Grey (31 page)

Shouty capitals.
Her e-mails make me laugh. They're entertaining. She's funny. I never knew I liked that in a woman. I'll need to think about what we'll do on Sunday in my playroom…something fun, something new for her.

While shaving I have an idea, and as soon as I'm dressed I get back on my laptop to browse my favorite toy store. I need a riding crop—brown plaited leather. I smirk. I'm going to make Ana's dreams come true.

Order placed, I turn to work e-mails, energized and productive, until Taylor interrupts me. “Good morning, Taylor.”

“Mr. Grey.” He nods, looking at me with a puzzled expression, and I realize I'm grinning because I'm thinking about her e-mails again.

Descriptive linguistics is a hard limit for me.

“I've had a good morning,” I find myself explaining.

“I'm pleased to hear it, sir. I have Miss Steele's laundry from last week.”

“Pack it with my things.”

“Will do.”

“Thank you.” I watch him walk into my bedroom. Even Taylor is noticing the Anastasia Steele effect. My phone buzzes: it's a text from Elliot.

You still in Portland?

Yes. But I'm leaving soon.

I'll be there later. I'm gonna help the girls move.

Shame you can't stay.

Our first DOUBLE DATE since Ana popped your cherry.

Fuck off. I'm picking up Mia.

I need deets bro. Kate tells me nothing.

Good. Fuck off. Again.

“Mr. Grey?” Taylor interrupts once more, my luggage in hand. “The courier has been dispatched with the BlackBerry.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and as he leaves I type up another e-mail to Miss Steele.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
BlackBerry ON LOAN

Date:
May 27 2011 11:15

To:
Anastasia Steele

I need to be able to contact you at all times, and since this is your most honest form of communication, I figured you needed a BlackBerry.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

And maybe you'll answer this phone when I call.

At 11:30 I have another conference call, with our director of
finance, to discuss GEH's charitable giving for the next quarter. That takes the best part of an hour, and when it's over I finish a light lunch and read the rest of my
Forbes
magazine.

As I swallow the last forkful of salad, I realize I have no other reason to stay at the hotel. It's time to go, yet I'm reluctant. And deep down I have to acknowledge it's because I won't see Ana until Sunday, unless she changes her mind.

Fuck. I hope not.

Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, I start packing my papers into my messenger bag, and when I reach for my laptop to put it away, I see there's an e-mail from Ana.

From:
Anastasia Steele

Subject:
Consumerism Gone Mad

Date:
May 27 2011 13:22

To:
Christian Grey

I think you need to call Dr. Flynn right now.

Your stalker tendencies are running wild.

I am at work. I will e-mail you when I get home.

Thank you for yet another gadget.

I wasn't wrong when I said you were the ultimate consumer.

Why do you do this?

Ana

She's scolding me! I respond immediately.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Sagacity from One So Young

Date:
May 27 2011 13:24

To:
Anastasia Steele

Fair point well made, as ever, Miss Steele.

Dr. Flynn is on vacation.

And I do this because I can.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

She doesn't answer straightaway, so I pack my laptop. Grabbing my bag, I head down to reception and check out. While I'm waiting for my car, Andrea calls to tell me that she's found an ob-gyn to come to Escala on Sunday.

“Her name is Dr. Greene, and she comes highly recommended by your M.D., sir.”

“Good.”

“She runs her practice out of Northwest.”

“Okay.” Where is Andrea going with this?

“There's one thing sir—she's expensive.”

I dismiss her concern. “Andrea, whatever she wants is fine.”

“In that case, she can be at your apartment one thirty on Sunday.”

“Great. Go ahead.”

“Will do, Mr. Grey.”

I hang up, and I'm tempted to call my mother to check Dr. Greene's credentials, as they work in the same hospital; but that might provoke too many questions from Grace.

Once in the car I send Ana an e-mail with details about Sunday.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Sunday

Date:
May 27 2011 13:40

To:
Anastasia Steele

Shall I see you at 1 p.m. Sunday?

The doctor will be at Escala to see you at 1:30.

I'm leaving for Seattle now.

I hope your move goes well, and I look forward to Sunday.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Right.
All done. I ease the R8 onto the road and roar toward I-5. As I pass the exit for Vancouver I'm inspired. I call Andrea on the hands-free and ask her to organize a housewarming present for Ana and Kate.

“What would you like to send?”

“Bollinger La Grande Année Rosé, 1999 vintage.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“What do you mean, anything else?”

“Flowers? Chocolates? A balloon?”

“Balloon?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of balloons?”

“Well…they have everything.”

“Okay. Good idea—see if you can get a helicopter balloon.”

“Yes, sir. And a message for the card?”

“ ‘Ladies, good luck in your new home. Christian Grey.' Got that?”

“I have. What's the address?”

Shit.
I don't know. “I'll text it to you either later today or tomorrow. Will that work?”

“Yes, sir. I can get it delivered tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Andrea.”

“You're welcome.” She sounds surprised.

I hang up and floor my R8.

BY 6:30 I'M HOME
and my earlier ebullient mood has soured—I still haven't heard from Ana. I select a pair of cuff links from the drawers in my closet and as I knot my bow tie for the night's event I wonder if she's okay. She said she would contact me when she got home; I've called her twice, but I've heard nothing, and it's pissing me off. I try her once more and this time I leave a message.

“I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I'm not a patient man. If you say you are going to contact me when you finish work, then you should have the decency to do so. Otherwise I worry, and it's not an emotion I'm familiar with, and I don't tolerate it very well. Call me.”

If she doesn't call soon I am going to explode.

I'M SEATED AT A
table with Whelan, my banker. I'm his guest at a charity function for a nonprofit that aims to raise awareness of global poverty.

“Glad you could make it,” Whelan says.

“It's a good cause.”

“And thank you for your generous contribution, Mr. Grey.” His wife is cloying, thrusting her perfect, surgically enhanced breasts in my direction.

“Like I said, it's a good cause.” I give her a patronizing smile.

Why hasn't Ana called me back?

I check my phone again.

Nothing.

I look around the table at all the middle-aged men with their second or third trophy wives. God forbid this should ever be me.

I'm bored. Seriously bored and seriously pissed.

What is she doing?

Could I have brought her here? I suspect she would have been bored stiff, too. When the conversation around the table moves to
the state of the economy, I've had enough. Making my excuses, I leave the ballroom and exit the hotel. While the valet is retrieving my car, I call Ana again.

There's still no answer.

Perhaps now that I'm gone she wants nothing to do with me.

When I get home, I head straight to my study and switch on the iMac.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Where Are You?

Date:
May 27 2011 22:14

To:
Anastasia Steele

“I am at work. I will e-mail you when I get home.”

Are you still at work or have you packed your phone, BlackBerry, and MacBook?

Call me, or I may be forced to call Elliot.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I stare out of my window toward the dark waters of the Sound. Why did I volunteer to collect Mia? I could be with Ana, helping her pack all her shit, then going out for pizza with her and Kate and Elliot—or whatever ordinary people do.

For God's sake, Grey.

That's not you.
Get a grip.

I wander around my apartment, my footsteps echoing through the living room, and it seems achingly empty since I was last here. I undo my bow tie. Perhaps it's me that's empty. I pour myself an Armagnac and stare back out at the Seattle skyline toward the Sound.

Are you thinking about me, Anastasia Steele? The winking lights of Seattle have no answer.

My phone buzzes.

Thank. Fuck.
Finally.
It's her.

“Hi.” I'm relieved that she's called.

“Hi,” she says.

“I was worried about you.”

“I know. I'm sorry I didn't reply, but I'm fine.”

Fine? I wish I was…

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” I ask, reining in my temper.

“Yes. We finished packing, and Kate and I had Chinese takeout with José.”

Oh, this just gets better and better. The fucking photographer again.
That's why she hasn't called.

“How about you?” she inquires when I don't respond, and there's a hint of desperation in her voice.

Why? What isn't she telling me?

Oh, stop overthinking this, Grey!

I sigh. “I went to a fund-raising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could.”

“I wish you were here,” she whispers.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she says fervently.

Oh.
Perhaps she's missed me.

“I'll see you Sunday?” I confirm, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.

“Yes, Sunday,” she says, and I think she's smiling.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Sir.” Her voice is husky and it takes my breath away.

“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.”

She stays on the line, her breathing soft. Why doesn't she hang up? She doesn't want to?

“You hang up,” she whispers.

She doesn't want to hang up and my mood lightens immediately. I grin out at the view of Seattle.

“No, you hang up.”

“I don't want to.”

“Neither do I.”

“Were you very angry with me?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you still?”

“No.”
Now I know you're safe.

“So you're not going to punish me?”

“No. I'm an in-the-moment kind of guy.”

“I've noticed,” she teases, and that makes me smile.

“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”

“Do you really want me to, Sir?”

“Go to bed, Anastasia.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She doesn't hang up, and I know she's grinning. It lifts my spirits higher. “Do you ever think you'll be able to do what you're told?” I ask.

“Maybe. We'll see after Sunday,” she says, temptress that she is, and the line goes dead.

Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?

Actually, I have a good idea, provided that riding crop turns up in time. And with that enticing thought I toss down the rest of the Armagnac and go to bed.

SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2011

C
hristian!” Mia squeals with delight and runs toward me, abandoning her cartload of luggage. Throwing her arms around my neck, she hugs me tightly.

“I've missed you,” she says.

“I've missed you, too.” I give her a squeeze in return. She leans back and examines me with intense dark eyes.

“You look good,” she gushes. “Tell me about this girl!”

“Let's get you and your luggage home first.” I grab her cart, which weighs a ton, and together we head out of the airport terminal toward the parking lot.

“So how was Paris? You appear to have brought most of it home with you.”

“C'est incroyable!”
she exclaims. “Floubert, on the other hand, was a bastard.
Jesus.
He was a horrible man. A crap teacher but a good chef.”

“Does that mean you're cooking this evening?”

“Oh, I was hoping Mom would cook.”

Mia proceeds to talk nonstop about Paris: her tiny room, the plumbing, Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, Parisians, coffee, red wine, cheese, fashion, shopping. But mainly about fashion and shopping. And I thought she went to Paris to learn to cook.

I've missed her chatter; it's soothing and welcome. She is the only person I know who doesn't make me feel…different.

“This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.”

Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair.

She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh.

Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia.

I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her.

Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries.

And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop.

When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops.

She falls asleep in my arms.

“Mee a,” I whisper.

“What did you say?” Mommy asks, and her face is white like chalk.

“Mee a.”

“Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.”

And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.

I TURN INTO THE
driveway, pull up outside Mom and Dad's front door, unload Mia's luggage, and carry it into the hall.

“Where is everyone?” Mia is in full pout. The only person around is my parents' housekeeper—she's an exchange student, and I can't remember her name. “Welcome home,” she says to Mia in her stilted English, though she's looking at me with big cow eyes.

Oh, God. It's just a pretty face, sweetheart.

Ignoring the housekeeper, I address Mia's question. “I think Mom is on call and Dad is at a conference. You did come home a week early.”

“I couldn't stand Floubert another minute. I had to get out while I could. Oh, I bought you a present.” She grabs one of her cases, opens it up in the hallway, and starts rummaging through it. “Ah!” She hands me a heavy square box. “Open it,” she urges, beaming at me. She is an unstoppable force.

Warily I open the box, and inside I find a snow globe containing a black grand piano covered in glitter. It's the kitschiest thing I've ever seen.

“It's a music box. Here—” She takes it from me, gives it a good shake, and winds a small key on the bottom. A twinkly version of “La Marseillaise” starts to play in a cloud of colored glitter.

What am I going to do with this?
I laugh, because it's so Mia. “That's great, Mia. Thank you.” I give her a hug and she hugs me back.

“I knew it would make you laugh.”

She's right. She knows me well.

“So tell me about this girl,” she says. But we're both distracted as Grace hurries through the door, allowing me a reprieve as mother and daughter embrace. “I'm so sorry I wasn't there to meet you, darling,” Grace says. “I've been on call. You look so grown up. Christian, can you take Mia's bags upstairs? Gretchen will give you a hand.”

Really? I'm a porter now?

“Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don't need Gretchen mooning over me.

Once that's done, I tell them that I have an appointment with my trainer. “I'll be back this evening.” Quickly kissing them both, I leave before I'm pestered with more questions about Ana.

BASTILLE, MY TRAINER, WORKS
me hard. Today we're kickboxing at his gym.

“You've gone soft in Portland, boy.” He sneers after I'm toppled onto the mat from his roundhouse kick. Bastille is from the hard-knocks school of physical training, which suits me fine.

I scramble to my feet. I want to take him down. But he's right—he's all over my shit today, and I get nowhere.

When we finish he asks, “What gives? You're distracted, man.”

“Life. You know,” I answer with an air of indifference.

“Sure. You're back in Seattle this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We'll straighten you out.”

AS I JOG BACK
to the apartment I remember the housewarming present for Ana. I text Elliot.

What's Ana and Kate's address?

I want to surprise them with a present.

He texts me back an address and I forward it to Andrea. As I'm riding in the elevator up to the penthouse, Andrea texts me back.

Champagne and balloon sent. A.

Taylor hands me a package when I arrive back at the apartment. “This came for you, Mr. Grey.”

Oh yes.
I recognize the anonymous wrapping: it's the riding crop.

“Thanks.”

“Mrs. Jones said she'd be back tomorrow, late afternoon.”

“Okay. I think that's all for today, Taylor.”

“Very good, sir,” he says with a polite smile, and returns to his office. Taking the crop, I stroll into my bedroom. This will be the perfect introduction to my world: by her own admission Ana has no sphere of reference with regard to corporal punishment, except the spanking I gave her that night. And that turned her on. With the crop, I'll have to take it slow and make it pleasurable.

Really pleasurable.
The riding crop is perfect. I'll prove to her that the fear is in her head. Once she gets comfortable with this, we can move on.

I hope we can move on …

We'll take it slow. And we'll only do what she can handle. If this is going to work we're going to have to go at her pace. Not mine.

I take one more look at the crop and put it in my closet for tomorrow.

AS I FLIP OPEN
my laptop to start work my phone rings. I hope it's Ana, but it's disappointingly Elena.

Was I supposed to call her?

“Hello, Christian. How are you?”

“Good, thanks.”

“You're back from Portland?”

“Yes.”

“Fancy dinner tonight?”

“Not tonight. Mia's just in from Paris and I've been ordered home.”

“Ah. By Mama Grey. How is she?”

“Mama Grey? She's good. I think. Why? What do you know that I don't?”

“I was just asking, Christian. Don't be so touchy.”

“I'll call you next week. Maybe we can do dinner then.”

“Good. You've been off the radar for a while. And I've met a woman who I think might meet your needs.”

So have I.

I ignore her comment. “I'll see you next week. Good-bye.”

As I shower I wonder if having to chase Ana has made her more interesting…or is it Ana herself?

DINNER HAS BEEN FUN.
My sister is back, the princess she's always been, the rest of the family merely her minions, wrapped around her little finger. With all her children home, Grace is in her element; she's cooked Mia's favorite meal—buttermilk fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.

I have to say, it's one of my favorites, too.

“Tell me about Anastasia,” Mia demands as we sit around the kitchen table. Elliot leans back in his chair and rests his hands behind his head.

“This I have to hear. You know she popped his cherry?”

“Elliot!” Grace scolds, and swats him with a dish towel.

“Ow!” He fends her off.

I roll my eyes at all of them. “I met a girl.” I shrug. “End of story.”

“You can't just say that!” Mia objects, pouting.

“Mia, I think he can. And he just did.” Carrick gives her a reproving paternal stare over his glasses.

“You'll all meet her at dinner tomorrow, won't we, Christian?” Grace says with a pointed smile.

Oh, fuck.

“Kate's coming,” Elliot goads.

Fucking stirrer.
I glare at him.

“I can't wait to meet her. She sounds awesome!” Mia bounces up and down in her chair.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, wondering if there's any way I can wriggle out of dinner tomorrow.

“Elena was asking after you, darling,” Grace says.

“She was?” I affect an uninterested air, developed over years of practice.

“Yes. She says she hasn't seen you in a while.”

“I've been in Portland on business. Speaking of which, I should get going—I have an important call tomorrow and I need to prepare.”

“But you've not had dessert. And it's apple cobbler.”

Hmm…tempting.
But if I stay they'll quiz me about Ana. “I have to go. I have work to do.”

“Darling, you work too hard,” Grace says, as she starts from her chair.

“Don't get up, Mom. I'm sure Elliot will help with the dishes after dinner.”

“What?” Elliot scowls. I wink at him, say my good-byes, and turn to leave.

“But we'll see you tomorrow?” Grace asks, too much hope in her voice.

“We'll see.”

Shit.
It looks like Anastasia Steele is going to meet my family.

I don't know how I feel about this.