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.