer than customary for a man who makes his living wearing a $ 3,000 suit, but that’s what makes me want him even more.

  Gatsby’s breathing is steady. I wonder what he is thinking about. He brings his fingers to his nose and inhales as if he’s smelling an aromatic perfume. He gives me a wink.