Fifty Shades Fatter - A Sequel (Fifty Shades of Neigh Book 2)

by Anna Roberts

  "Oh quit clutching your pearls, Hanna. Like I didn't hear the whole gory story about the bidet and the tampon - from your Mom, no less..."

  "Ladies," says Ms. Handbasket, icily.

  "Sorry," mumbles Kate. Jeez. Maybe Ms. Handbasket can teach me a thing or two about Kate-taming.

  Ms. Handbasket takes off her glasses. "Sorry, Miss Squeal - I know this is probably a difficult question, but could you just clarify for me? When you say that you were unconscious, are you saying you have no recollection of my client 'putting you in bed with him'?"

  "Nope. I don't remember anything from the time when I finished throwing up in the parking lot to the next morning when I woke up at Crispian's hotel."

  She pinches the bridge of her nose and purses her lips around a long, drawn out exhalation. "Oh Holy Mary Mother of God," she mutters.

  "Oh, so that is a major felony?" asks Kate, brightly. "Because I always wondered."

  Ms. Handbasket nods, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Awesome,” says Kate. “Jesús owes me thirty bucks.”

  I don't trust this woman. I don't think she knows what she's doing. "Can you get him out of jail?" I ask.

  "I don't know," she says. "Depends whether I can persuade the judge that he doesn't pose a flight risk."

  "He doesn't. He's a qualified helicopter pilot. He told me that there was no risk in flying with him." To think I didn't believe him at the time - I was too busy having a panic attack and trying not to throw up on my favourite jeans. It seems so long ago that we were soaring over the city together, screaming and hyperventilating the whole way. Ah, happier times.

  Ms. Handbasket opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, like a goldfish battling with a particularly bothersome algebra problem. "Uh...yes," she says. "Of course."

  "We're getting married," I explain, realising it's the first time I've told anyone. I mean, I told Kate and Jesús, but they don't count because I knew they'd say it was a terrible idea and they did. "So, if you could work quickly - whatever it is that you do. Only I'd like us to get married when he's acquitted and we've put all this behind us."

  "Acquitted?" Ms. Handbasket has gone all goldfish again.

  "Yes. You're his attorney?"

  "Hanna, just because she's his attorney doesn't mean she's going to get him off," says Kate.

  "She'd better not."

  "No - off the charges..." She shakes her head and turns to Ms. Handbasket. "I'm sorry. She's got this thing about blondes."

  "Ri-ight," says Ms. Handbasket, frowning slightly. "I don't think I can get him off, Miss Squeal."

  "What?"

  "Well, I can't. I can probably get his sentence reduced but going on what you've told me here..."

  "...I didn't tell you anything!"

  She shakes her head. "You admitted that Crispian Neigh kidnapped you on the first night you met," she says.

  "And stalking," says Kate. "Don't forget the stalking."

  I shoot her a death glare and try to compose myself. "He didn't kidnap me," I say. "He came to my rescue, like a knight in shining armour. He's just misunderstood - all he ever wanted was for people to be able to watch Doctor Who. That's what he told me - when he told me about what he did. And what's copyright really, anyway? What is it? You can't see it, touch it, smell it - it's just a thing that's made up. It's not real."

  "No, it's real," says Ms. Handbasket. "It's real, and it's enforceable. And I'm afraid he's guilty of numerous violations."

  I stare at her for a moment and shake my head. Well, this explains everything. "You think he's guilty?"

  She nods. "I know he's guilty."

  "What kind of defence attorney thinks her client is guilty?" I snort. "Oh no, wait - I know this one. A blonde one, presumably."

  Ms. Handbasket gets to her high-heeled feet. "Miss Squeal, I'm doing the best I can here..."

  "It's not good enough! Find me a lawyer who doesn't think he's guilty!"

  "Good luck finding one of those," she says. "You might also want to specify 'Must believe in unicorns'."

  Chapter Five

  My Little Pokey: Shanking Is Magic

  Interestingly, had Hanna asked the right people she could have found an attorney who believed in unicorns. Unfortunately for her he was currently serving time for perjury. His belief in unicorns was a recent development; only a week ago a young internet billionaire named Crispian Neigh had entered the prison and set about evangelising on the joys of the children’s cartoon My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

  Usually whenever Crispian talked about My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, most people began to eye the nearest exit, but this time he had a literal captive audience.

  To Crispian’s delight the bored tax accountants, attorneys, former CEOs and other assorted corporate scumbags were oddly receptive to his message. Many of them hadn’t belonged to any kind of tribe since the carefree rapes and innocent, high spirited violence of their fraternity days, and within forty-eight magical, friendship filled hours they were all cheerfully kicking the shit out of each other over which pony was the best.

  While the unicorn-loving lawyer in question plays no part in the following festivities, it is my sad duty to inform the reader that the next day he was set upon and nearly drowned in a toilet by the prison’s most terrifying faction, a savage gang of realtors known collectively as the Fluttershysters.

  Kate drives me to the prison – the height of hypocrisy considering that the reason I have no car is because she totalled my old one. Also the federal authorities seized the one Crispian bought for me, which was not only heartbreaking but also annoying – I’d only just got the hang of the automatic.

  “Look,” Kate coughs, cigarette in mouth. “All I’m saying is there’s no way you’d pass a blood alcohol test if we got pulled over. You might think you’re okay to drive but it takes like an hour for every alcohol unit to leave your body and considering that only seven hours ago you were hammering double flaming sambucas we can officially consider you to be still walking on motherfucking sunshine, okay?”

  “I don’t remember that,” I murmur, peering into the rear view mirror. Holy crap, my eyes are nearly as red as Kate’s.

  “I do. The kitchen still smells of burnt ladystache. Have you ever considered electrolysis?”

  She parks next to the exercise yard and gets out of the car slowly, one leg at a time. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “Nothing much,” she says, adjusting her cleavage. “Just wanted to see what gets you so wet about these bad boys.” The men seem uninterested, so Kate sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles. “Hey, shitlords!”

  One of the men glances over and Kate waves. He stares for a moment, raises one eyebrow and turns away. The back of his head is shaved and he has a tattoo on his neck - trust her to find the roughest man in a prison largely full of tax accountants and stockbrokers.

  "Huh," mutters Kate. "Weird."

  "Maybe you weren't his type," I say. It makes sense that white-collar criminals would be interested in a better class of prison visitor, and Kate doesn't exactly scream 'class' right now; her skirt is too short, her hair is unwashed and her t-shirt is liberally decorated with sticky pink stains, courtesy of a carton of frozen strawberry daiquiri mix.

  She whistles again and to my horror the daiquiri stained t-shirt is hoisted to chin height. "Yo! Patrick Bateman!" she yells, jiggling them about. "I gotta stick a fucking live rat up my cooze or something?"

  A tall prisoner glances over at us. "I'm not with her," I say.

  He looks Kate up and down, shakes his head and walks away. His sleeves are rolled up and he too has a tattoo. I blink. I might be going insane. Yes, that's probably it. It's all the stress. I'm seeing things.

  Kate smooths down her t-shirt. "Did you just see..."

  "...no."

  "...that guy had a..."

  "...no he didn't."

  "...dude, he totally did. That was..."

  I cover my ears with my hands and sing loudly to cover up Kat
e's words, but she hangs on my wrists until my hands come away. "...the fucking pink one," she is saying. "He's got a My Little Pony tattoo. The pink one."

  Kate of all people should know that the pink My Little Pony is named Pinkie Pie, since it was her calling the said Pinkie Pie a slut that led indirectly to poor Crispian's arrest. I could remind her but it would probably take too long - her short-term memory is terrible. Besides, the man with the tattooed neck is circling the one with the Pinkie Pie tattoo, gathering others with him like some sinister satellite.

  "What the fuck?" murmurs Kate. "Shit's going down. I thought these guys were pussy-ass white collar criminals?"

  There's a flash of something colourful and Mr. Pinkie Pie hits the ground, screaming. As the guards close in I glimpse what appears to be a rainbow button sticking out of Mr. Pinkie Pie's thigh. It's then I recognise the design on the back of the first man's neck.

  "Oh my God," I gasp. "Rainbow Dash."

  Kate frowns at me for a moment. "Yeah," she says, slowly. "I think I'm gonna wait out here if that's okay with you."

  "Fine. Just keep your clothes on. These men haven't seen a woman in I don't know how long."

  She squeezes her breasts. "Huh. Well, that’s fucking weird. And I was once voted Girl Whose Boobs Are Most Likely To Cause A Prison Riot.”

  "Maybe you don't have enough money," I say, diplomatically.

  Kate shakes her head. "No," she says, taking a pack of cigarettes from the glovebox and locking up the car. "I don’t think that’s it. More like I don't have enough legs."

  I leave her at the fence and check in. When I get to the visiting area I find that Crispian is not alone. Sitting beside him is his horrible psychiatrist mother, Dr. Claudia Tresgothick-Neigh. Who hates me.

  "Here she is!" he grins. "My blushing bride to be!"

  Claudia turns a strange shade of green. I can hear her back teeth grinding even as she smiles at me. "Hello Bella," she says, stiffly.

  "Hanna," I murmur.

  "Annabella. Of course. Excuse me."

  "No, Hanna. My name's Hanna."

  She stares at me for a moment. I think she's trying to frown but her skin is too tight to let her. "Hanna," she says. "Yes. I don't know where I got Bella from. You look like a Bella. So - how far along are you?"

  "Mother," says Crispian.

  I blink, uncomprehending, and stare from one to the other. "I don't understand," I whisper.

  "She thinks you're pregnant," explains Crispian.

  Tears sting my eyes and for a moment I am speechless. I never wanted to be That Girl, the one who got pregnant right out of college. My mother was obsessed with birth control and gave me so many safe sex lectures and demonstrations that by the time I was seventeen I couldn't walk down the fresh produce aisles of supermarkets without fighting a maddening compulsion to put condoms on all the cucumbers and bananas.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I murmur, staring down at my hands. My Inner Goddess takes out a pocket calendar and starts counting loudly. I hate her so much.

  “Hey, listen – I have the greatest news,” says Crispian. “I take it you met my girl Helena, right?”

  My heart sinks like a stone. “Yes,” I hiss. “I’ve met her.”

  “Is there a problem, Hanna?” goads Claudia.

  “Why on earth would you think I had a problem with Helena Handbasket?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and melodious.

  “Oh, no reason,” says Claudia, looking way too pleased with herself. Psychiatrists are so predictable. She’s probably already coming up with some pat explanation about how I have some kind of jealous complex about blondes.

  But you do.

  - Shut your whore mouth, blondie.

  I rest my case.

  “She’s a great attorney, Hanna,” says Crispian.

  “I don’t have a problem,” I deflect, through clenched teeth. “I don’t have the slightest problem with her, or her flippy blonde hair and her long legs. In fact I think it’s great that your attorney has large blue eyes, full-lips and subtly tip-tilted champagne cup breasts, and I don’t have a problem with it at all. Or her. And her heartshaped ass.”

  “Ok-ay,” says Crispian, slowly. “So...do you think you could ever see your way to not having a problem with her in some kind of inflatable kiddie pool? Perhaps one that’s full of chocolate pudding. Or cooking oil. Obviously it would be messy but I’d provide a bikini if you got cold...”

  Claudia coughs.

  “...I mean, with budget constraints you guys would have to share the bikini. And I’d have to find a way to make that legally binding. Maybe write it into the wedding vo...ow!”

  Claudia smacks her son hard over the back of his head, effectively unglazing his eyes. Poor Crispian. No wonder he has mother issues.

  “At least tell the poor idiot your news,” she says.

  What poor idiot?

  “Oh yeah,” says Crispian. “I’m getting out.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Yep. I’ve got to wear an electronic tag and everything, but they’ve agreed I don’t need to be in custody.”

  “More like they don’t want you in custody,” says his mother. “This used to be such a nice prison. Now it’s nothing but gang fights and My Little Pony-related shankings.”

  Crispian flushes. “I made friends, mother,” he spits. “Like a normal person.”

  Claudia says nothing – just raises a pencilled eyebrow.

  “I can go back to the apartment,” Crispian says to me. “It’ll be just like old times. Except with less TVs. And computers. They kind of seized a lot of those things as assets. So the same – but with less furniture.”

  “Anywhere you are is perfect with me,” I say.

  “Please,” says Claudia. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the restrooms in this dump. A properly appointed ladies’ bathroom should never smell of urinal cakes.”

  Crispian glares. “I’m sure they’re still a hell of a lot nicer than the truckstop bathrooms where you get most of your customers, Mom.”

  She ignores him, reapplies her lipstick and kisses the air next to his ear. “Bye, dear. Don’t forget to get shivved to death in the chow-line, will you?”

  We watch her go, him with a wounded puppy expression in his beautiful chocolate brown eyes, and me with a strange sensation in my bathing suit area. “Oh my God,” I murmur. “You’re so...dysfunctional.”

  “I know. It’s terrible.”

  “No,” I whisper, shifting on my seat. “It’s kind of...cool. You’re really twisted.”

  “You like that, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. Do you ever think about your real mother?”

  “The crack whore? Oh, sure. All the time.” He bites his lip and sighs. “I have nightmares about her, actually.”

  “Wow. What are they like?”

  “Clumsy. Foreshadowy. Mostly unoriginal – like someone barfed a Dave Peltzer book into my head while I was sleeping.”

  I chew on a knuckle and press my knees together, hard. I love it when he talks about his emotional damage.

  “When are you getting out?” I ask.

  “Next Tuesday. I’ll have the security team drop off the keys to the apartment for you.”

  Holy crap! I can hardly believe it. Just a couple of days ago my world was bleak, empty, a howling wilderness of heartbreak. And now it’s full of light and wonder and a man with deep seated emotional issues. Be still my beating heart.

  “I’ll see you next Tuesday,” I flutter, and float out of the prison on air.

  Typically Kate bursts my bubble. When I get to the car she is sitting with one foot on the dashboard and the crotch of her panties on public display as she dries a fresh coat of toenail paint with a battery operated hand-fan. On the driver’s seat is a notepad covered in horrid scribblings.

  Suckled By The Billionaire Tentacle Beast

  Sasquatch Gangbang

  Daddy’s Reluctant Lesbian BBW Yeti Chupacabra Cum-Slut (keep it simple)

  Fist-Lords O
f The Anal Planet

  Abraham Lincoln, Fucklord of the Moon

  “What up, shitlord?” she says.

  I pick up the notebook between finger and thumb. “Why does this exist?”

  “I’m trying to inspire Jesús – just kicking around some ideas for his next book.”

  Ugh. “I love how you talk about it like it’s art.”

  “It totally is art. Pornography is like the oldest art form out there. You ever seen a prehistoric cave? Millions of fucking years of evolution and then one day some guy named Oog looks down at his thumbs and thinks ‘Hey, opposable grip – awesome. Now I can draw dicks all over the fucking walls.’ And he did. This guy was like the Picasso of the Stone Age – it was totally art and totally full of dicks and people sticking said dicks in each other.”

  “It’s disgusting,” I murmur.

  “Whatever. Like you didn’t crotch fixate on Captain Creepo the moment he first made eyes at you in the toy-store.”

  She moves over and I slide into the driver’s seat. “You know,” I muse, as I start up the engine. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had gone to interview Crispian instead of me?”

  “Not really,” she says, and I search her face for evidence of duplicity. “I expect I would have just written an article framing him as a boring, socially-stunted weirdo and then gone home to smoke a bowl with Jesús.”

  “You wouldn’t have developed...feelings for him?”

  “Eyes on the road, dingus,” says Kate. “And no. Not even if he has a twelve inch tongue. Anyway, did you give him a mouthful for hiring Helen of Troy?”

  Helen of Troy? Pfft. “Her? Why would I bother?”

  “I dunno. Because you’re an insecure, immature little girl who can’t stand to be the prettiest princess in the room at any given time?”

  She ducks my hand.

  “I’m just throwing that out there,” she says. “Can you fucking concentrate on the road, Hanna?”

  “I am not immature,” I sniff, blinking back tears. “Or insecure.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve probably given her a bitchy nickname already, haven’t you?”