Grey

  "Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?"

  She giggles again. Shit, she's laughing at me!

  Again!

  "I'm in Portland...'s a long way from Seattle."

  "Where in Portland?"

  "Good night, Christian." The line goes dead.

  "Ana!"

  She hung up on me! I stare at the phone in disbelief. No one has ever hung up on me. What the fuck!

  "What's the problem?" Elliot calls over from the sofa.

  "I've just been drunk-dialed." I peer at him and his mouth drops open in surprise.

  "You?"

  "Yep." I press the callback button, trying to contain my temper, and my anxiety.

  "Hi," she says, all breathy and timid, and she's in quieter surroundings.

  "I'm coming to get you." My voice is arctic as I wrestle with my anger and snap my phone shut.

  "I've got to go get this girl and take her home. Do you want to come?"

  Elliot is staring at me as if I've grown three heads.

  "You? With a chick? This I have to see." Elliot grabs his sneakers and starts putting them on.

  "I just have to make a call." I wander into his bedroom while I decide if I should call Barney or Welch. Barney is the most senior engineer in the telecommunications division of my company. He's a tech genius. But what I want is not strictly legal.

  Best to keep this away from my company.

  I speed-dial Welch and within seconds his rasping voice answers.

  "Mr. Grey?"

  "I'd really like to know where Anastasia Steele is right now."

  "I see." He pauses for a moment. "Leave it to me, Mr. Grey."

  I know this is outside the law, but she could be getting herself into trouble.

  "Thank you."

  "I'll get back to you in a couple of minutes."

  Elliot is rubbing his hands with glee, with a stupid smirk on his face when I return to the living room.

  Oh, for fuck's sake.

  "I wouldn't miss this for the world," he says, gloating.

  "I'm just going to get the car keys. I'll meet you in the garage in five," I growl, ignoring his smug face.

  THE BAR IS CROWDED, full of students determined to have a good time. There's some indie crap thumping over the sound system and the dance floor is crowded with heaving bodies.

  It makes me feel old.

  She's here somewhere.

  Elliot has followed me in through the front door. "Do you see her?" he shouts over the noise. Scanning the room, I spot Katherine Kavanagh. She's with a group of friends, all of them men, sitting in a booth. There's no sign of Ana, but the table is littered with shot glasses and tumblers of beer.

  Well, let's see if Miss Kavanagh is as loyal to her friend as Ana is to her.

  She looks at me in surprise when we arrive at her table.

  "Katherine," I say by way of greeting, and she interrupts me before I can ask her Ana's whereabouts.

  "Christian, what a surprise to see you here," she shouts above the noise. The three guys at the table regard Elliot and me with hostile wariness.

  "I was in the neighborhood."

  "And who's this?" She smiles rather too brightly at Elliot, interrupting me again. What an exasperating woman.

  "This is my brother Elliot. Elliot, Katherine Kavanagh. Where's Ana?"

  Her smile broadens at Elliot, and I'm surprised by his answering grin.

  "I think she went outside for some fresh air," Kavanagh responds, but she doesn't look at me. She has eyes only for Mr. Love 'Em and Leave 'Em. Well, it's her funeral.

  "Outside? Where?" I shout.

  "Oh. That way." She points to double doors at the far end of the bar.

  Pushing through the throng, I make my way to the door, leaving the three disgruntled men and Kavanagh and Elliot engaged in a grin-off.

  Through the double doors there is a line for the ladies' washroom, and beyond that a door that's open to the outside. It's at the back of the bar. Ironically, it leads to the parking lot where Elliot and I have just been.

  Walking outside, I find myself in a gathering space adjacent to the parking lot--a hangout flanked by raised flowerbeds, where a few people are smoking, drinking, chatting. Making out. I spot her.

  Hell! She's with the photographer, I think, though it's difficult to tell in the dim light. She's in his arms, but she seems to be twisting away from him. He mutters something to her, which I don't hear, and kisses her, along her jaw.

  "Jose, no," she says, and then it's clear. She's trying to push him off.

  She doesn't want this.

  For a moment I want to rip his head off. With my hands fisted at my side I march up to them. "I think the lady said no." My voice carries, cold and sinister, in the relative quiet, while I struggle to contain my anger.

  He releases Ana and she squints at me with a dazed, drunken expression.

  "Grey," he says, his voice terse, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to smash the disappointment off his face.

  Ana heaves, then buckles over and vomits on the ground.

  Oh, shit!

  "Ugh--Dios mio, Ana!" Jose leaps out of the way in disgust.

  Fucking idiot.

  Ignoring him, I grab her hair and hold it out of the way as she continues to throw up everything she's had this evening. It's with some annoyance that I note she doesn't appear to have eaten. With my arm around her shoulders I lead her away from the curious onlookers toward one of the flowerbeds. "If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you." It's darker here. She can puke in peace. She vomits again and again, her hands on the brick. It's pitiful. Once her stomach is empty, she continues to retch, long dry heaves.

  Boy, she's got it bad.

  Finally her body relaxes and I think she's finished. Releasing her, I give her my handkerchief, which by some miracle I have in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  Thank you, Mrs. Jones.

  Wiping her mouth, she turns and rests against the bricks, avoiding eye contact because she's ashamed and embarrassed. And yet I'm so pleased to see her. Gone is my fury at the photographer. I'm delighted to be standing in the parking lot of a student bar in Portland with Miss Anastasia Steele.

  She puts her head in her hands, cringes, then peeks up at me, still mortified. Turning to the door, she glares over my shoulder. I assume it's at her "friend."

  "I'll, um, see you inside," Jose says, but I don't turn to stare him down, and to my delight, she ignores him, too, returning her eyes to mine.

  "I'm sorry," she says finally, while her fingers twist the soft linen.

  Okay, let's have some fun.

  "What are you sorry for, Anastasia?"

  "The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless," she mumbles.

  "We've all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you." Why is it such fun to tease this young woman? "It's about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I'm all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

  Perhaps she has a problem with alcohol. The thought is worrying, and I consider whether I should call my mother for a referral to a detox clinic.

  Ana frowns for a moment, as if angry, that little v forming between her brows, and I suppress the urge to kiss it. But when she speaks she sounds contrite.

  "No," she says. "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again." She looks up at me, her eyes unfocused, and she sways a little. She might pass out, so without giving it a thought I scoop her up into my arms.

  She's surprisingly light. Too light. The thought irks me. No wonder she's drunk.

  "Come on, I'll take you home."

  "I need to tell Kate," she says, as her head rests on my shoulder.

  "My brother can tell her."

  "What?"

  "My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh."

  "Oh?"

  "He was with me when you called."

  "In Seattle?"

&nb
sp; "No, I'm staying at The Heathman."

  And my wild-goose chase has paid off.

  "How did you find me?"

  "I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia." I head toward the car. I want to drive her home. "Do you have a jacket or a purse?"

  "Er...yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

  I stop and bite my tongue. Kavanagh wasn't worried about her being out here with the overamorous photographer. Rodriguez. That's his name. What kind of friend is she? The lights from the bar illuminate her anxious face.

  As much as it pains me, I put her down and agree to take her inside. Holding hands, we walk back into the bar, stopping at Kate's table. One of the young men is still sitting there, looking annoyed and abandoned.

  "Where's Kate?" Ana shouts above the noise.

  "Dancing," the guy says, his dark eyes staring at the dance floor. Ana collects her jacket and purse and, reaching out, she unexpectedly clutches my arm.

  I freeze.

  Shit.

  My heart rate catapults into overdrive as the darkness surfaces, stretching and tightening its claws around my throat.

  "She's on the dance floor," she shouts, her words tickling my ear, distracting me from my fear. And suddenly the darkness disappears and the pounding in my heart ceases.

  What?

  I roll my eyes to hide my confusion and take her to the bar, order a large glass of water, and pass it to her.

  "Drink."

  Eyeing me over the glass, she takes a tentative sip.

  "All of it," I command. I'm hoping this will be enough damage control to avoid one hell of a hangover tomorrow.

  What might have happened to her if I hadn't intervened? My mood sinks.

  And I think of what just happened to me.

  Her touch. My reaction.

  My mood plummets further.

  Ana sways a little as she's drinking, so I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. I like the connection--me touching her. She's oil on my troubled, deep, dark waters.

  Hmm...flowery, Grey.

  She finishes her drink, and retrieving the glass, I place it on the bar.

  Okay. She wants to talk to her so-called friend. I survey the crowded dance floor, uneasy at the thought of all those bodies pressing in on me as we fight our way through.

  Steeling myself, I grab her hand and lead her toward the dance floor. She hesitates, but if she wants to talk to her friend, there's only one way; she's going to have to dance with me. Once Elliot gets his groove on, there's no stopping him; so much for his quiet night in.

  With a tug, she's in my arms.

  This I can handle. When I know she's going to touch me, it's okay. I can deal, especially since I'm wearing my jacket. I weave us through the crowd to where Elliot and Kate are making a spectacle of themselves.

  Still dancing, Elliot leans toward me in mid-strut when we're beside him and sizes us up with a look of incredulity.

  "I'm taking Ana home. Tell Kate," I shout in his ear.

  He nods and pulls Kavanagh into his arms.

  Right. Let me take Miss Drunk Bookworm home, but for some reason she seems reluctant to go. She's watching Kavanagh with concern. When we're off the dance floor she looks back at Kate, then at me, swaying and a little dazed.

  "Fuck--" By some miracle I catch her as she passes out in the middle of the bar. I'm tempted to haul her over my shoulder, but we'd be too conspicuous, so I pick her up once more, cradling her against my chest, and take her outside to the car.

  "Christ," I mutter as I fish the key out of my jeans and hold her at the same time. Amazingly, I manage to get her into the front seat and strap her in.

  "Ana." I give her a little shake, because she's worryingly quiet. "Ana!"

  She mumbles something incoherent and I know she's still conscious. I know I should take her home, but it's a long drive to Vancouver, and I don't know if she'll be sick again. I don't relish the idea of my Audi reeking of vomit. The smell emanating from her clothes is already noticeable.

  I head to The Heathman, telling myself that I'm doing this for her sake.

  Yeah, tell yourself that, Grey.

  SHE SLEEPS IN MY arms as we travel up in the elevator from the garage. I need to get her out of her jeans and her shoes. The stale stench of vomit pervades the space. I'd really like to give her a bath, but that would be stepping beyond the bounds of propriety.

  And this isn't?

  In my suite, I drop her purse on the sofa, then carry her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed. She mumbles once more but doesn't wake.

  Briskly I remove her shoes and socks and put them in the plastic laundry bag provided by the hotel. Then I unzip her jeans and pull them off, check the pockets before stuffing the jeans in the laundry bag. She falls back on the bed, splayed out like a starfish, all pale arms and legs, and for a moment I picture those legs wrapped around my waist as her wrists are bound to my Saint Andrew's cross. There's a fading bruise on her knee and I wonder if that's from the fall she took in my office.

  She's been marked since then...like me.

  I sit her up and she opens her eyes.

  "Hello, Ana," I whisper, as I remove her jacket slowly and without her cooperation.

  "Grey. Lips," she mutters.

  "Yes, sweetheart." I ease her down onto the bed. She closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side, but this time huddles into a ball, looking small and vulnerable. I pull the covers over her and plant a kiss in her hair. Now that her filthy clothes have gone, a trace of her scent has reappeared. Apples, fall, fresh, delicious...Ana. Her lips are parted, eyelashes fanning out over pale cheeks, and her skin looks flawless. One more touch is all I allow myself as I stroke her cheek with the back of my index finger.

  "Sleep well," I murmur, and then head into the living room to complete the laundry list. When it's done, I place the offending bag outside my suite so the contents will be collected and laundered.

  Before I check my e-mails I text Welch, asking him to see if Jose Rodriguez has any police records. I'm curious. I want to know if he preys on drunk young women. Then I address the issue of clothes for Miss Steele: I send a quick e-mail to Taylor.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  RE: Miss Anastasia Steele

  Date: May 20, 2011 23:46

  To: J B Taylor

  Good morning,

  Can you please find the following items for Miss Steele and have them delivered to my usual room before 10:00.

  Jeans: Blue Denim Size 4

  Blouse: Blue. Pretty. Size 4

  Converse: Black Size 7

  Socks: Size 7

  Lingerie: Underwear--Size Small. Bra--Estimate 34C.

  Thank you.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  Once it's disappeared from my outbox, I text Elliot.

  Ana is with me.

  If you're still with Kate, tell her.

  He texts by return.

  Will do.

  Hope you get laid.

  You soooo need it. ;)

  His response makes me snort.

  I so do, Elliot. I so do.

  I open my work e-mail and begin to read.

  SATURDAY, MAY 21, 2011

  * * *

  Nearly two hours later, I come to bed. It's just after 1:45. She's fast asleep and hasn't moved from where I left her. I strip, pull on my PJ pants and a T-shirt, and climb in beside her. She's comatose; it's unlikely she's going to thrash around and touch me. I hesitate for a moment as the darkness swells within me, but it doesn't surface and I know it's because I'm watching the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest and I'm breathing in sync with her. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. For seconds, minutes, hours, I don't know, I watch her. And while she sleeps I survey every beautiful inch of her lovely face. Her dark lashes fluttering while she sleeps, her lips slightly parted so I glimpse her even white teeth. She mutters something unintelligible and her tongue darts out and licks her lips
. It's arousing, very arousing. Finally I fall into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  IT'S QUIET WHEN I open my eyes, and I'm momentarily disoriented. Oh yes. I'm at The Heathman. The clock at my bedside says 7:43.

  When was the last time I slept this late?

  Ana.

  Slowly I turn my head, and she's fast asleep, facing me. Her beautiful face soft in repose.

  I have never slept with a woman. I've fucked many, but to wake up beside an alluring young woman is a new and stimulating experience. My cock agrees.

  This will not do.

  Reluctantly, I climb out of bed and change into my running gear. I need to burn off this...excess energy. As I change into my sweats I can't remember the last time I've slept so well.

  In the living room, I fire up my laptop, check my e-mail, and respond to two from Ros and one from Andrea. It takes me a little longer than usual, as I'm distracted knowing that Ana is asleep in the next room. I wonder how she'll feel when she wakes.

  Hungover. Ah.

  In the minibar I find a bottle of orange juice and empty it into a glass. She's still asleep when I enter, her hair a riot of mahogany spread across her pillow, and the covers have slipped below her waist. Her T-shirt has ridden up, exposing her belly and her navel. The sight stirs my body once more.

  Stop standing here ogling the girl, for fuck's sake, Grey.

  I have to get out of here before I do something I'll regret. Placing the glass on the bedside table, I duck into the bathroom, find two Advil in my travel kit, and deposit them beside the glass of orange juice.

  With one last lingering look at Anastasia Steele--the first woman I've ever slept with--I head out for my run.

  WHEN I RETURN FROM my exercise, there's a bag in the living room from a store I don't recognize. I take a peek and see it contains clothes for Ana. From what I can see, Taylor has done well--and all before 9:00.

  The man is a marvel.

  Her purse is on the sofa where I dropped it last night, and the door to the bedroom is closed, so I assume she's not left and that she's still asleep.

  It's a relief. Poring over the room-service menu, I decide to order some food. She'll be hungry when she wakes, but I have no idea what she'll eat, so in a rare moment of indulgence I order a selection from the breakfast menu. I'm informed it will take half an hour.

  Time to wake the delectable Miss Steele; she's slept enough.

  Grabbing my workout towel and the shopping bag, I knock on the door and enter. To my delight, she's sitting up in bed. The tablets are gone and so is the juice.