Mommy can’t see me. I stand in front of her. She can’t see me. She’s asleep with her eyes open. Or sick.
I hear a rattle. His keys. He’s back.
I run and hide and make myself small under the table in the kitchen. My cars are here with me.
Bang. The door slams shut, making me jump.
Through my fingers I see Mommy. She turns her head to see him. Then she’s asleep on the couch. He’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckles and standing over Mommy shouting. He hits Mommy with a belt. Get Up! Get Up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. Mommy makes a noise. A wailing noise.
Stop. Stop hitting Mommy. Stop hitting Mommy.
I run at him and hit him and I hit him and I hit him.
But he laughs and smacks me across the face.
No! Mommy shouts.
You are one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes herself small. Small like me. And then she’s quiet. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
I am under the table. I have my fingers in my ears and I close my eyes. The sound stops. He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He carries the belt, slapping it against his leg. He is trying to find me. He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of smoking and drinking and bad smells. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes me. I’m drenched in sweat and my heart is pounding. I sit bolt upright in bed.
Fuck.
The eerie noise was from me.
I take a deep steadying breath, trying to rid my memory of the smell of body odor and cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
Ana’s words ring in my head.
Like his.
Fuck.
I couldn’t help the crack whore.
I tried. Good God, I tried.
There you are, you little shit.
But I could help Ana.
I let her go.
I had to let her go.
She didn’t need all this shit.
I glance at the clock: it’s 3:30. I head into the kitchen and after drinking a large glass of water I make my way to the piano.
I WAKE AGAIN WITH a jolt and it’s light—early-morning sunshine fills the room. I was dreaming of Ana: Ana kissing me, her tongue in my mouth, my fingers in her hair; pressing her delectable body against me, her hands tethered above her head.
Where is she?
For one sweet moment I forget all that transpired yesterday—then it floods back.
She’s gone.
Fuck.
The evidence of my desire presses into the mattress—but the memory of her bright eyes, clouded with hurt and humiliation as she left, soon solves that problem.
Feeling like shit, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, arms behind my head. The day stretches out before me, and for the first time in years, I don’t know what to do with myself. I check the time again: 5:58.
Hell, I might as well go for a run.
PROKOFIEV’S “ARRIVAL OF THE Montagues and Capulets” blares in my ears as I pound the sidewalk through the early morning quiet of Fourth Avenue. I ache everywhere—my lungs are bursting, my head is throbbing, and the yawning, dull ache of loss eats away at my insides. I cannot run from this pain, though I’m trying. I stop to change the music and drag precious air into my lungs. I want something…violent. “Pump It,” by the Black Eyed Peas, yeah. I pick up the pace.
I find myself running down Vine Street, and I know it’s insane, but I hope to see her. As I near her street my heart races still harder and my anxiety escalates. I’m not desperate to see her—I just want to check that she’s okay. No, that’s not true. I want to see her. Finally on her street, I pace past her apartment building.
All is quiet—an Oldsmobile trundles up the road, two dog walkers are out—but there’s no sign of life from inside her apartment. Crossing the street, I pause on the sidewalk opposite, then duck into the doorway of an apartment building to catch my breath.
The curtains of one room are closed, the others open. Perhaps that’s her room. Maybe she’s still asleep—if she’s there at all. A nightmare scenario forms in my mind: she went out last night, got drunk, met someone…
No.
Bile rises in my throat. The thought of her body in someone else’s hands, some asshole basking in the warmth of her smile, making her giggle, making her laugh—making her come. It takes all my self-control not to go barging through the front door of her apartment to check that she’s there and on her own.
You brought this on yourself, Grey.
Forget her. She’s not for you.
I tug my Seahawks cap low over my face and sprint on down Western Avenue.
My jealousy is raw and angry; it fills the gaping hole. I hate it—it stirs something deep in my psyche that I really don’t want to examine. I run harder, away from that memory, away from the pain, away from Anastasia Steele.
IT’S DUSK OVER SEATTLE. I stand up and stretch. I’ve been at my desk in my study all day, and it’s been productive. Ros has worked hard, too. She’s prepared and sent me a first draft business plan and letter of intent for SIP.
At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Ana.
The thought is painful and appealing in equal measure.
I’ve read and commented on two patent applications, a few contracts, and a new design spec, and while lost in the detail of those, I have not thought about her. The little glider is still on my desk, taunting me, reminding me of happier times, like she said. I picture her standing in the doorway of my study, wearing one of my T-shirts, all long legs and blue eyes, just before she seduced me.
Another first.
I miss her.
There—I admit it. I check my phone, hoping in vain, and there’s a text from Elliot.
Beer, hotshot?
I respond:
No. Busy.
Elliot’s response is immediate.
Fuck you, then.
Yeah. Fuck me.
Nothing from Ana: no missed call. No e-mail. The nagging pain in my gut intensifies. She’s not going to call. She wanted out. She wanted to get away from me, and I can’t blame her.
It’s for the best.
I head to the kitchen for a change of scenery.
Gail is back. The kitchen has been cleaned, and there’s a pot bubbling on the stove. Smells good…but I’m not hungry. She walks in while I’m eyeing what’s cooking.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Gail.”
She pauses—surprised by something. Surprised by me? Shit, I must look bad.
I hear a rattle. His keys. He’s back.
I run and hide and make myself small under the table in the kitchen. My cars are here with me.
Bang. The door slams shut, making me jump.
Through my fingers I see Mommy. She turns her head to see him. Then she’s asleep on the couch. He’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckles and standing over Mommy shouting. He hits Mommy with a belt. Get Up! Get Up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. Mommy makes a noise. A wailing noise.
Stop. Stop hitting Mommy. Stop hitting Mommy.
I run at him and hit him and I hit him and I hit him.
But he laughs and smacks me across the face.
No! Mommy shouts.
You are one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes herself small. Small like me. And then she’s quiet. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
I am under the table. I have my fingers in my ears and I close my eyes. The sound stops. He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He carries the belt, slapping it against his leg. He is trying to find me. He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of smoking and drinking and bad smells. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes me. I’m drenched in sweat and my heart is pounding. I sit bolt upright in bed.
Fuck.
The eerie noise was from me.
I take a deep steadying breath, trying to rid my memory of the smell of body odor and cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
Ana’s words ring in my head.
Like his.
Fuck.
I couldn’t help the crack whore.
I tried. Good God, I tried.
There you are, you little shit.
But I could help Ana.
I let her go.
I had to let her go.
She didn’t need all this shit.
I glance at the clock: it’s 3:30. I head into the kitchen and after drinking a large glass of water I make my way to the piano.
I WAKE AGAIN WITH a jolt and it’s light—early-morning sunshine fills the room. I was dreaming of Ana: Ana kissing me, her tongue in my mouth, my fingers in her hair; pressing her delectable body against me, her hands tethered above her head.
Where is she?
For one sweet moment I forget all that transpired yesterday—then it floods back.
She’s gone.
Fuck.
The evidence of my desire presses into the mattress—but the memory of her bright eyes, clouded with hurt and humiliation as she left, soon solves that problem.
Feeling like shit, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, arms behind my head. The day stretches out before me, and for the first time in years, I don’t know what to do with myself. I check the time again: 5:58.
Hell, I might as well go for a run.
PROKOFIEV’S “ARRIVAL OF THE Montagues and Capulets” blares in my ears as I pound the sidewalk through the early morning quiet of Fourth Avenue. I ache everywhere—my lungs are bursting, my head is throbbing, and the yawning, dull ache of loss eats away at my insides. I cannot run from this pain, though I’m trying. I stop to change the music and drag precious air into my lungs. I want something…violent. “Pump It,” by the Black Eyed Peas, yeah. I pick up the pace.
I find myself running down Vine Street, and I know it’s insane, but I hope to see her. As I near her street my heart races still harder and my anxiety escalates. I’m not desperate to see her—I just want to check that she’s okay. No, that’s not true. I want to see her. Finally on her street, I pace past her apartment building.
All is quiet—an Oldsmobile trundles up the road, two dog walkers are out—but there’s no sign of life from inside her apartment. Crossing the street, I pause on the sidewalk opposite, then duck into the doorway of an apartment building to catch my breath.
The curtains of one room are closed, the others open. Perhaps that’s her room. Maybe she’s still asleep—if she’s there at all. A nightmare scenario forms in my mind: she went out last night, got drunk, met someone…
No.
Bile rises in my throat. The thought of her body in someone else’s hands, some asshole basking in the warmth of her smile, making her giggle, making her laugh—making her come. It takes all my self-control not to go barging through the front door of her apartment to check that she’s there and on her own.
You brought this on yourself, Grey.
Forget her. She’s not for you.
I tug my Seahawks cap low over my face and sprint on down Western Avenue.
My jealousy is raw and angry; it fills the gaping hole. I hate it—it stirs something deep in my psyche that I really don’t want to examine. I run harder, away from that memory, away from the pain, away from Anastasia Steele.
IT’S DUSK OVER SEATTLE. I stand up and stretch. I’ve been at my desk in my study all day, and it’s been productive. Ros has worked hard, too. She’s prepared and sent me a first draft business plan and letter of intent for SIP.
At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Ana.
The thought is painful and appealing in equal measure.
I’ve read and commented on two patent applications, a few contracts, and a new design spec, and while lost in the detail of those, I have not thought about her. The little glider is still on my desk, taunting me, reminding me of happier times, like she said. I picture her standing in the doorway of my study, wearing one of my T-shirts, all long legs and blue eyes, just before she seduced me.
Another first.
I miss her.
There—I admit it. I check my phone, hoping in vain, and there’s a text from Elliot.
Beer, hotshot?
I respond:
No. Busy.
Elliot’s response is immediate.
Fuck you, then.
Yeah. Fuck me.
Nothing from Ana: no missed call. No e-mail. The nagging pain in my gut intensifies. She’s not going to call. She wanted out. She wanted to get away from me, and I can’t blame her.
It’s for the best.
I head to the kitchen for a change of scenery.
Gail is back. The kitchen has been cleaned, and there’s a pot bubbling on the stove. Smells good…but I’m not hungry. She walks in while I’m eyeing what’s cooking.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Gail.”
She pauses—surprised by something. Surprised by me? Shit, I must look bad.
