by E. L. James
Wait and see—it’s a surprise.
I need to work … let me be.
Love you.
A x
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Frustrated
Date: June 17 2011 09:12
To: Anastasia Steele
I hate it when you keep things from me.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I stare at the small screen of my BlackBerry. The vehemence implicit in his e-mail takes me by surprise. Why does he feel like this? It’s not like I’m hiding erotic photographs of my exes.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Indulging you
Date: June 17 2011 09:14
To: Christian Grey
It’s for your birthday.
Another surprise.
Don’t be so petulant.
A x
He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m called into a meeting so I can’t dwell on it for too long.
WHEN I NEXT GLANCE at my BlackBerry, to my horror I realize it’s four in the afternoon. Where has the day gone? Still no message from Christian. I decide to e-mail him again.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Hello
Date: June 17 2011 16:03
To: Christian Grey
Are you not talking to me?
Don’t forget I am going for a drink with José, and that he’s staying with us tonight.
Please rethink about joining us.
A x
He doesn’t reply, and I feel a frisson of unease. I hope he’s okay. Calling his cell phone, I get his voice mail. The announcement simply says “Grey, leave a message” in his most clipped tone.
“Hi … um … it’s me. Ana. Are you okay? Call me,” I stutter through my message. I’ve never had to leave one for him before. I flush as I hang up. Of course he’ll know it’s you, idiot! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me. I am tempted to ring his PA, Andrea, but decide that’s a step too far. Reluctantly I continue my work.
MY PHONE RINGS UNEXPECTEDLY and my heart jumps. Christian! But no—it’s Kate, my best friend, finally!
“Ana!” she shouts from wherever she is.
“Kate! Are you back? I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too. I have so much to tell you. We’re at Sea-Tac—me and my man.” She giggles in a most un-Kate-like way.
“Cool. I have so much to tell you, too.”
“See you back at the apartment?”
“I’m having drinks with José. Join us.”
“José’s in town? Sure! Text me where.”
“Okay.” I beam.
“You good, Ana?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Still with Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Laters!”
Oh, not her, too. Elliot’s influence knows no bounds.
“Yeah—laters, baby.” I grin and she hangs up.
Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget anything.
AN HOUR LATER MY office phone rings—Christian? No, it’s Claire.
“You should see the guy asking for you in Reception. How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”
José must be here. I glance at the clock—it’s five fifty-five, and a small thrill of excitement pulses through me. I haven’t seen him in ages.
“Ana, wow! You look great. So grown-up.” He grins at me.
Just because I’m wearing a smart dress … jeez!
He hugs me hard. “And tall,” he mutters in amazement.
“It’s just the shoes, José. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black-and-white-checked flannel shirt.
“I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
“Cool. I’ll wait here.”
I PICK UP TWO Rolling Rocks from the crowded bar and head over to the table where José is seated.
“You found Christian’s place okay?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been inside. I just delivered the photos to the service elevator. Some guy named Taylor took them up. Looks like quite a place.”
“It is. You should see inside.”
“Can’t wait. Salud, Ana. Seattle agrees with you.”
I flush as we clink bottles. It’s Christian that agrees with me. “Salud. Tell me about your show and how it went.”
He beams and launches into the story. He sold all but three of his photos, which has taken care of his student loans and left him with some money to spare.
“And I’ve been commissioned to do some landscapes for the Portland Tourist Board. Pretty cool, huh?” he finishes proudly.
“Oh, José—that’s wonderful. Not interfering with your studies though?” I frown at him.
“Nah. Now that you guys have gone, plus three of the guys I used to hang out with, I have more time.”
“No hot babe to keep you busy? Last time I saw you, you had half a dozen women hanging on your every word.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“Nah, Ana. None of them are woman enough for me.” He’s all bravado.
“Oh sure. José Rodriguez, lady-killer.” I giggle.
“Hey—I have my moments, Steele.” He looks vaguely hurt, and I am chastened.
“Sure you do.” I mollify him.
“So, how’s Grey?” he asks, his tone changing, becoming cooler.
“He’s good. We’re good,” I murmur.
“Serious, you say?”
“Yes. Serious.”
“He’s not too old for you?”
“Oh, José. You know what my mom says—I was born old.”
José’s mouth twists wryly.
“How is your mom?” And like that, we are out of the danger zone.
“Ana!”
I turn and there’s Kate with Ethan. She looks gorgeous: bleached strawberry-blonde hair, golden tan, and beaming white smile, and so shapely in her white camisole and tight white jeans. All eyes are on Kate. I leap up from my seat to give her a hug. Oh, how I’ve missed this woman!
She pushes me away from her and holds me at arm’s length, examining me closely. I flush under her intense gaze.
“You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. And you look different. Grown-up. What’s been going on?” she says, all mother hen. “I like your dress. Suits you.”
“A lot’s happened since you went away. I’ll tell you later, when we’re on our own.” I am not ready for the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition just yet. She regards me suspiciously.
“You’re okay?” she asks gently.
“Yes.” I smile, though I’d be happier knowing where Christian is.
“Cool.”
“Hi, Ethan.” I grin at him, and he gives me a quick hug.
“Hi, Ana,” he whispers in my ear.
José frowns at him.
“How was lunch with Mia?” I ask Ethan.
“Interesting,” he says cryptically.
Oh?
“Ethan—you know José?”
“We’ve met once,” José mutters, assessing Ethan as they shake hands.
“Yeah, at Kate’s place in Vancouver,” Ethan says, smiling pleasantly at José. “Right—who’s for a drink?”
I MAKE MY WAY to the restrooms. While there I text Christian our location; perhaps he’ll join us. There are no missed calls from him and no e-mails. This is not like him.
“Whassup, Ana?” José asks as I come back to the table.
“I can’t reach Christian. I hope he’s okay.”
“He’ll be fine. Like another beer?”
“Sure.”
Kate leans across. “Ethan says some mad stalker ex-girlfriend was in the apartment with a gun?”
“Well … yeah.” I shrug apologetically. Oh jeez—do we have to do this now?
“Ana—what the hell’s been going on?” Kate stops abruptly and checks her phone.
“Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp prickles ominously.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“His helicopter has gone missing.”
“Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my body. “No!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
* * *
I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Christian’s apartment. And despite the heat pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my shoulders, I’m cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
I’m aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But they’re in the background, a distant buzz. I don’t hear the words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of the gas from the fire.
My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and the huge fireplaces—real fireplaces for burning wood. I’d like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he’d think of some way to make it memorable, like all the times we’ve made love. I snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is he?
The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive, keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching beauty. They are bewitching.
Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.
He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no …
I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango is missing.
“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the anguish. She gives me a cup of tea. I take the cup and saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed tears and the large lump in my throat.
Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large U-shaped couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks older—a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness. I gaze at Elliot, José, and Ethan, who stand around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly. Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.
Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can’t bear to see the news item again—CHRISTIAN GREY MISSING—his beautiful face on TV.
Idly it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s home. What would he think about their being here?
Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the authorities who are drip-feeding us information, but it’s all meaningless. The fact is, he’s missing. He’s been missing for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off—this much I do know. It’s just too dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt, hungry, or worse. No!
I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is hope.
“You’re my lifeline.”
Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo through my mind.
“I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana.”
Why didn’t I seize the day?
“I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please. We haven’t had enough time … we need more time. We’ve done so much in the last few weeks, come so far. It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on his knees in front of me offering himself to me, finally touching him.
“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please.”
Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow—all the light eclipsed. No no no … my poor Christian.
“This is me, Ana. All of me … and I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you.”
And I you, my Fifty Shades.
I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling around the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house—that stunning view.
“I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want you, body and soul, forever.”
Oh, please, let him be okay. He cannot be gone. He is the center of my universe.
An involuntary sob escapes my throat, and I clutch my hand to my mouth. No. I must be strong.
José is suddenly at my side, or has he been there a while? I have no idea.
“Do you want to call your mom or dad?” he asks gently.
No! I shake my head and clutch José’s hand. I cannot speak, I know I will dissolve if I do, but the warmth and gentle squeeze of his hand offers me no solace.
Oh, Mom. My lip trembles at the thought of my mother. Should I call her? No. I couldn’t deal with her reaction. Maybe Ray; he wouldn’t get emotional—he never gets emotional, not even when the Mariners lose.
Grace rises to join the boys, distracting me. That must be the longest she’s sat still. Mia comes to sit beside me, too, and grabs my other hand.
“He will come back,” she says, her voice initially determined but cracking on the last word. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her face pale and pinched from lack of sleep.
I gaze up at Ethan, who is watching Mia and Elliot, who has his arms around Grace. I glance at the clock. It’s after eleven, heading toward midnight. Damn time! With each passing hour, the clawing emptiness expands, consuming me, choking me. I know deep down inside I am preparing myself for the worst. I close my eyes and offer up another silent prayer, clasping both Mia’s and José’s hands.
Opening my eyes again, I stare into the flames once more. I can see his shy smile—my favorite of all his expressions, a glimpse of the real Christian, my real Christian. He is so many people: control freak, CEO, stalker, sex god, Dom—and at the same time—such a boy with his toys. I smile. His car, his boat, his plane, his Charlie Tango helicopter … my lost boy, truly lost right now. My smile fades and pain lances through me. I remember him in the shower, wiping away the lipstick marks.
“I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t have a heart.”
The lump in my throat expands. Oh, Christian, you do, you do have a heart, and it’s mine. I want to cherish it forever. Even though he’s so complex and difficult, I love him. I will always love him. There will never be anyone else. Ever.
I remember sitting in Starbucks weighing up my Christian pros and cons. All those cons, even those photographs I found this morning, melt into insignificance now. There’s just him and whether he’ll come back. Oh please, Lord, bring him back, please let him be okay. I’ll go to church … I’ll do anything. Oh, if I get him back, I shall seize the day. His voice echoes around in my head once more: “Carpe d
iem, Ana.”
I gaze deeper into the fire, the flames still licking and curling around each other, blazing brightly. Then Grace shrieks, and everything goes into slow motion.
“Christian!”
I turn my head in time to see Grace barreling across the great room from where she had been pacing somewhere behind me, and there in the entrance stands a dismayed Christian. He’s dressed in just his shirtsleeves and suit pants, and he’s holding his navy jacket, shoes, and socks. He looks tired, dirty, and utterly beautiful.
Holy fuck … Christian. He’s alive. I gaze numbly at him, trying to work out if I’m hallucinating or if he’s really here.
His expression is one of utter bewilderment. He deposits his jacket and shoes on the floor in time to catch Grace, who throws her arms around his neck and kisses him hard on the cheek.
“Mom?”
Christian gazes down at her, completely at a loss.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” Grace whispers, voicing our collective fear.
“Mom, I’m here.” I hear the consternation in his voice.
“I died a thousand deaths today,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, echoing my thoughts. She gasps and sobs, no longer able to hold back her tears. Christian frowns, horrified or mortified—I don’t know which—then after a beat, envelops her in a huge hug, holding her close.
“Oh, Christian,” she chokes, wrapping her arms around him, weeping into his neck—all self-restraint forgotten—and Christian doesn’t balk. He just holds her, rocking to and fro, comforting her. Scalding tears pool in my eyes. Carrick hollers from the hallway.
“He’s alive! Shit—you’re here!” He appears from Taylor’s office, clutching his cell phone, and embraces both of them, his eyes closed in sweet relief.
