“It’s like they are taking on lives of their own,” he says and moves my hair off my neck. When he kneels down to me, his hair tickles my ears. I feel his breath on my neck and his lips on my shoulder. I close my eyes and enjoy the moment.
When I open them again, my gaze turns toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Millions of stars surround the full moon, and the path towards the suite is lit up. I spot something in the shadows near the pine trees.
“What’s that?” I whisper, pulling away from Gatsby.
“Oh c’mon.” He reaches for me, annoyed. But I run toward the window.
“It’s a buffalo! It’s an actual buffalo right outside the window,” I whisper. And then I see the other two.
Chapter 17
Gatsby and I stand in awe looking at the majestic creatures walking through the snow peppered valley in front of our window. Their enormous heads are pointed toward the earth, chomping on the grass in the alpine meadow, and they move slowly and without worry. My heart skips a beat. Under the moonlight, their thick fur looks like a shawl, and their horns look like a crown. Bathed in moonlight, they look like gods.
I can’t believe that I am standing here watching these amazing animals graze only a few feet away from me.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Gatsby whispers.
I nod.
I cannot talk.
I am speechless.
We stand there in silence looking at the buffalo for a long time. Slowly, they start to move away from us, further and further into the grass prairie. Eventually, they are just dots on the horizon, dots that I still can’t take my eyes away from.
* * *
When they completely disappear behind the horizon, I turn back to Gatsby. He has lit the fireplace and is sitting on the bed.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to get room service?” I ask. He shakes his hand waving me over. I smile and slowly walk across the room.
“You don’t want dinner?” I ask again, already knowing the answer.
His eyes are twinkling in that familiar way that I am already used to. I know what he wants.
“No, I want you.”
I want him too. Being that close to a wild buffalo awakened something within me. It was as if the wildness in his eyes penetrated me, infecting me with an unfamiliar kind of hunger.
“I want you, too,” I whisper.
Gatsby is sitting on the edge of the bed. When I get close to him, I spread his legs and foist my body in between them. My hair drapes around his head as if it were a curtain, and he takes a deep breath.
“I love the way your hair smells,” he whispers as I move my lips down to his.
Then he surprises me. Instead of taking things slow, building up tension through teasing and time, he grabs my head and presses his lips onto mine.
With what seems to be one swift motion, he takes off my clothes. This time, however, I don’t give in. I push back against him.
He smiles. “And what do you think you’re doing?”
I loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. “I’m not going to be the only one naked this time,” I say and let his pants drop to the floor.
His body is chiseled, as if out of stone. The light from the fire dances across his pecks and hugs every curve of his six-pack. His shoulders seem broader now. I feel smaller.
I look down. His hands are on his hips. The veins in his forearms stand out and lead my eyes further down to his beautiful cock. Large and erect, it stands before me with an invitation. I wrap my hands around it and put it in my mouth.
Gatsby moans from pleasure and buries his hands in my hair. He pulls on it a little too tight, teeter totting on the border between pain and pleasure.
* * *
***
* * *
Lost in a world of motion, I drift to another world until I hear someone say, “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Wild.”
Reality crashes into my world, and hatred and anger builds within me for the speaker of those words.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wild,” the man from the front desk keeps saying as two men barrel past him into the suite.
Quickly, I scramble for my clothes. They are scattered all over the floor, and none of them are big enough to cover me up completely without me first figuring out how to put my arms through the arm sleeves.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, I say to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an open closet door. A brand new bathrobe is hanging inside. I grab it and wrap it around myself. I take a moment to enjoy the warmth and solace of the bathrobe before turning around and facing the men.
Who the hell are they? What the hell are they doing here? How dare they interrupt us? I hate the front desk guy with all of my might for letting them inside, and I hate them even more for being here.
* * *
“What the fuck do you want?” I hear Gatsby say to them. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I turn around and face them. The men look roughly Gatsby’s age, maybe a few years younger. One is taller and the other is shorter, but both have similar shaped eyes and lips. The taller one has darker hair than Gatsby’s, and the shorter one’s hair is blonder. But other than that, they look just like Gatsby!
The men say nothing. They just stare at me with a whimsical look in their eyes. I know that they like what they have seen, and I hate them for it. How dare they impose themselves on our private time together?
“Well?” Gatsby crosses his arms. It is then that I look down at him and discover that he is still not dressed. I go to the closet and get the other bathrobe.
“Here,” I say, handing it to him. He looks at me, confused.
“No, Annabelle. I’m fine. If my brothers want to interrupt me in my own suite, then it’s their problem if they see me naked. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
His words pinch my heart. I’m not embarrassed by my nudity. I hate them thinking that I was. I just don’t want them to see me naked. Gatsby must’ve sensed my discomfort because he quickly adds, “I didn’t mean it like that Annabelle.”
Then he turns to his brother and repeats his initial questions.
“What the fuck do you want? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh c’mon, brother.” The blonder one comes forward. He’s just as lean and toned and tanned as Gatsby, and I hate how beautiful he is.
“C’mon, now. Don’t be like that. We’re just here to talk.”
“Oh yeah? Is that why you’re both barging into my room when I have company? Is that why you’re making this kind young man worry about his job?”
We all look at the man from the front desk. He is responsible for letting them in, and he is covered in sweat from head to toe. A minute ago, I wanted him fired, but now I feel sorry for him. He and I are the same. We’re not rich and wealthy, and we need our jobs to pay our bills. This is all he has. My pity for his situation softens my disposition towards him, and instead I focus my anger and discontent on Gatsby’s brothers.
“He had nothing to do with this,” the taller brother with the darker hair says. “He just ran up here to warn you, even though he wasn’t as fast as you would’ve wanted him to be. We have our own keys, and you know that. You’re not the only one who owns this lodge. Even though you have decided to hog the largest suite yet again.”
Own this lodge? Gatsby’s brother’s words echo in my head.
“Gatsby, we need to talk. You know that. That’s why you ran away to Montana like you always do when there’s something you don’t want to face,” he adds.
“Fuck you, Atticus,” Gatsby says. “It’s none of your business why I’m here.”
“And there, you couldn’t be more wrong,” the shorter one interrupts. “You may be the CEO, but you’re not the only owner of Wild International. We’re owners, too. And we need to know what’s going on. What would the shareholders think if they found out that their CEO ran off to Yellowstone with some whore right before one of the most important days in the life of the organization? Our father worked hard for this �
�”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Gatsby threw a punch that knocked him to the floor, and his nose started to bleed.
Chapter 18
“Oh my God!” I yelp. “Gatsby, what are you doing?”
“Stay out of this, Annabelle,” he says.
I look at Atticus, who simply shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest.
“Can we please have one meeting that doesn’t erupt in violence?” he asks rhetorically. I stare at him in disbelief.
“Annabelle, is it?” he continues. “You probably don’t know this, but my brothers have been at each other’s throats like this since they were children. I’m just sorry Gatsby dragged you into this.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the shorter brother climbed back up to his feet.
“Man, you’re so lucky that you’re the fucking face of our company. Otherwise, I’d bash your head in for this!”
“Yeah, right,” Gatsby says mockingly.
I want him to stop, to apologize, but before I can get a word to him, his brother lunges at him and knocks him on his back. They start to tussle and hit each other in the face. I try to get in the middle, but someone pulls me away from them.
“Ms. Annabelle, please, don’t get involved,” he whispers. And I realize that the voice belongs to the front desk employee, who is still in the room.
Atticus jumps in the middle and pushes his brothers apart. It takes all the strength he has, but because he’s taller than both of them, they respond.
When they are finally separated, I see that Gatsby’s bleeding from his left eye and his lip is busted.
“Gatsby!” I run toward him, unsure of what to do.
I try to comfort him, but he pushes me away. He’s too focused on the anger and hatred that he feels for his brother, the one whose name I still don’t know.
“You don’t ever call her that!” He says quietly, somewhat under his breath. His voice is calm now, and I see his brother’s eyes narrow.
“Annabelle is different,” he explains. “But that’s none of your business, anyway. You don’t ever call her that again. If you do, we’re through. For good. Do you understand, Wyatt?”
Something in Wyatt’s expression changes. Remorse creeps onto his face. Reluctantly, he nods.
“Listen.” Atticus steps in between them and tries to make peace. “I need to talk to you Gatsby. Okay?”
“Don’t worry, your millions are safe,” Gatsby says.
“That’s not what we’re worried about,” Wyatt pipes in, even though Atticus tries to stop him. “We’re worried about our billions--”
“Wyatt, please,” Atticus interrupts. “Gatsby, please? We need to speak. Somewhere in private.”
Gatsby nods and points to the other side of the suite.
“Can you please put some clothes on first?” Atticus asks. Gatsby laughs mockingly, but on the way to the study grabs a bathrobe out of the closet.
They disappear behind a thick double door, and I am left all alone with Wyatt. I search the room for the front desk attendant, but he is gone. Now, it’s just the two of us. I don’t know what to say. Anger is bubbling within me, but I also have the urge to offer him something to eat or drink.
“Look, I’m sorry I said that about you. I’m sorry I called you that. I didn’t mean to insult you…” Wyatt says with his body turned away from me.
He’s looking out the window onto the grass prairie outside. It’s still pitch black. I yearn for the buffalo to return.
“Yet, you did.” I am not quick to forgive. His words weren’t meant for me. I know that. But I don’t care.
“I know, but I’m apologizing now. Okay? I was really trying to insult Gatsby.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know.” he turns around to face me.
His blonde hair falls into his face, and his body exudes cockiness. It looks familiar. It reminds me of Gatsby, and I wonder if cockiness is hereditary. Or is it something you get from your environment? There’s no way to know because they are brothers, same genetics, same environment.
“Gatsby has always been a hothead,” Wyatt says, walking away from me. That hasn’t been my experience.
“And you?”
He laughs. “Me too. He just brings out the worst in me.”
Wyatt goes to the liquor cabinet, which I hadn’t even noticed before. He pours himself a whiskey and asks me what I want. I request a martini. When he hands me the drink, he apologizes again for what he had said, and this time, I accept his apology.
We stand in silence looking at the dark meadow outside. I take a few sips of my martini, and I feel myself relaxing as it courses through me.
I should’ve had a drink before getting here!
Transferring his glass from one hand to another, Wyatt takes off his jacket. He’s not wearing a tie, just a crisp, white shirt. He unbuttons the top button and adjusts his stance. I look down and see his beautiful Italian leather loafers. He’s wearing them without socks.
“I’ve always wondered what kind of girl would finally keep my brother’s interest,” he says, not so much to me but out into the ether.
“And?”
“From what I can see, you’re a good option.” He turns to me. His eyes are also piercing blue. His eyelashes are longer than Gatsby’s, which make his face look more delicate and fragile.
“How do you know that I’m keeping his interest? Or will keep his interest?” I ask.
Gatsby gives me butterflies, but given our working relationship, I’m not entirely decided whether this whole thing is such a great idea. Still it’s good to know that you’re keeping someone’s interest.
Wyatt turns to me with a perplexed look in his eye. “What are you talking about? He brought you here, didn’t he?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. So he explains.
“This place used to be our summer home. It’s something of an ancestral home. It was first built by our great-grandfather, and for many years, it was the only private residence in Yellowstone. Our great-grandfather was a good friend of Teddy Roosevelt, and he refused to sell this place when Teddy wanted to make Yellowstone a national park. So they came to an agreement. The land belongs to the Park, and the house remains in the family. It was called Wild Yellowstone back then.”
“So what happened?”
“My father decided to sell it to the Park a few years ago, so it was converted to a lodge for the public. I’m not exactly sure why, and Gatsby has never forgiven him for it either.”
I had no idea. I thought this was just some sort of five-star hotel. Exclusive and private, but not ancestral.
“Gatsby has always loved this place. We all did, but him especially. And he has never invited any girl here before. Not even his high school girl friend who he had dated for close to a year. That’s how I know you’re different.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t know why Wyatt is sharing all of this with me, but I don’t stop him. I want to know more about Gatsby. As much as I can.
“We grew up in LA, so we didn’t technically grow up here, but this place has always felt like home. It was the closest thing we had to a home. This was our grandparents’ house, and we spent a lot of time here as children. Every summer, every holiday, and occasional weekends whenever we got tired of our parents and all of their bullshit.”
For a moment, he says nothing. We look into the distance – on the sea of grass dancing under the moonlight. A small fox runs across in front of the window, bringing a smile to my face. In the shadows, the fox looks black, but I imagine the vibrant orange color of his fur and how it shines in the sunlight.
“And it was here that it happened,” Wyatt finally says.
Chapter 19
I have no idea what Wyatt is talking about.
“What happened?”
He says nothing and continues to stare into space.
“What happened?” I repeat myself. For a moment, I think that he hasn
’t heard me, but when he turns to face me, I know that he has and is just trying to decide whether he should tell me.
“The accident,” he says under his breath.
His cryptic words are starting to annoy me. What accident?
I want to ask him. But I need to pace myself. He has already revealed a lot more to me than Gatsby has. It is through Wyatt that I realize that I know next to nothing about Gatsby and his life. I didn’t even know that he had brothers until an hour ago. Gatsby shields himself in mystery, and if he’s not willing to tell me about his past, I can’t make enemies of people who are.
Wyatt stares at me. The expression on his face tells me that he had no idea that I didn’t know. I ask him to explain. Reluctantly, he gets into it.
“This happened a few years back. When Gatsby wasn’t part of the family business. When our father still ran things. Atticus was still in law school, and he was planning on getting involved after graduation because Gatsby turned away from the family. Or, at least, that’s what our father liked to call it.” Wyatt laughs.
“To tell you the truth, even though I’d never admit it to Gatsby, I kind of admired him back then. I was still in college, and I really liked how he stood up to our father and followed his own path. Even if he was just some ski bum. It meant a lot to me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because no one ever stands up to Dr. William H. Wild,” Wyatt says.
He looks me straight in the eye and then looks away. All families are complicated, but I am getting the sense that the Wild family is particularly complex.
“So what happened?” I ask, unable to conceal my anticipation in hearing the rest of the story.
“I was home from school for the summer, and Gatsby showed up for a few days during July 4th weekend as well. At that time, Atticus was living at home and shadowing our father. Man, he’s always been such as kiss ass. Anyway, the whole family was over. Our uncle Henry, our aunt Mary, and their two grown sons, Harry and Logan. They are both our age. Logan’s a few years older than I am, and Harry’s between Atticus and Gatsby.
Auctioned to Him 4: His Addiction Page 31