“It’s a pleasure as always, Miss Steele.”
This cannot be the end. I have to show her—demonstrate what this all means, what we can do together. Show her what we can do in the playroom. Then she’ll know. This might be the only way to save this deal. Quickly I turn to her. “You’re moving this weekend to Seattle. If you make the right decision, can I see you on Sunday?” I ask.
“We’ll see. Maybe,” she says.
That’s not a “no.”
I notice the goose bumps on her arms. “It’s cooler now, don’t you have a jacket?” I ask.
“No.”
This woman needs looking after. I take off my jacket. “Here. I don’t want you catching cold.” I slip it over her shoulders and she hugs it around herself, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply.
Is she drawn to my scent? Like I am to hers?
Perhaps all is not lost?
The valet pulls up in an ancient VW Beetle.
What the hell is that?
“That’s what you drive?” This must be older than Grandpa Theodore. Jesus! The valet hands over the keys and I tip him generously. He deserves danger pay.
“Is this roadworthy?” I glare at Ana. How can she be safe in this rust bucket?
“Yes.”
“Will it make it to Seattle?”
“Yes. She will.”
“Safely?”
“Yes.” She tries to reassure me. “Okay, she’s old. But she’s mine, and she’s roadworthy. My stepdad bought it for me.”
When I suggest that we could do better than this she realizes what I’m offering and her expression changes immediately.
She’s mad.
“You are not buying me a car,” she says emphatically.
“We’ll see,” I mutter, trying to keep calm. I hold open the driver’s door, and as she climbs in I wonder if I should ask Taylor to take her home. Damn. I remember that he’s off this evening.
Once I’ve shut the door, she rolls down the window…painfully slowly.
For Christ’s sake!
“Drive safely,” I growl.
“Good-bye, Christian,” she says, and her voice falters, as if she’s trying not to cry.
Shit. My whole mood shifts from irritation and concern for her well-being to helplessness as her car roars off up the street.
I don’t know if I’ll see her again.
I stand like a fool on the sidewalk until her rear lights disappear into the night.
Fuck. Why did that go so wrong?
I stalk back into the hotel, make for the bar, and order a bottle of the Sancerre. Taking it with me, I head up to my room. My laptop lies open on my desk, and before I uncork the wine, I sit down and start typing an e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 22:01
To: Anastasia Steele
I don’t understand why you ran this evening. I sincerely hope I answered all your questions to your satisfaction. I know I have given you a great deal to contemplate, and I fervently hope that you will give my proposal your serious consideration. I really want to make this work. We will take it slow.
Trust me.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I glance at my watch. It will take her at least twenty minutes to get home, probably longer in that deathtrap. I e-mail Taylor.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Audi A3
Date: May 25 2011 22:04
To: J B Taylor
I need that Audi delivered here tomorrow.
Thanks.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Opening the Sancerre, I pour myself a glass, and picking up my book, I sit and read, trying hard to concentrate. My eyes keep straying to my laptop screen. When will she reply?
As the minutes tick by, my anxiety balloons; why hasn’t she returned my e-mail?
At 11:00, I text her.
Are you home safe?
But I get nothing in response. Perhaps she’s gone straight to bed. Before midnight I send another e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 23:58
To: Anastasia Steele
I hope you made it home in that car of yours.
Let me know if you’re okay.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I’ll see her tomorrow at the graduation ceremony and I’ll find out then if she’s turning me down. With that depressing thought I strip and climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.
You’ve really fucked up this deal, Grey.
THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2011
Mommy is gone. Sometimes she goes outside.
And it is only me. Me and my cars and my blankie.
When she comes home she sleeps on the couch. The couch is brown and sticky. She is tired. Sometimes I cover her with my blankie.
Or she comes home with something to eat. I like those days. We have bread and butter. And sometimes we have macrami and cheese. That is my favorite.
Today Mommy is gone. I play with my cars. They go fast on the floor. My mommy is gone. She will come back. She will. When is Mommy coming home?
It is dark now, and my mommy is gone. I can reach the light when I stand on the stool.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.
I’m hungry. I eat the cheese. There is cheese in the fridge. Cheese with blue fur.
When is Mommy coming home?
Sometimes she comes home with him. I hate him. I hide when he comes. My favorite place is in my mommy’s closet. It smells of Mommy. It smells of Mommy when she’s happy.
When is Mommy coming home?
My bed is cold. And I am hungry. I have my blankie and my cars but not my mommy. When is Mommy coming home?
I wake with a start.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I hate my dreams. They’re riddled with harrowing memories, distorted reminders of a time I want to forget. My heart is pounding and I’m drenched with sweat. But the worst consequence of these nightmares is dealing with the overwhelming anxiety when I wake.
My nightmares have recently become more frequent, and more vivid. I have no idea why. Damned Flynn—he’s not back until sometime next week. I run both of my hands through my hair and check the time. It’s 5:38, and the dawn light is seeping through the curtains. It’s nearly time to get up.
Go for a run, Grey.
THERE IS STILL NO text or e-mail from Ana. As my feet pound the sidewalk, my anxiety grows.
This cannot be the end. I have to show her—demonstrate what this all means, what we can do together. Show her what we can do in the playroom. Then she’ll know. This might be the only way to save this deal. Quickly I turn to her. “You’re moving this weekend to Seattle. If you make the right decision, can I see you on Sunday?” I ask.
“We’ll see. Maybe,” she says.
That’s not a “no.”
I notice the goose bumps on her arms. “It’s cooler now, don’t you have a jacket?” I ask.
“No.”
This woman needs looking after. I take off my jacket. “Here. I don’t want you catching cold.” I slip it over her shoulders and she hugs it around herself, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply.
Is she drawn to my scent? Like I am to hers?
Perhaps all is not lost?
The valet pulls up in an ancient VW Beetle.
What the hell is that?
“That’s what you drive?” This must be older than Grandpa Theodore. Jesus! The valet hands over the keys and I tip him generously. He deserves danger pay.
“Is this roadworthy?” I glare at Ana. How can she be safe in this rust bucket?
“Yes.”
“Will it make it to Seattle?”
“Yes. She will.”
“Safely?”
“Yes.” She tries to reassure me. “Okay, she’s old. But she’s mine, and she’s roadworthy. My stepdad bought it for me.”
When I suggest that we could do better than this she realizes what I’m offering and her expression changes immediately.
She’s mad.
“You are not buying me a car,” she says emphatically.
“We’ll see,” I mutter, trying to keep calm. I hold open the driver’s door, and as she climbs in I wonder if I should ask Taylor to take her home. Damn. I remember that he’s off this evening.
Once I’ve shut the door, she rolls down the window…painfully slowly.
For Christ’s sake!
“Drive safely,” I growl.
“Good-bye, Christian,” she says, and her voice falters, as if she’s trying not to cry.
Shit. My whole mood shifts from irritation and concern for her well-being to helplessness as her car roars off up the street.
I don’t know if I’ll see her again.
I stand like a fool on the sidewalk until her rear lights disappear into the night.
Fuck. Why did that go so wrong?
I stalk back into the hotel, make for the bar, and order a bottle of the Sancerre. Taking it with me, I head up to my room. My laptop lies open on my desk, and before I uncork the wine, I sit down and start typing an e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 22:01
To: Anastasia Steele
I don’t understand why you ran this evening. I sincerely hope I answered all your questions to your satisfaction. I know I have given you a great deal to contemplate, and I fervently hope that you will give my proposal your serious consideration. I really want to make this work. We will take it slow.
Trust me.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I glance at my watch. It will take her at least twenty minutes to get home, probably longer in that deathtrap. I e-mail Taylor.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Audi A3
Date: May 25 2011 22:04
To: J B Taylor
I need that Audi delivered here tomorrow.
Thanks.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Opening the Sancerre, I pour myself a glass, and picking up my book, I sit and read, trying hard to concentrate. My eyes keep straying to my laptop screen. When will she reply?
As the minutes tick by, my anxiety balloons; why hasn’t she returned my e-mail?
At 11:00, I text her.
Are you home safe?
But I get nothing in response. Perhaps she’s gone straight to bed. Before midnight I send another e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 23:58
To: Anastasia Steele
I hope you made it home in that car of yours.
Let me know if you’re okay.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I’ll see her tomorrow at the graduation ceremony and I’ll find out then if she’s turning me down. With that depressing thought I strip and climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.
You’ve really fucked up this deal, Grey.
THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2011
Mommy is gone. Sometimes she goes outside.
And it is only me. Me and my cars and my blankie.
When she comes home she sleeps on the couch. The couch is brown and sticky. She is tired. Sometimes I cover her with my blankie.
Or she comes home with something to eat. I like those days. We have bread and butter. And sometimes we have macrami and cheese. That is my favorite.
Today Mommy is gone. I play with my cars. They go fast on the floor. My mommy is gone. She will come back. She will. When is Mommy coming home?
It is dark now, and my mommy is gone. I can reach the light when I stand on the stool.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.
I’m hungry. I eat the cheese. There is cheese in the fridge. Cheese with blue fur.
When is Mommy coming home?
Sometimes she comes home with him. I hate him. I hide when he comes. My favorite place is in my mommy’s closet. It smells of Mommy. It smells of Mommy when she’s happy.
When is Mommy coming home?
My bed is cold. And I am hungry. I have my blankie and my cars but not my mommy. When is Mommy coming home?
I wake with a start.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I hate my dreams. They’re riddled with harrowing memories, distorted reminders of a time I want to forget. My heart is pounding and I’m drenched with sweat. But the worst consequence of these nightmares is dealing with the overwhelming anxiety when I wake.
My nightmares have recently become more frequent, and more vivid. I have no idea why. Damned Flynn—he’s not back until sometime next week. I run both of my hands through my hair and check the time. It’s 5:38, and the dawn light is seeping through the curtains. It’s nearly time to get up.
Go for a run, Grey.
THERE IS STILL NO text or e-mail from Ana. As my feet pound the sidewalk, my anxiety grows.
