Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  * * *

  $3,000 on a flight to Las Vegas.

  $6,000 on a new suit.

  $10,000 for a one night stay in a penthouse.

  And last, but not least, $3,000 on a fucking shower curtain!

  There are tons of tiny expenses, too, but these are the most insane. People work hard to make three grand a month at some shitty job, and here he is spending that much on a shower curtain. It makes me sick! Who does he think he is?

  My temper is getting the best of me, but I have to talk to Ms. Greaves.

  “Ms. Greaves, can I ask you something?” I ask. “Here’s a receipt for a $3,000 shower curtain. Is this really appropriate to expense through the company? It seems like a personal purchase.”

  I do my best to hide my disgust, but it is oozing out of me anyway.

  “Ms. York.” Ms. Greaves looks up at me through her glasses. “It is not your job to make judgment calls about Mr. Wild’s spending habits. As I told you before, you are here just to compare the expenses to the receipts.”

  “I know, I know. I just thought-”

  “Yes, I know you thought. But, you see, my dear, you’re not really paid to think,” Ms. Greaves says.

  Shaking my head, I go back to my desk. She doesn’t have to be so rude. I am making a perfectly legitimate point! I am angry with myself for even bringing it up, and I am angry at her for being such a bitch about the whole thing. Who does she think she is, talking to me like that?

  * * *

  That afternoon, just as the day can’t get any longer and time seems to have stopped moving at all, the doors to one of the internal offices burst open, and a long-legged woman with gorgeous blonde hair and epic breasts comes out. Her makeup is running down her face, and she wipes her tears with her shoulder.

  Two large men, security guards I guess, escort her.

  “You’re such an asshole, Gatsby! I’m going to sue you for this!” she yells, turning back toward Mr. Wild’s office, but the security guards nudge her toward the elevators.

  “Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me!” she yells at them. She is holding a large cardboard box in her hands, filled to the brim with all sorts of stuff: office supplies, pictures, personal things, and a fica plant.

  I have seen this scene in the movies. She’s getting fired.

  “You’re an asshole, Gatsby! Can you hear me? I bet you can!” she continues to holler as the three of them wait for the elevator.

  “And you too, Ms. Greaves. You can just go fuck yourself!”

  I look at Ms. Greaves, but she doesn’t even take her eyes off her computer screen. She doesn’t make one movement to acknowledge the woman’s presence. That makes the woman even madder. She continues to rave and rant until the elevator doors close and even after that probably, but she is out of earshot.

  “Who was that?” I ask Ms. Greaves.

  “Ms. York, we don’t gossip in this office.”

  “I’m not gossiping; I’m just asking about an incident that we both clearly saw occur. Or are you going to deny it?”

  I can’t believe that I called Ms. Greaves on her shit like that. I’m not really confrontational, but after this morning she is really getting on my nerves.

  I must’ve caught her off-guard.

  “She was Mr. Wild’s assistant,” Ms. Greaves says after a beat. “Mr. Wild was planning on laying her off for some time now. You were brought in to fill her spot.”

  I take a step back. “Really? I had no idea.”

  “As I said before, you working here, in this office, is just a trial period. If things went well here, you were going to get promoted to his office. Behind those doors.”

  She points to the mahogany doors with elaborate carvings from which the woman just came out.

  “Why did she say that she was going to sue him? Did they have an affair?” I ask.

  Ms. Greaves finally looks up from her computer screen. She takes off her glasses and lets them dangle around her neck.

  “Ms. York, that is none of your business. And in this office, we do not discuss such things.”

  I nod; immediately I regret bringing it up.

  “It’s bad enough that they do it in magazines all the time. Even reputable ones, like Fortune,” Ms. Greaves mumbles under her breath.

  I don’t mean to be such a gossip. I’m really not in real life. I have just never really worked in an office like this before, an office veiled in so much secrecy. I really wish that a few other people worked here besides Ms. Greaves. Then I could get a more accurate picture of what is going on.

  I go back to my desk and try to get back to work. But no one calls, and the expense reports are all done. My mind starts to wander. Magazines? Did Ms. Greaves say that Mr. Wild is written about in magazines? Fortune?

  Of course! How could I be so stupid? I should’ve done this days ago, but I finally go online and look up Mr. Wild. What prevented me from doing this before is that I was afraid to find out that he is some grotesque old man. But now that he is being gossiped about in magazines, I have to see for myself.

  And there it is! An article in Fortune magazine on one of the most eligible bachelors around – Mr. Gatsby Wild.

  For some reason, the picture of him is taking a while to load on my phone, so I scroll down and skim the article.

  “Gatsby Wild, only 27, is about to become a billionaire after Wild International goes public…Is famous around the LA club scenes…often seen rubbing elbows with models and celebrities…”

  And then I stop reading.

  * * *

  His photo loads.

  * * *

  I drop my phone.

  * * *

  Tristan! Gatsby Wild is Tristan from the lake.

  9

  I come home in a daze. My mind feels like it has been put through a blender. I have no idea what to do. Or what to think. My mind is going around in circles. It is Tristan. My boss is Tristan. How can that be? What the hell is Tristan doing running this company? What the hell is my boss doing hiking along in the Californian wilderness? Tristan said that he was a skiing instructor – a ski bum. He said that he rafted in the summer – a river rat. How can a river rat and a ski bum run a multi-national corporation?

  “How was work?” Maggie Mae asks without looking away from some reality television program she’s watching. I’m a sucker for reality TV too – together we enjoy all the favorites. Real Housewives of New Jersey and Atlanta are my true guilty pleasures.

  “You’ll love this one,” she says. “It’s about these five girls from Alaska who’ve had enough of dating men in Alaska. So they’ve gone down to Miami to see what else is out there. Apparently it’s been out for a while; I don’t know how we’ve missed it.”

  “Sounds good,” I mumble and stumble into my room. I can’t deal with other people’s problems right now. I have plenty of my own reality. Too much, actually.

  Maggie Mae must’ve sensed that something wrong. I am in the middle of pulling off my pencil skirt, which is now suffocating me when I hear her standing in the doorway.

  “What’s up? Is something wrong?” she asks.

  I can’t turn around. My eyes are welling up with tears. My shoulders collapse, and I burst out into tears using my skirt as a tissue.

  “Okay, okay, okay, Annabelle.” She puts her arms around me. “Let’s not ruin my skirt over this.”

  Shit! I can’t believe I did that. This is her $100 skirt! “I’m so sorry, I forgot,” I mumble through my tears.

  “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” she says. The tone of her voice is so calm and steadfast that I have no choice but to believe her.

  She helps me get out of my clothes and put on a set of sweats: a pair of comfy black tights and my favorite USC sweatshirt.

  In the kitchen, she hands me a glass of Smart Water – my favorite, even though it’s ridiculously expensive and I only buy it on special occasions. I drink the whole glass and feel a bit better. At least no new tears are rolling down my cheeks.
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  “So, can you tell me what’s going on?” she asks. “If you lost your job, it’s going to be okay.”

  Wow, I must’ve really freaked her out. No, this news isn’t that bad. Or perhaps it is equally bad, just about something else. I have no way of evaluating the degree of badness right now.

  “No, it’s not about my job,” I say. “Well, that’s not entirely true.”

  I have no idea of how to go about trying to explain what has happened. I only briefly told Maggie Mae what had happened with Tristan. Or whatever his name is.

  I had said that we parted, that I would probably never hear from him again, but I didn’t exactly tell her how disappointed I was.

  “Do we have any wine?” I ask. I’m not a big drinker, but I need a drink to go into all of this in detail and not start bawling again.

  “No, we don’t,” Maggie Mae says, opening the refrigerator. “Damn it, we don’t have any alcohol at all.”

  “Would you mind going out?” I ask.

  * * *

  The bar on the corner is dingy and quiet. The seats are made of worn leather and, judging from the lines on their faces, the clientele is leathery as well. For some reason, it’s one of Maggie Mae’s favorite places, and she often goes here for her dates. I never liked it here much, but tonight it feels just right.

  I order a Bloody Mary and tell Maggie Mae everything that happened. She listens carefully, nodding the whole time.

  “So let me get this straight,” she finally says. She finishes her margarita and waves to the bartender for another. “You slept with this wonderful guy who you thought was just a hiker and a ski bum or whatever, basically a guy with no money.”

  I nod.

  “And you had a great time, and then he had to go because of work and you thought he was blowing you off. And then you got this new job for which you didn’t even apply and discovered that he actually heads the company?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble.

  “And this is bad news why?”

  “Well, the way you just summed it up…it’s true and not true,” I say.

  “What’s not true?” she asks licking the rim of her second margarita.

  She opens her blue eyes wide, and I lose my train of thought. Something is still wrong with the whole story, but now I can’t really remember.

  “You just don’t get it,” I finally say. “He lied to me.”

  “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “He didn’t lie to you. He just didn’t tell you everything.”

  “What about the whole thing with his job? He’s clearly not a skiing and rafting instructor.”

  “Eh, okay,” she gives in. “But so what? He was probably there to get away from work. God knows why people like you and him go out there into the wilderness and feel the need to get lost there.”

  “I don’t feel the need to get lost in the wilderness,” I say. “I wasn’t lost. I was there hiking. Thinking.”

  “Okay, fine. To each his or her own. Well, maybe that’s what he was doing there too. Thinking.”

  Maggie Mae goes on and on arguing that this whole thing that happened isn’t actually a tragedy at all.

  “Don’t you see how exciting this is? This is probably why you even got called in for that job since you never sent in an application.”

  She’s right, of course. Now it all makes perfect sense.

  “But why did he want me to work there? Wasn’t he worried that I would find out?” I ask.

  “Maybe he wanted you to.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. I hadn’t considered that before. “You think this was some sort of ploy to get me to forgive him? Forgive him for what?”

  “Exactly.” Maggie Mae smiles in her mischievous way. The smile that can make men everywhere swoon.

  Lying in bed later that night, I try to convince myself that what Maggie Mae said is true. I want to believe that I now have some sort of upper hand over Tristan, or whatever his name is, in this so-called relationship. But I don’t feel like I do. Maggie Mae said that I should feel empowered somehow, but I don’t feel like that at all. Instead, I feel lost. Like I no longer belong there.

  But what can I do? I have to go back to work. Quitting isn’t an option. The job pays more than any other job that I’ve ever had. And next week, it will start paying even more. I have way too much debt, and this is my only way out.

  I have to face him. I have to make him admit that he had lied, or at least acknowledge me as the girl from the lake.

  Will you do that, Tristan? I whisper into the darkness.

  The Tristan that I had met would, but would you? Whatever your name is. I’m not so sure.

  The following morning, I wake up with an unfamiliar amount of inner strength. Who the hell does Gatsby think he is lying to me like that? Playing these games with me? Does he do this to all the girls that he meets? Does he expect me just to roll over and let him make a fool of me?

  10

  I arrive at work with a new sense of determination and focus. I picked out the blouse with the most plunging neckline, the tightest skirt, and the highest heels I could find from Maggie Mae’s closet. I am wearing a lot more makeup than I usually do, which doesn’t say much since I barely wear any on any given day. And I flat-ironed my hair.

  All of these things - new outfit, hair, and makeup – are my suit of armor. Today, I am going into battle, and I just hope that this is enough.

  I take a deep breath before the elevator doors open to the 67th floor and go straight to Ms. Greaves desk.

  “Ms. Greaves, I really need to speak to Mr. Wild,” I say. She pulls away from her computer with an incredulous look on her face.

  “Pardon me?” she asks.

  “It’s very important,” I say, hating the hesitation that my voice suddenly acquires. I need to be more direct. Strong. Be strong.

  “I really need to speak to Mr. Wild. It’s very important,” I say.

  She takes a moment to think about it. It feels like a century passes before she speaks again.

  “I’m sorry, Annabelle, but that’s impossible.”

  Annabelle? Why the hell did she call me Annabelle? My knees go weak, and I need to sit down. But as a result of some invisible force, I remain standing. It’s as if she knows what I am talking about or why I want to talk to him. I search her face for answers. But it remains flat, revealing nothing. I’m just about to open my mouth and try again, but she cuts me off.

  “You will not meet Mr. Wild until he is ready to meet you,” she says and turns back to her computer.

  Defeated, I go back to my desk. There is a large sticky note with Ms. Greaves elegant handwriting near the keyboard. It has five names on it.

  * * *

  Ms. Allison Read

  Mr. Thomas Lane

  Mr. Samuel Johnson

  Mr. Tanner Hall

  Dr. Elizabeth Cullen

  * * *

  To say that Ms. Greaves is detail-oriented is an understatement. Ms. Greaves is a borderline compulsive obsessive. This is just a simple note with five names of people who are supposed to be put through immediately to Mr. Wild, no ifs, ands, or buts. I certainly don’t need to know their formal titles – Mr., Ms., Dr. – but Ms. Greaves includes them anyway.

  Her handwriting is impeccable, and it actually makes me a little jealous. I’ve had a very limited amount of exposure to handwriting and only write in blocky print letters, occasionally connecting the y’s and the e’s, but never the n’s or s’s. Every afternoon, when the office gets a little slow and the calls aren’t streaming in, I try to copy her handwriting but fail almost every time. Well, today is a new day.

  The first call comes a minute or two after nine, just as it has all the previous days. It is someone’s assistant from Japan calling about setting up a meeting. I’m supposed to put the call through to Ms. Greaves to ask whether it should be forwarded further on down the line, but I don’t. I don’t really know why except that I can’t. I need to talk to Tristan, and he is going to talk to me one
way or another. Instead of putting Mr. Yokomoto through, I write down his name and number and wait for the next call.

  The second call of the day is from Ms. Allison Read. She sounds young, and I don’t have to wait on the line for her assistant to put her on. She actually calls herself, and her voice sounds urgent.

  For a moment, I waver. I want to put her through, but I don’t. This is the only leverage I have. This is the only way that I knew how to get the chance to talk to and confront Tristan. Er, Mr. Wild.

  By lunchtime, both Dr. Elizabeth Cullen and Mr. Thomas Lane also call, and I don’t forward either of their calls. Though no one seems to have noticed anything unusual, I start getting worried. It’s not just Tristan who I am messing with. It’s also all of these other people who have urgent business to conduct with him, and it isn’t right for me to keep their calls.

  So I decide to go directly to the source. Mr. Wild’s email is on his expense reports.

  * * *

  Tristan, Mr. Wild,

  * * *

  I know who you are.

  I know that you know who I am.

  We need to speak.

  * * *

  Annabelle York

  * * *

  The words on the screen seem so threatening, and I debate whether I should make them kinder and sweeter somehow.

  More personal.

  No, fuck him. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve kindness I decide and go to lunch.

  Hours pass and nothing. I thought that he would have written me back immediately. I thought he would have gotten scared that I knew the truth, but he’s not. I can see that he read it almost a minute after I sent it, but he still chooses not to reply.

  Agh! What a dick! I want to scream.