by E. L. James
Your
Ana x
Still SM&I
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Dinner Out
Date: June 14 2011 15:05
To: Anastasia Steele
I approve of your plan. Except the part about you paying!
My treat.
I’ll pick you up at 6:00.
x
PS: Why aren’t you using your BlackBerry!!!
Christian Grey
Completely and Utterly Annoyed, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Bossiness
Date: June 14 2011 15:11
To: Christian Grey
Oh, don’t be so crusty and cross.
It’s all in code.
I’ll see you at 6:00.
Ana x
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Maddening Woman
Date: June 14 2011 15:18
To: Anastasia Steele
Crusty and cross!
I’ll give you crusty and cross.
And look forward to it.
Christian Grey
Completely and Utterly More Annoyed, but Smiling for Some Unknown Reason, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Promises. Promises.
Date: June 14 2011 15:23
To: Christian Grey
Bring it on, Mr. Grey
I look forward to it too. ;D
Ana x
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
He doesn’t reply, but then I don’t expect him to. I imagine him moaning about mixed signals, and the thought makes me smile. I daydream briefly about what he might do to me but find myself shifting about in my chair. My subconscious gazes at me disapprovingly over her half-moon specs—get on with your work.
A LITTLE LATER, MY phone buzzes. It’s Claire at Reception.
“There’s a real cute guy in Reception to see you. We must go out for drinks sometime, Ana. You sure know some hunky guys,” she hisses conspiratorially through the phone.
Ethan! Grabbing my keys from my purse, I hurry out to the foyer.
Holy shit—sun-bleached blond hair, a tan to die for, and glowing hazel eyes gaze up at me from the green leather couch. As soon as he sees me, his mouth drops open, and he’s on his feet coming toward me.
“Wow, Ana.” He frowns at me as he bends to give me hug.
“You look well.” I grin up at him.
“You look … wow—different. Worldly, more sophisticated. What’s happened? You changed your hair? Clothes? I don’t know, Steele, but you look hot!”
I blush furiously. “Oh, Ethan. I’m just in my work clothes,” I scold as Claire looks on with an arched eyebrow and a wry smile.
“How was Barbados?”
“Fun,” he says.
“When’s Kate coming back?”
“She and Elliot are flying back Friday. They’re pretty damn serious about each other.” Ethan rolls his eyes.
“I’ve missed her.”
“Yeah? How have you been doing with Mr. Mogul?”
“Mr. Mogul?” I snicker. “Well, it’s been interesting. He’s taking us out for dinner this evening.”
“Cool.” Ethan seems genuinely pleased. Phew!
“Here.” I hand him the keys. “You have the address?”
“Yeah. Laters.” He leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Elliot’s expression?”
“Yeah, kind of grows on you.”
“It does. Laters.” I smile at him as he picks up his large over-the-shoulder bag from beside the green couch and exits the building.
When I turn, Jack is watching me from the far side of the foyer, his expression unreadable. I smile brightly at him and head back to my desk, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. This is beginning to get on my nerves. What to do? I have no idea. I’ll have to wait until Kate is back. She’s bound to come up with a plan. The thought dispels my bleak mood, and I pick up the next manuscript.
AT FIVE TO SIX, my phone buzzes. It’s Christian.
“Crusty and Cross here,” he says and I grin. He’s still playful Fifty. My inner goddess is clapping her hands with glee like a small child.
“Well, this is Sex Mad and Insatiable. I take it you’re outside?” I ask dryly.
“I am indeed, Miss Steele. Looking forward to seeing you.” His voice is warm and seductive, and my heart flutters wildly.
“Ditto, Mr. Grey. I’ll be right out.” I hang up.
I switch off my computer and gather up my purse and cream cardigan.
“I’m off now, Jack,” I call through.
“Okay, Ana. Thanks for today! Have a great evening.”
“You, too.”
Why can’t he be like that all the time? I don’t understand him.
THE AUDI IS PARKED at the curb, and Christian climbs out as I approach. He’s taken off his jacket, and he’s wearing his gray pants, my favorite ones that hang from his hips—in that way. How can this Greek god be meant for me? I find myself grinning like a loon in answer to his own idiotic grin.
He’s spent the whole day acting like a boyfriend in love—in love with me. This adorable, complex, flawed man is in love with me, and I with him. Joy bursts unexpectedly inside me, and I savor the moment as I feel briefly that I could conquer the world.
“Miss Steele, you look as captivating as you did this morning.” Christian pulls me into his arms and kisses me soundly.
“Mr. Grey, so do you.”
“Let’s go get your friend.” He smiles down at me and opens the car door.
As Taylor heads to the apartment, Christian fills me in on his day—a much better one than yesterday, it seems. I gaze at him adoringly as he attempts to explain some breakthrough the environmental science department at WSU in Vancouver has made. His words mean very little to me, but I’m captivated by his passion and interest in this subject. Maybe this is what it will be like, good days and bad days, and if the good days are like this, I won’t have much to complain about. He hands me a sheet of paper.
“These are the times that Claude is free this week,” he says.
Oh! The trainer.
As we pull up to my apartment building, he fishes his BlackBerry from his pocket.
“Grey,” he answers. “Ros, what is it?” He listens intently, and I can tell it’s an involved conversation.
“I’ll go and get Ethan. I’ll be two minutes,” I mouth at Christian and hold up two fingers.
He nods, obviously distracted by the call. Taylor opens my door, smiling at me warmly. I grin at him; even Taylor’s feeling it. I press the entry phone and shout happily into it.
“Hi, Ethan, it’s me. Let me in.”
The door buzzes, and I head upstairs to the apartment. It occurs to me that I have not been here since Saturday morning. That seems so long ago. Ethan has kindly left the front door open. I step into the apartment, and I don’t know why, but I freeze instinctively as soon as I step inside. I take a moment to realize it’s because the pale, wan figure standing by the kitchen island and holding a small revolver is Leila, and she’s gazing impassively at me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
Holy fuck.
She’s here, gazing at me with an unnerving blank expression, holding a gun. My subconscious swoons into a dead faint, and I don’t think even smelling salts will bring her back.
I blink repeatedly at Leila as my mind goes into overdrive. How did she get in? Where’s Ethan? Holy shit! Where is Ethan?
A creeping cold fear grips my heart, and my scalp prickles as each and every follicle on my head tightens with terror. What if she’s harmed him? I start breathing
rapidly as adrenaline and bone-numbing dread course through my body. Keep calm, keep calm—I repeat the mantra over and over in my head.
She tilts her head to one side, regarding me as if I’m an exhibit in a freak show. Jeez, I’m not the freak here.
It feels like an eon has passed while I process all this, though in reality it is only a split second. Leila’s expression remains blank, and her appearance is as scruffy and ill-kempt as ever. She’s still wearing that grubby trench coat, and she looks desperately in need of a shower. Her hair is greasy and lank, plastered against her head, and her eyes are a dull brown, cloudy, and vaguely confused.
Despite the fact that my mouth has no moisture in it whatsoever, I attempt to speak. “Hi. Leila, isn’t it?” I rasp. She smiles, but it’s a disturbing curl of her lip rather than a true smile.
“She speaks,” she whispers, and her voice is soft and hoarse at the same time, an eerie sound.
“Yes, I speak,” I say gently as if to a child. “Are you here alone?” Where is Ethan? My heart pounds at the thought that he might have come to some harm.
Her face falls, so much so that I think she’s about to burst into tears—she looks so forlorn.
“Alone,” she whispers. “Alone.” And the depth of sadness in that one word is heart wrenching. What does she mean? I am alone? She’s alone? She’s alone because she’s harmed Ethan? Oh … no … I have to fight the choking fear clawing at my throat as tears threaten.
“What are you doing here? Can I help you?” My words are a calm, gentle interrogation despite the suffocating fear in my throat. Her brow furrows as if she’s completely befuddled by my questions. But she makes no violent move against me. Her hand is still relaxed around her gun. I take a different tack, trying to ignore my tightening scalp.
“Would you like some tea?” Why am I asking her if she wants tea? It’s Ray’s answer to any emotional situation, resurfacing inappropriately. Jeez, he’d have a fit if he saw me right this minute. His army training would have kicked in, and he’d have disarmed her by now. She’s not actually pointing that gun at me. Perhaps I can move. She shakes her head and tilts it from side to side as if stretching her neck.
I take a deep precious lungful of air, trying to calm my panicked breathing, and move toward the kitchen island. She frowns as if she can’t quite understand what I am doing and shifts a little so she is still facing me. I reach the kettle and with a shaking hand fill it from the faucet. As I move, my breathing eases. Yes, if she wanted me dead, surely she would have shot me by now. She watches me with an absent, bemused curiosity. As I switch on the kettle, I’m plagued by the thought of Ethan. Is he hurt? Tied up?
“Is there anyone else in the apartment?” I ask tentatively.
She inclines her head the other way, and with her right hand—the hand not holding the revolver—she grabs a strand of her long greasy hair and starts twirling and fiddling with it, pulling and twisting. It’s obviously a nervous habit, and while I am distracted by this, I am struck once again by how much she resembles me. I hold my breath, waiting for her answer, the anxiety building to an almost unbearable pitch.
“Alone. All alone,” she murmurs. I find this comforting. Maybe Ethan isn’t here. The relief is empowering.
“Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee?”
“Not thirsty,” she answers softly, and she takes a cautious step toward me. My feeling of empowerment evaporates. Fuck! I start panting with fear again, feeling it surge thick and rough through my veins. In spite of this and feeling beyond brave, I turn and fetch a couple of cups from the cupboard.
“What do you have that I don’t?” she asks, her voice assuming the singsong intonation of a child.
“What do you mean, Leila?” I ask as gently as I can.
“Master—Mr. Grey—he lets you call him by his given name.”
“I’m not his submissive, Leila. Er … Master understands that I am unable, inadequate to fulfill that role.”
She tilts her head to the other side. It’s wholly unnerving and unnatural as a gesture.
“In-ad-e-quate.” She tests the word, sounding it out, seeing how it feels on her tongue. “But Master is happy. I have seen him. He laughs and smiles. These reactions are rare … very rare for him.”
Oh.
“You look like me.” Leila changes tack, surprising me, her eyes seeming truly to focus on me for the first time. “Master likes obedient ones who look like you and me. The others, all the same … all the same … and yet you sleep in his bed. I saw you.”
Shit! She was in the room. I didn’t imagine it.
“You saw me in his bed?” I whisper.
“I never slept in Master’s bed,” she murmurs. She’s like a fallen ethereal wraith. Half a person. She looks so slight, and in spite of the fact that she’s holding a gun, I suddenly feel overwhelmed with sympathy for her. Her hands flex around the weapon, and my eyes widen, threatening to pop from my head.
“Why does Master like us like this? It makes me think something … something … Master is dark … Master is a dark man, but I love him.”
No, no, he’s not. I bristle internally. He’s not dark. He’s a good man, and he’s not in the dark. He’s joined me in the light. And now she’s here, trying to drag him back with some warped idea that she loves him.
“Leila, do you want to give me the gun?” I ask softly. Her hand grips it tightly, and she hugs it to her chest.
“This is mine. It’s all I have left.” She gently caresses the gun. “So she can join her love.”
Shit! Which love—Christian? It’s like she’s punched me in the stomach. I know he will be here momentarily to find out what’s keeping me. Does she mean to shoot him? The thought is so horrific, I feel my throat swell and ache as a huge knot forms there, almost choking me, matching the fear that’s balled tightly in my stomach.
Right on cue the door bursts open, and Christian is standing in the doorway, Taylor behind him.
Glancing at me briefly, Christian’s eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and I notice the small spark of relief in his look. But his relief is fleeting as his gaze darts to Leila and stills, focusing on her, not wavering in the slightest. He glares at her with an intensity I have not seen before, his eyes wild, wide, angry, and scared.
Oh no … oh no.
Leila’s eyes widen, and for a moment, it seems her reason returns. She blinks rapidly while her hand tightens once more around the gun.
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart starts thumping so loud that I hear the blood pounding in my ears. No no no!
My world teeters precariously in the hands of this poor, fucked-up woman. Will she shoot? Both of us? Just Christian? The thought is crippling.
But after an eternity, as time hangs suspended around us, her head dips slightly and she gazes up at him through her long lashes, her expression contrite.
Christian holds up his hand, signaling to Taylor to stay where he is. Taylor’s blanched face betrays his fury. I have never seen him like this, but he stands stock-still as Christian and Leila stare at each other.
I realize I’m holding my breath. What will she do? What will he do? But they just continue to stare at each other. Christian’s expression is raw, full of some unnamed emotion. It could be pity, fear, affection … or is it love? No, please, not love!
His eyes bore into her, and agonizingly slowly, the atmosphere in the apartment changes. The tension is building so that I can sense their connection, the charge between them.
No! Suddenly I feel I’m the interloper, intruding on them as they stand gazing at each other. I’m an outsider—a voyeur, spying on a forbidden, intimate scene behind closed curtains.
Christian’s intense gaze burns brighter, and his bearing changes subtly. He looks taller, more angular somehow, colder, and more distant. I recognize this stance. I’ve seen him like this before—in his playroom.
My scalp prickles anew. This is Dominant Christian, and how at ease he looks. Whether he was born to or mad
e for this role, I just don’t know, but with a sinking heart and sickened stomach, I watch as Leila responds, her lips parting, her breathing picking up as the first flush of color stains her cheeks. No! It’s such an unwelcome glimpse into his past, agonizing to witness.
Finally he mouths a word at her. I can’t make out what it is, but the effect on Leila is immediate. She drops to the floor on her knees, her head bowed, and the gun falls and skitters uselessly across the wooden floor. Holy fuck.
Christian walks calmly over to where the gun has fallen and bends gracefully to pick it up. He regards it with ill-disguised disgust, and then slips it into his jacket pocket. He gazes once more at Leila as she kneels compliantly beside the kitchen island.
“Anastasia, go with Taylor,” he commands. Taylor crosses the threshold and stares at me.
“Ethan,” I whisper.
“Downstairs.” He responds matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving Leila.
Downstairs. Not here. Ethan’s okay. Relief floods hard and fast through my blood, and for a moment I think I’m going to faint.
“Anastasia,” Christian’s tone is clipped in warning.
I blink at him, and I’m suddenly unable to move. I don’t want to leave him—leave him with her. He moves to stand beside Leila as she kneels at his feet. He’s hovering over her, protectively. She’s so still, it’s unnatural. I can’t take my eyes off the two of them—together …
