Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  And then a terrifying thought pops into my head.

  What if he’s in on it? What if he knows already?

  “Mr. Wild?” I walk up to Gatsby.

  The phone is silent for once, and he’s reading something on the screen. His shoulders are pulled up. His eyes aren’t blinking. He’s so focused that, for a moment, I’m not sure if he even heard me.

  “What is it, Annabelle?” he says without looking up. Then he catches himself. “Ms. York, I mean.”

  The words stop in my throat. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. I stand there before him, dumb and mute.

  “Ms. York?” he says. “If you have something for me, then get on with it. I have a lot to do.”

  I hate the formality in his voice. I hate the people that we have become with each other. Finally, I take the plunge.

  “I have to show you something.”

  I’ve printed out the emails and highlighted the most important parts. I’ve printed out the first page of the third-quarter financials. I’ve brought him proof. I just hope that it’s enough. I also pray that he’s not in on it.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an email that I received from Atticus. He didn’t send it to me, but he must’ve replied to all and I was attached to it somehow.”

  “Oh Annabelle, I don’t have time for this.” Gatsby shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

  “Please, this is very important. It’s not really about what happened this weekend, but it sort of is. The emails show that Atticus has been trying to decrease the share price of the company prior to the IPO.”

  Gatsby furrows his brows. He takes the emails from me and looks them over. He pauses at the highlighted portions. Disbelief and confusion are all over his face.

  “I don’t understand,” he finally mutters. “Why would he do this? Why would he want the company to be valued less?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I just needed to show you this.”

  I want Gatsby to run up to me and hug and kiss me. I want him to thank me for the mystery that I’ve unraveled, for the crime that I prevented. But he simply sits there in his chair, dumbfounded. This is the real world. He’s not excited about this. He’s hurt. He doesn’t know why his brother did this, and now he has even more to deal with on top of everything else.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I finally say.

  “Help with what?”

  “With whatever this is. With whatever you’re going to do about it.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do about this. I don’t know why you brought this to me, Annabelle.”

  Now I’m the one who’s stunned. “What?”

  “This.” He waves the emails in his hand. “This just complicates things so much. Don’t you know that?”

  I feel anger starting to bubble up within me.

  “Of course I know that! That’s exactly why I brought it to you,” I say, raising my voice. “You needed to see this.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not.”

  “This is your company, Gatsby. Your brother’s trying to rip you off. Don’t you see that?”

  “Of course I see that! I just don’t know how he’s doing it. I don’t know why. Agh!” He slams the table with his fist.

  I walk away. I can’t be around this. He doesn’t believe me. I hate him for this.

  “Wait!” I hear Gatsby’s footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn around. Tears are streaming down my face. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t make them stop.

  “Annabelle, I’m sorry.” He catches up to me and grabs my arm. I wipe my tears with my other hand.

  “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 o
ur 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 right. 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.”