And you turned her down.
It was for her own good.
This has needled me for days now. Her beautiful face appears in my mind without warning, taunting me. If my shrink was back from his vacation in England I could call him. His psychobabble shit would stop me feeling this lousy.
Grey, she was just a pretty girl.
Perhaps I need a distraction; a new sub, maybe. It's been too long since Susannah. I contemplate calling Elena in the morning. She always finds suitable candidates for me. But the truth is, I don't want anyone new.
I want Ana.
Her disappointment, her wounded indignation, and her contempt remain with me. She walked away without a backward glance. Perhaps I raised her hopes by asking her out for coffee, only to disappoint her.
Maybe I should find some way to apologize, then I can forget about this whole sorry episode and get the girl out of my head. Leaving the glass in the sink for my housekeeper to wash, I trudge back to bed.
THE RADIO ALARM JOLTS to life at 5:45 as I'm staring at the ceiling. I haven't slept and I'm exhausted.
Fuck! This is ridiculous.
The program on the radio is a welcome distraction until the second news item. It's about the sale of a rare manuscript: an unfinished novel by Jane Austen called The Watsons that's being auctioned in London.
"Books," she said.
Christ. Even the news reminds me of little Miss Bookworm.
She's an incurable romantic who loves the English classics. But then so do I, but for different reasons. I don't have any Jane Austen first editions, or Brontes, for that matter...but I do have two Thomas Hardys.
Of course! This is it! This is what I can do.
Moments later I'm in my library with Jude the Obscure and a boxed set of Tess of the d'Urbervilles in its three volumes laid out on the billiard table in front of me. Both are bleak books, with tragic themes. Hardy had a dark, twisted soul.
Like me.
I shake off the thought and examine the books. Even though Jude is in better condition, it's no contest. In Jude there is no redemption, so I'll send her Tess, with a suitable quote. I know it's not the most romantic book, considering the evils that befall the heroine, but she has a brief taste of romantic love in the bucolic idyll that is the English countryside. And Tess does exact revenge on the man who wronged her.
But that's not the point. Ana mentioned Hardy as a favorite and I'm sure she's never seen, let alone owned, a first edition.
"You sound like the ultimate consumer." Her judgmental retort from the interview comes back to haunt me. Yes. I like to possess things, things that will rise in value, like first editions.
Feeling calmer and more composed, and a little pleased with myself, I head back into my closet and change into my running gear.
IN THE BACK OF the car I leaf through book one of the Tess first edition, looking for a quote, and at the same time wonder when Ana's last exam will take place. I read the book years ago and have a hazy recollection of the plot. Fiction was my sanctuary when I was a teenager. My mother always marveled that I read; Elliot not so much. I craved the escape that fiction provided. He didn't need an escape.
"Mr. Grey," Taylor interrupts. "We're here, sir." He climbs out of the car and opens my door. "I'll be outside at two o'clock to take you to your golf game."
I nod and head into Grey House, the books tucked under my arm. The young receptionist greets me with a flirtatious wave.
Every day...Like a cheesy tune on repeat.
Ignoring her, I make my way to the elevator that will take me straight to my floor.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey," Barry on security greets me as he presses the button to summon the elevator.
"How's your son, Barry?"
"Better, sir."
"I'm glad to hear it."
I step into the elevator and it shoots up to the twentieth floor. Andrea is on hand to greet me.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey. Ros wants to see you to discuss the Darfur project. Barney would like a few minutes--"
I hold my hand up to silence her. "Forget those for now. Get me Welch on the line and find out when Flynn is back from vacation. Once I've spoken to Welch we can pick up the day's schedule."
"Yes, sir."
"And I need a double espresso. Get Olivia to make it for me."
But looking around I notice that Olivia is absent. It's a relief. The girl is always mooning over me and it's fucking irritating.
"Would you like milk, sir?" Andrea asks.
Good girl. I give her a smile.
"Not today." I do like to keep them guessing how I take my coffee.
"Very good, Mr. Grey." She looks pleased with herself, which she should be. She's the best PA I've had.
Three minutes later she has Welch on the line.
"Welch?"
"Mr. Grey."
"The background check you did for me last week. Anastasia Steele. Studying at WSU."
"Yes, sir. I remember."
"I'd like you to find out when her last final exam takes place and let me know as a matter of priority."
"Very good, sir. Anything else?"
"No, that will be all." I hang up and stare at the books on my desk. I need to find a quote.
ROS, MY NUMBER TWO and my chief operating officer, is in full flow. "We're getting clearance from the Sudanese authorities to put the shipments into Port Sudan. But our contacts on the ground are hesitant about the road journey to Darfur. They're doing a risk assessment to see how viable it is." Logistics must be tough; her normal sunny disposition is absent.
"We could always airdrop."
"Christian, the expense of an airdrop--"
"I know. Let's see what our NGO friends come back with."
"Okay," she says and sighs. "I'm also waiting for the all-clear from the State Department."
I roll my eyes. Fucking red tape. "If we have to grease some palms--or get Senator Blandino to intervene--let me know."
"So the next topic is where to site the new plant. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent you a summary."
"I know. But God, does it have to be Detroit?"
"I don't know what you have against the place. It meets our criteria."
"Okay, get Bill to check out potential brownfield sites. And let's do one more site search to see if any other municipality would offer more favorable terms."
"Bill has already sent Ruth out there to meet with the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority, who couldn't be more accommodating, but I'll ask Bill to do a final check."
My phone buzzes.
"Yes," I growl at Andrea--she knows I hate being interrupted in a meeting.
"I have Welch for you."
My watch says 11:30. That was quick. "Put him through."
I signal for Ros to stay.
"Mr. Grey?"
"Welch. What news?"
"Miss Steele's last exam is tomorrow, May twentieth."
Damn. I don't have long.
"Great. That's all I need to know." I hang up.
"Ros, bear with me one moment."
I pick up the phone. Andrea answers immediately.
"Andrea, I need a blank notecard to write a message within the next hour," I say, and hang up. "Right, Ros, where were we?"
AT 12:30 OLIVIA SHUFFLES into my office with lunch. She's a tall, willowy girl with a pretty face. Sadly, it's always misdirected at me with longing. She's carrying a tray with what I hope is something edible. After a busy morning, I'm starving. She trembles as she puts it on my desk.
Tuna salad. Okay. She hasn't fucked this up for once.
She also places three different white cards, all different sizes, with corresponding envelopes on my desk.
"Great," I mutter. Now go. She scuttles out.
I take one bite of tuna to assuage my hunger, then reach for my pen. I've chosen a quote. A warning. I made the correct choice, walking away from her. Not all men are romantic heroes. I'll take the word "men-folk" out. She'll understand.
Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks...
I slip the card into the envelope provided and on it write Ana's address, which is ingrained in my memory from Welch's background check. I buzz Andrea.
"Yes, Mr. Grey."
"Can you come in, please?"
"Yes, sir."
She appears at my door a moment later. "Mr. Grey?"
"Take these, package them, and courier them to Anastasia Steele, the girl who interviewed me last week. Here's her address."
"Right away, Mr. Grey."
"They have to arrive by tomorrow at the latest."
"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"
"No. Find me a set of replacements."
"For these books?"
"Yes. First editions. Get Olivia on it."
"What books are these?"
"Tess of the d'Urbervilles."
"Yes, sir." She gives me a rare smile and leaves my office.
Why is she smiling?
She never smiles. Dismissing the thought, I wonder if that will be the last I see of the books, and I have to acknowledge that deep down I hope not.
FRIDAY, MAY 20, 2011
* * *
I've slept well for the first time in five days. Maybe I'm feeling the closure I had hoped for, now that I've sent those books to Anastasia. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, gray eyes.
Liar.
Fuck.
Okay. Okay. I'm hoping she'll call. She has my number.
Mrs. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey."
"Morning, Gail."
"What would you like for breakfast?"
"I'll have an omelet. Thank you." I sit at the kitchen counter as she prepares my food and leaf through The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, then I pore over The Seattle Times. While I'm lost in the papers my phone buzzes.
It's Elliot. What the hell does my big brother want?
"Elliot?"
"Dude. I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. This chick is all over my junk and I've got to get away."
"Your junk?"
"Yeah. You would know if you had any."
I ignore his jibe, and then a devious thought occurs to me. "How about hiking around Portland. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday."
"Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?"
"It's a helicopter, Elliot, and I'll drive us down. Come by the office at lunchtime and we'll head out."
"Thanks, bro. I owe you." Elliot hangs up.
Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she's just another in a long, long line of his casual liaisons.
"Mr. Grey. What would you like to do for food this weekend?"
"Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday."
Or I may not.
She didn't give you a second glance, Grey.
Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others' expectations, I should be better at managing my own.
ELLIOT SLEEPS MOST OF the way to Portland. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: that's Elliot's raison d'etre. He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores.
Some company he's going to be.
It'll be after three when we arrive in Portland, so I call Andrea on the hands-free.
"Mr. Grey," she answers in two rings.
"Can you have two mountain bikes delivered to The Heathman?"
"For what time, sir?"
"Three."
"The bikes are for you and your brother?"
"Yes."
"Your brother is about six-two?"
"Yes."
"I'll get on it right away."
"Great." I hang up, then call Taylor.
"Mr. Grey," he answers on one ring.
"What time will you be here?"
"I'll check in around nine o'clock tonight."
"Will you bring the R8?"
"With pleasure, sir." Taylor is a car fanatic, too.
"Good." I end the call and turn up the music. Let's see if Elliot can sleep through The Verve.
As we cruise down I-5 my excitement mounts.
Have the books been delivered yet? I'm tempted to call Andrea again, but I know I've left her with a ton of work. Besides, I don't want to give my staff an excuse to gossip. I don't normally do this kind of shit.
Why did you send them in the first place?
Because I want to see her again.
We pass the exit for Vancouver and I wonder if she's finished her exam.
"Hey, man, where we at?" Elliot blurts.
"Behold, he wakes," I mutter. "We're nearly there. We're going mountain biking."
"We are?"
"Yes."
"Cool. Remember when Dad used to take us?"
"Yep." I shake my head at the memory. My father is a polymath, a real renaissance man: academic, sporting, at ease in the city, more at ease in the great outdoors. He'd embraced three adopted kids...and I'm the one who didn't live up to his expectations.
But before I hit adolescence we had a bond. He'd been my hero. He used to love taking us camping and doing all the outdoor pursuits I now enjoy: sailing, kayaking, biking, we did it all.
Puberty ruined all that for me.
"I figured if we were arriving mid-afternoon, we wouldn't have time for a hike."
"Good thinking."
"So who are you running from?"
"Man, I'm a love-'em-and-leave-'em type. You know that. No strings. I don't know, chicks find out you run your own business and they start getting crazy ideas." He gives me a sideways look. "You've got the right idea keeping your dick to yourself."
"I don't think we're discussing my dick, we're discussing yours, and who's been on the sharp end of it recently."
Elliot snickers. "I've lost count. Anyway, enough of me. How's the stimulating world of commerce and high finance?"
"You really want to know?" I shoot him a glance.
"Nah," he bleats and I laugh at his apathy and lack of eloquence.
"How's the business?" I ask.
"You checking on your investment?"
"Always." It's my job.
"Well, we broke ground on the Spokani Eden project last week and it's on schedule, but then it's only been a week." He shrugs. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle.
"I'm hoping to install that new gray-water system I was telling you about. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent."
"Impressive."
"I hope so."
We drive in silence into downtown Portland and just as we're pulling into the underground garage at The Heathman--the last place I saw her--Elliot mutters, "You know we're missing the Mariners game this evening."
"Maybe you can have a night in front of the TV. Give your dick a rest and watch baseball."
"Sounds like a plan."
KEEPING UP WITH ELLIOT is a challenge. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. Elliot knows no fear--it's why I admire him. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate our surroundings. I'm vaguely aware of the lush greenery flashing past me, but my eyes are on the trail, trying to avoid the potholes.
By the end of the ride we're both filthy and exhausted.
"That was the most fun I've had with my clothes on in a while," Elliot says as we hand the bikes over to the bellboy at The Heathman.
"Yeah," I mutter, and then recall holding Anastasia when I saved her from the cyclist. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my
senses.
I had my clothes on then..."Yeah," I murmur again.
We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.
I have e-mails, a couple of texts from Elena asking what I'm doing this weekend, but no missed calls from Anastasia. It's just before 7:00--she must have received the books by now. The thought depresses me: I've come all the way to Portland on a wild-goose chase again.
"Man, that chick has called me five times and sent me four texts. Doesn't she know how desperate she comes across?" Elliot whines.
"Maybe she's pregnant."
Elliot pales and I laugh.
"Not funny, hotshot," he grumbles. "Besides, I haven't known her that long. Or that often."
AFTER A QUICK SHOWER I join Elliot in his suite and we sit down to watch the rest of the Mariners game against the San Diego Padres. We order up steak, salad, fries, and a couple of beers, and I sit back to enjoy the game in Elliot's easy company. I've resigned myself to the fact that Anastasia's not going to call. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout.
Disappointingly it isn't, though the Mariners win 4-1.
Go Mariners! Elliot and I clink beer bottles.
As the postgame analysis drones on, my phone buzzes and Miss Steele's number flashes on the screen.
It's her.
"Anastasia?" I don't hide my surprise or my pleasure. The background is noisy and it sounds like she's at a party or in a bar. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot.
"Why did you send me the books?" She's slurring her words, and a wave of apprehension ripples down my spine.
"Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange."
"I'm not the strange one, you are." Her tone is accusatory.
"Anastasia, have you been drinking?"
Hell. Who is she with? The photographer? Where's her friend Kate?
"What's it to you?" She sounds surly and belligerent, and I know she's drunk, but I also need to know that she's okay.
"I'm...curious. Where are you?"
"In a bar."
"Which bar?" Tell me. Anxiety blooms in my gut. She's a young woman, drunk, somewhere in Portland. She's not safe.
"A bar in Portland."
"How are you getting home?" I pinch the bridge of my nose in the vain hope that the action will distract me from my fraying temper.
"I'll find a way."
What the hell? Will she drive? I ask her again which bar she's in and she ignores my question.
"Why did you send me the books, Christian?"
"Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now."
How will she get home?
"You're so...domineering." She giggles. In any other situation I would find this charming. But right now--I want to show her how domineering I can be. She's driving me crazy.