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

by Anna Roberts

  I hate to break it to you, but there's a shark tank across the hall and this morning your boyfriend went to brush his teeth and found himself in Narnia.

  And not for the first time, if you know what I mean.

  Oh girl, you know it.

  Great. Now the voices in my head are high-fiving one another. I shake my head to clear it, determined to claw back the romantic mood I was in earlier. Yes. I can do this. I pull the robe tight around myself and return to the kitchen.

  Crispian is sitting at the breakfast bar, eating the ice-cream out of the tub with a long spoon. "Oh, there you are," he says. "I was starting to get worried."

  I untie the sash of my robe. He's staring into the bottom of the ice-cream tub. "Crispian," I murmur. "Look at me."

  Then with my heart in my mouth I let the robe fall off my shoulders and onto the floor. He looks up, his mouth open. "Huh," he says. "You're still not waxing that?"

  "Bring me the ice-cream, Crispian," I whisper, determined to follow this through.

  "We're out," he says, tipping the tub to show me the empty inside. He dumps the spoon on the draining board, burps and then stretches with a long, exaggerated yawn. "Well, I'm bushed. Night, Toots."

  Chapter Twelve

  La Venganza del Fupacabra

  I take a long time to get to sleep, but when I do my dreams are more symbolic than usual. And that's all I'm willing to say about that.

  They weren't symbolic at all.

  - Yes they were. Go away. I'm asleep.

  When has that stopped you subjecting us to every single boring thought that scuttles, panicked, across the cold, barren surface of your tumbleweed-blown mind? I'm just saying - it would symbolic if you were dreaming about cucumbers, bowling pins or other obviously nobbly objects. It's not symbolic if you're dreaming about Timothy Grope tearing off your panties with his teeth and...

  - Yes. Okay. Point taken. And I was not dreaming about that.

  Were too.

  Oh God. It's getting very crowded in here. Maybe I really do need to see that psychiatrist. What can these dreams mean?

  They mean you want to fuck your boss. Jesus Christ, woman - do you need every single thing spelled out for you in billboard sized letters?

  You must be new here.

  So she does, huh?

  You have no idea.

  - STOP IT! Both of you.

  I clutch my head. Maybe there is a pill that can get rid of them. I can't be plagued by whispering doubts in the middle of the night - this is terrible. This never happened in Tess of the D'Urbervilles.

  Actually it...

  ...yeah. We know. It's pointless at this stage. The bigger mystery is what book she thought was Tess of the D'Urbervilles, because whatever she was reading it definitely wasn't that.

  I get out of bed. There's no sign of Crispian anywhere. I hope he hasn't stumbled into Narnia again, or worse, the chocolate room. Trust Kate to go and tell the Oompa Loompas to form a union. It's terrifying in there now - like Revolutionary Russia on acid. Nobody sings about Pure Imagination anymore and if you set foot near the chocolate river they grab you and attempt to re-enact the murder of Rasputin.

  I don't think she read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory either.

  I think you're right.

  - Right, that's it. You drove me to this. I hope you know that.

  I storm into the kitchen and hit the wine rack. They seized Crispian's twenty year old vintages along with the rest of his most expensive assets, but his mother restocked the rack. I thought at first she was being thoughtful but in fact it was because she could never stand the thought of spending more than five minutes in Crispian's company while relatively sober. Poor Crispian. No wonder he has issues.

  Then as I turn to look for the corkscrew, I freeze. There, on the couch near the drawing board, is the dumpster girl. She is wearing nothing but cat-ears, a string of plastic beads and my blue lace panties.

  She narrows her eyes at me. My panties are far too small for her and the flesh of her hips bulges over the stretched out lace. "Baka," she hisses. "Baka ne."

  My blood turns to ice as she rises from the couch. What was she doing there? That was the same place where I lay when Crispian drew me as a My Little Pony. I back away towards the kitchen, but not before I notice that the latch on the drawing board is open.

  Crispian appears at the end of the hallway. He takes one look at me and one look at El Fupacabra and his mouth falls open. If he's thinking about kiddie pools full of cooking oil right now then I am going to kill him.

  She moves towards me. I step behind the kitchen counter and reach for the biggest, sharpest knife I can find.

  "No, don't..." Crispian begins. Holy crap! Does he have feelings for her? Was he drawing her like one of his French girls?

  Alicia scrambles up on the back of the nearest chair and crouches, as if preparing to spring. Unfortunately gravity has its own opinion on her cat-girl antics and she topples to the floor, landing face-down with a sickening crunch. "Ow," murmurs Crispian, wincing in sympathy.

  "Ow?" I put down the knife. "Is that all you can say? Ow?"

  There is a weird, ululating scream and Alicia leaps up from the floor, blood streaming from her nose. "BAKA NE! BAKA GAIJIN!" she shrieks, seizing the knife and running towards me. I turn and run, elbowing past Crispian, who helpfully faints at the sight of blood. Of all the times to bust out consistent characterisation.

  I fling open the nearest door, only to find that the Oompa Loompas have added razor wire to their picket line. I slam the door, a chorus of tiny voices shrieking "SCAAAAAAAB!!" in my ears. My mother opens her bedroom door and peers out.

  "Hanna? What's going on?"

  "She's got a knife and he's passed out and it's El Fupacabra and she was wearing my panties and she's his sister and it's gross..." I babble in one breath.

  "Okay, no - let's try that again," says my mother. "Who's got a knife?"

  "Crispian's sister! Alicia! El Fupacabra! She's wearing my panties!"

  "And she has a knife?"

  "Yes, but she's wearing my panties, which she must have stolen. And now she's trying to steal him and it's disgusting - she's his sister, for God's sake."

  My mother stares at me for a second or two and then shakes her head, as if to clear it. "Well, have you called the police?"

  "Don't call the police!" Crispian's voice floats down the hall.

  "Why?" I yell back. "Because they'll arrest you? Incest is illegal!"

  "Hanna..."

  I wipe my eyes on the back of my arm. "It's all gone wrong, Mom. All I ever wanted was to find the right billionaire who would love me and control my every waking thought and action. And now I've got Oompa Loompas in the broom-closet and Narnia in the bathroom and he's in love with his sister and she's ruined the only part of my favourite underwear set that didn't get burned in the George Foreman."

  My mother just sighs and walks off down the hallway. So much for support. I follow her, back to the great room where Crispian’s batshit sister is crouching on the arm of the sofa with a knife between her teeth.

  “Give me the knife,” says my mother.

  Alicia transfers the knife to her hand and hisses. “Baka gaijin!”

  “Put the knife down, Lish,” sighs Crispian, gazing at her with what may very well be more than brotherly love. I begin to cry softly.

  “Hanna, shut up,” says my mother.

  “But Mom...”

  Alicia hisses again, overbalances and falls off the back of the couch. As she flaps her arms to steady herself the knife tumbles harmlessly from her fingers and lands on the sofa cushions. My mother leaps forward and grabs it.

  There is a loud explosion of gibberish curse words from behind the couch and Alicia comes lumbering back out. Then my mother says something in what I think is Japanese and Alicia stops still and stares at her blankly.

  “Yeah – that’s right,” says my mother. “I took Japanese in nightschool.”

  “Watashi wa baka ne,” squawks Alici
a, and lurches forward.

  It all happens so fast. My mother steps out of the way, kicks Alicia smartly in the backs of the knees, sending her sprawling face down on the floor. The next thing I know my mother is straddling the prostrate Alicia while holding her hands behind her back. She also took self defense in nightschool.

  “Do you have a rope or something?” she asks Crispian. “Cable ties? Handcuffs?”

  “Um...I don’t know.”

  “Try the sex dungeon,” I murmur, in icy tones. “If you haven’t already.”

  He moves toward the hallway, carefully sidestepping his sister. “Er...okay.” For an uncomfortable moment he catches my mother’s eyes. “What did you say to her?”

  My mother shrugs. “I think I asked the way to the bus stop. Good thing Hello Kitty here doesn’t actually speak Japanese.”

  “Watashi neko-chan...”

  “Give it up already.”

  “How dare you?” gasps Alicia. “I’m transracial. I’m Japanese in my soul.”

  My mother laughs. “Yeah, and I’m an anarchobisexual polyamorous collectivist. You really don’t want to be playing the Oppression Olympics card with me – trust me.”

  I cry a bit louder. “Why are you wearing my panties?” I ask.

  Alicia peers up at me. “You,” she whispers. “What do you have that I don’t have?”

  “Impossibly low standards and an alcohol problem?” says my mother.

  “Mom!”

  “Sorry honey. I was just thinking aloud.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re right,” I say. “I do have a drink problem. I’m not nearly drunk enough for this shit.”

  I mean to head for the wine rack, but it’s as if there is a magnetic force drawing me to the other side of the room. The drawing board. What’s in there that he’s hiding from me?

  Like you don’t already know the answer to that.

  I step over Alicia and walk to the drawing board. The padlock dangles symbolically before me. All I have to do is lift the lid...

  ...yes, we know you’re going to do it. Get on with it.

  - Excuse me, but I think I’ve read enough books to know about dramatic tension.

  Says the woman who accepted a marriage proposal in chapter three.

  - Butt out. This is a big moment.

  It’s not. Anyone with half a brain can tell that you’re going to lift up that lid and find that he’s drawn his sister as a My Little Pony and that despite his bail terms and his promise to you, he is in fact still drawing pornographic versions of little girls’ favourite cartoon characters.

  - Okay, how much do you want to bet?

  Fifty?

  - Cool. You’re on, bitch.

  My mother is staring at me. Even Alicia, face-down on the carpet, is practically breaking her neck to get a good look at me.

  “Hanna,” says my mother, in a slow, concerned voice that I know means nothing good. “Are you talking to the voices in your head again?”

  “No.”

  Yes.

  - Shh.

  What? You are. You’re making bets with figments of your imagination.

  “Honey, your lips are moving,” says my mother. She looks like the soul of compassion, a look which I know from bitter experience can only end in some kind of rebirthing featuring drum circles and animal spirits. And that this will definitely take place somewhere in the forest where there are no proper bathroom facilities.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and flip open the drawing board.

  Oh.

  Oh God. I stare down at the drawing within. I don’t feel so good.

  My Inner Goddess peers over my shoulder, wrinkles her nose and sighs. I hate to say ‘I told you so’...

  - No you don’t.

  No, I don’t. You’re right. I live for these moments. Especially when I win money.

  Crispian comes back in, carrying a pair of handcuffs, a handful of cable ties, a pair of floggers, a spanking paddle, a bull-whip and a selection of nipple clamps. When he sees me standing over the open drawing board he turns pale.

  My mother catches his eye and smiles. “Run,” she says helpfully.

  My head throbs in time with my pulse. I realise that at this point I am supposed to say something profound and offer Dr. Quinn some kind of insight into my tortured psyche, but as I stare at the inkblot all I can think of is the churning in my gut.

  "Does this remind you of anything, Hanna?" he prompts, waving the splatter pattern in front of me.

  I shake my head and press my lips together.

  "Crispian?" he asks. "What do you see?"

  "Throw-up," says Crispian. Oh my God. It's so weird how we're in tune with one another. "It reminds me of the time Hanna ralphed all over a Mexican transvestite in a parking lot. Do you remember that, honey?"

  I manage to nod. It's the last thing I want to think about. Dr. Quinn tactfully pushes the bucket back towards me.

  "You seem a little nauseous, Hanna," he says. "Do you maybe want to talk about why that is?"

  I open my mouth to speak, but Crispian interrupts. "She was pounding them back all night because she thinks I'm banging my sister," he snaps. "Which I am not. And even if I was, we're adopted - she's not a blood relative."

  "But you were raised together as brother and sister?"

  "Yes."

  "So naturally it would follow that the incest taboo holds true," says Dr. Quinn. "Since you have always related to her as a sibling, correct?"

  "Yeah. Totally. Hanna's just imagining things. She does that a lot."

  Dr. Quinn steeples his fingers and peers at me. "I see. And do you think you're a person prone to imagining things, Hanna?"

  Do I count?

  And me.

  me too.

  "No," I murmur, and stare down at my hands.

  "Okay," says Dr. Quinn. "Do you mind if I just carry on with Crispian for a moment?"

  He flips over the page to another ink blot and holds it up. Crispian peers at it for a while and then says "Buffalo wings."

  "Buffalo wings?"

  He nods.

  "Buffalo don't have wings," I mutter, but there's another ink blot in our faces.

  "Egg foo yung," says Crispian.

  "Okay," says Dr. Quinn. "And the next..."

  Crispian stares at the ink blot test for a good thirty seconds before deciding. "Char siu pork." He chews his lower lip in thought. "No...wait. Kung pao. Definitely kung pao. Say, can you really tell what's going on in people's heads just by their answers to the inkblot thing?"

  Dr. Quinn nods. "I think I can hazard an educated guess."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I'm going to stick my neck out and say you're hungry and she's queasy."

  Crispian waggles an eyebrow. "But are we crazy, Doc? That's the question. Although you're right about the hungry part. Do you wanna get Chinese food? I could totally go for some Chinese food right now." He reaches for the phone and the stack of takeout menus that have accumulated beside it. He's been pigging out for three days straight and the flesh is bulging either side of the electronic tag on his ankle.

  "Go ahead and eat," I hiss, sarcastically. "Eat. Eat your shame."

  Dr. Quinn turns back to me. "Hanna - you think there's something going on with Crispian and his sister?" he asks.

  "Yes. Because there is. Because I walked in and I thought he was drawing her like one of his French girls but when I looked it was..."

  "...when you looked in my locked, personal, private portfolio," says Crispian. "Let's not miss out that part, shall we? He slams down the takeout menu and smiles at Dr. Quinn. "She has trust issues, Doc. Probably something to do with the fact that her mom is banging three different guys at once time..."

  "...don't you talk to me about mommy-issues, Crispian Neigh. Between the crack-whore, your nightmares and that dipsomaniac bitch who hates me..."

  "...oh, like you've ever given her any reason to like you. You don't even try. You just stare at your fucking thumbs and cry into your lap!"

 
"As if it would make any difference!" I yell. "She made up her mind to hate me the first time she saw me, all because I was taking her precious little baby away from her. Just like she hates your sister."

  "She does not hate Alicia!" screams Crispian, getting to his feet. "You take that back. Mommy loves us! Mommy loves us all!"

  "She told you to go and get shanked in the prison chow line!"

  "So she has a dark sense of humour!"

  I shake my head. "This is beyond dark, Crispian. This is...darker. This is complicated." Oh hot damn...and maybe a little bit...sexy? I sit down and press my knees together. He's gazing thunderously down at me. "We have...issues," I murmur.

  "I know, right?" His brows quirk up under the shade of his fedora and I melt. Holy crap.

  Dr. Quinn glances up from this month's issue of 'Which Luxury Yacht?' magazine. "Yep. You do."

  Somehow I manage to get myself under control. "Doctor, what can we do?" I whisper, my voice breathy. "Can you help us? Why are we so interestingly dysfunctional?"

  He licks a finger and turns the page. "Well, it kind of depends, doesn't it?"

  "On what?"

  "On whether you think this relationship is worth pursuing. I'm guessing this hasn't been the first time you've been revolted by your fiance's 'hobby'." He sighs, folds the magazine and glances at Crispian. "Which, by the way, could constitute a violation of your bail terms, Crispian. I know you've stayed away from My Little Pony online but here we are back with the strange pornography..."

  Crispian turns white. "But as my psychiatrist..."

  Dr. Quinn nods and holds up a hand. "As your psychiatrist I would be bound by the rules of patient confidentiality, yes. As long as you were a patient of mine."

  "Okay, yes, fine," says Crispian. "I need help. I accept that I need help. How long do you think I'll need help?"

  Dr. Quinn peels back a page of his magazine and eyes the price-tag of an eighty footer. He sucks his teeth for a moment and then says "Oh, I'd say about fifty years, give or take a few."

  Fifty! Holy crap - we are so amazingly fucked-up. And that's hot.

  "Ethically," the good doctor continues. "I'm kind of obliged to give you my clinical opinion before we go any further. Just so that I can sleep at night."