by E. L. James
Thank. Fuck. Finally. It’s her.
“Hi.” I’m relieved that she’s called.
“Hi,” she says.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’m fine.”
Fine? I wish I was…
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” I ask, reining in my temper.
“Yes. We finished packing, and Kate and I had Chinese takeout with José.”
Oh, this just gets better and better. The fucking photographer again. That’s why she hasn’t called.
“How about you?” she inquires when I don’t respond, and there’s a hint of desperation in her voice.
Why? What isn’t she telling me?
Oh, stop overthinking this, Grey!
I sigh. “I went to a fund-raising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could.”
“I wish you were here,” she whispers.
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she says fervently.
Oh. Perhaps she’s missed me.
“I’ll see you Sunday?” I confirm, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
“Yes, Sunday,” she says, and I think she’s smiling.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Sir.” Her voice is husky and it takes my breath away.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.”
She stays on the line, her breathing soft. Why doesn’t she hang up? She doesn’t want to?
“You hang up,” she whispers.
She doesn’t want to hang up and my mood lightens immediately. I grin out at the view of Seattle.
“No, you hang up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.” Now I know you’re safe.
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed,” she teases, and that makes me smile.
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She doesn’t hang up, and I know she’s grinning. It lifts my spirits higher. “Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” I ask.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday,” she says, temptress that she is, and the line goes dead.
Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?
Actually, I have a good idea, provided that riding crop turns up in time. And with that enticing thought I toss down the rest of the Armagnac and go to bed.
SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2011
* * *
Christian!” Mia squeals with delight and runs toward me, abandoning her cartload of luggage. Throwing her arms around my neck, she hugs me tightly.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you, too.” I give her a squeeze in return. She leans back and examines me with intense dark eyes.
“You look good,” she gushes. “Tell me about this girl!”
“Let’s get you and your luggage home first.” I grab her cart, which weighs a ton, and together we head out of the airport terminal toward the parking lot.
“So how was Paris? You appear to have brought most of it home with you.”
“C’est incroyable!” she exclaims. “Floubert, on the other hand, was a bastard. Jesus. He was a horrible man. A crap teacher but a good chef.”
“Does that mean you’re cooking this evening?”
“Oh, I was hoping Mom would cook.”
Mia proceeds to talk nonstop about Paris: her tiny room, the plumbing, Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, Parisians, coffee, red wine, cheese, fashion, shopping. But mainly about fashion and shopping. And I thought she went to Paris to learn to cook.
I’ve missed her chatter; it’s soothing and welcome. She is the only person I know who doesn’t make me feel…different.
“This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.”
Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair.
She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh.
Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia.
I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her.
Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries.
And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop.
When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops.
She falls asleep in my arms.
“Mee a,” I whisper.
“What did you say?” Mommy asks, and her face is white like chalk.
“Mee a.”
“Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.”
And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.
I TURN INTO THE driveway, pull up outside Mom and Dad’s front door, unload Mia’s luggage, and carry it into the hall.
“Where is everyone?” Mia is in full pout. The only person around is my parents’ housekeeper—she’s an exchange student, and I can’t remember her name. “Welcome home,” she says to Mia in her stilted English, though she’s looking at me with big cow eyes.
Oh, God. It’s just a pretty face, sweetheart.
Ignoring the housekeeper, I address Mia’s question. “I think Mom is on call and Dad is at a conference. You did come home a week early.”
“I couldn’t stand Floubert another minute. I had to get out while I could. Oh, I bought you a present.” She grabs one of her cases, opens it up in the hallway, and starts rummaging through it. “Ah!” She hands me a heavy square box. “Open it,” she urges, beaming at me. She is an unstoppable force.
Warily I open the box, and inside I find a snow globe containing a black grand piano covered in glitter. It’s the kitschiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s a music box. Here—” She takes it from me, gives it a good shake, and winds a small key on the bottom. A twinkly version of “La Marseillaise” starts to play in a cloud of colored glitter.
What am I going to do with this? I laugh, because it’s so Mia. “That’s great, Mia. Thank you.” I give her a hug and she hugs me back.
“I knew it would make you laugh.”
She’s right. She knows me well.
“So tell me about this girl,” she says. But we’re both distracted as Grace hurries through the door, allowing me a reprieve as mother and daughter embrace. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to meet you, darling,” Grace says. “I’ve been on call. You look so grown up. Christian, can you take Mia’s bags upstairs? Gretchen will give you a hand.”
Really? I’m a porter now?
“Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don’t need Gretchen mooning over me.
Once that’s done, I tell them that I have an appointment with my trainer. “I’ll be back this evening.” Quickly kissing them both, I leave before I’m pestered with more questions about Ana.
BASTILLE, MY TRAINER, WORKS me hard. Today we’re kickboxing at his gym.
“You’ve gone soft in Portland, boy.” He sneers after I’m toppled onto the mat from his roundhouse kick. Bastille is from the hard-knocks school of physical training, which suits me fine.
I scramble to my feet. I want to take him down. But he’s right—he’s all over my shit today, and I get nowhere.
When we finish he asks, “What gives? You’re distracted, man.”
“Life. You know,” I answer with an air of indifference.
“Sure. You’re back in Seattle this week?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll straighten you out.”
> AS I JOG BACK to the apartment I remember the housewarming present for Ana. I text Elliot.
What’s Ana and Kate’s address?
I want to surprise them with a present.
He texts me back an address and I forward it to Andrea. As I’m riding in the elevator up to the penthouse, Andrea texts me back.
Champagne and balloon sent. A.
Taylor hands me a package when I arrive back at the apartment. “This came for you, Mr. Grey.”
Oh yes. I recognize the anonymous wrapping: it’s the riding crop.
“Thanks.”
“Mrs. Jones said she’d be back tomorrow, late afternoon.”
“Okay. I think that’s all for today, Taylor.”
“Very good, sir,” he says with a polite smile, and returns to his office. Taking the crop, I stroll into my bedroom. This will be the perfect introduction to my world: by her own admission Ana has no sphere of reference with regard to corporal punishment, except the spanking I gave her that night. And that turned her on. With the crop, I’ll have to take it slow and make it pleasurable.
Really pleasurable. The riding crop is perfect. I’ll prove to her that the fear is in her head. Once she gets comfortable with this, we can move on.
I hope we can move on …
We’ll take it slow. And we’ll only do what she can handle. If this is going to work we’re going to have to go at her pace. Not mine.
I take one more look at the crop and put it in my closet for tomorrow.
AS I FLIP OPEN my laptop to start work my phone rings. I hope it’s Ana, but it’s disappointingly Elena.
Was I supposed to call her?
“Hello, Christian. How are you?”
“Good, thanks.”
“You’re back from Portland?”
“Yes.”
“Fancy dinner tonight?”
“Not tonight. Mia’s just in from Paris and I’ve been ordered home.”
“Ah. By Mama Grey. How is she?”
“Mama Grey? She’s good. I think. Why? What do you know that I don’t?”
“I was just asking, Christian. Don’t be so touchy.”
“I’ll call you next week. Maybe we can do dinner then.”
“Good. You’ve been off the radar for a while. And I’ve met a woman who I think might meet your needs.”
So have I.
I ignore her comment. “I’ll see you next week. Good-bye.”
As I shower I wonder if having to chase Ana has made her more interesting…or is it Ana herself?
DINNER HAS BEEN FUN. My sister is back, the princess she’s always been, the rest of the family merely her minions, wrapped around her little finger. With all her children home, Grace is in her element; she’s cooked Mia’s favorite meal—buttermilk fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.
I have to say, it’s one of my favorites, too.
“Tell me about Anastasia,” Mia demands as we sit around the kitchen table. Elliot leans back in his chair and rests his hands behind his head.
“This I have to hear. You know she popped his cherry?”
“Elliot!” Grace scolds, and swats him with a dish towel.
“Ow!” He fends her off.
I roll my eyes at all of them. “I met a girl.” I shrug. “End of story.”
“You can’t just say that!” Mia objects, pouting.
“Mia, I think he can. And he just did.” Carrick gives her a reproving paternal stare over his glasses.
“You’ll all meet her at dinner tomorrow, won’t we, Christian?” Grace says with a pointed smile.
Oh, fuck.
“Kate’s coming,” Elliot goads.
Fucking stirrer. I glare at him.
“I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds awesome!” Mia bounces up and down in her chair.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, wondering if there’s any way I can wriggle out of dinner tomorrow.
“Elena was asking after you, darling,” Grace says.
“She was?” I affect an uninterested air, developed over years of practice.
“Yes. She says she hasn’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been in Portland on business. Speaking of which, I should get going—I have an important call tomorrow and I need to prepare.”
“But you’ve not had dessert. And it’s apple cobbler.”
Hmm…tempting. But if I stay they’ll quiz me about Ana. “I have to go. I have work to do.”
“Darling, you work too hard,” Grace says, as she starts from her chair.
“Don’t get up, Mom. I’m sure Elliot will help with the dishes after dinner.”
“What?” Elliot scowls. I wink at him, say my good-byes, and turn to leave.
“But we’ll see you tomorrow?” Grace asks, too much hope in her voice.
“We’ll see.”
Shit. It looks like Anastasia Steele is going to meet my family.
I don’t know how I feel about this.
SUNDAY, MAY 29, 2011
* * *
With the Rolling Stones’ “Shake Your Hips” blasting in my ears, I sprint down Fourth Avenue and turn right on Vine. It’s 6:45 in the morning, and it’s downhill all the way…to her apartment. I’m drawn; I just want to see where she lives.
It’s between control freak and stalker.
I chuckle to myself. I’m just running. It’s a free country.
The apartment block is a nondescript redbrick, with dark green painted window frames typical of the area. It’s in a good location near the intersection of Vine Street and Western. I imagine Ana curled up in her bed under her comforter and her cream-and-blue quilt.
I run several blocks and turn down into the market; the vendors are setting up for business. I dodge between the fruit and vegetable trucks and the refrigerated vans delivering the catch of the day. This is the heart of the city—vibrant, even this early on a gray, cool morning. The water on the Sound is a glassy leaden color, matching the sky. But it does nothing to dampen my spirits.
Today’s the day.
AFTER MY SHOWER I don jeans and a linen shirt, and from my chest of drawers I take out a hair tie. I slip it into my pocket and head into my study to e-mail Ana.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Life in Numbers
Date: May 29 2011 08:04
To: Anastasia Steele
If you drive you’ll need this access code for the underground garage at Escala: 146963.
Park in bay five—it’s one of mine.
Code for the elevator: 1880.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
A moment or two later, there’s a response.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: An Excellent Vintage
Date: May 29 2011 08:08
To: Christian Grey
Yes, Sir. Understood.
Thank you for the champagne and the blow-up Charlie Tango, which is now tied to my bed.
Ana
An image of Ana tethered to her bed with my tie comes to mind. I shift in my chair. I hope she’s brought that bed to Seattle.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Envy
Date: May 29 2011 08:11
To: Anastasia Steele
You’re welcome.
Don’t be late.
Lucky Charlie Tango.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
She doesn’t respond, so I hunt through the refrigerator for some breakfast. Gail has left me some croissants and, for lunch, a Caesar salad with chicken, enough for two. I hope Ana will eat this; I don’t mind having it two days in a row.
Taylor appears while I’m
eating my breakfast.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey. Here are the Sunday papers.”
“Thanks. Anastasia is coming over at one today, and a Dr. Greene at one thirty.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else on the agenda today?”
“Yes. Ana and I will be going to my parents’ for dinner this evening.”
Taylor cocks his head, looking momentarily surprised, but he remembers himself and leaves the room. I return to my croissant and apricot jam.
Yeah. I’m taking her to meet my parents. What’s the big deal?
I CAN’T SETTLE. I’M restless. It’s 12:15 p.m. Time is crawling today. I give up on work and, grabbing the Sunday papers, wander back into the living room, where I switch on some music and read.
To my surprise there’s a photograph of Ana and me on the local news page, taken at the graduation ceremony at WSU. She looks lovely, if a little startled.
I hear the double doors open, and there she is…Her hair is loose, a little wild and sexy, and she’s wearing that purple dress she wore to dinner at The Heathman. She looks gorgeous.
Bravo, Miss Steele.
“Hmm, that dress.” My voice is full of admiration as I saunter toward her. “Welcome back, Miss Steele,” I whisper, and, holding her chin, I give her a tender kiss on the lips.
“Hi,” she says, her cheeks a little rosy.
“You’re on time. I like punctual. Come.” Taking her hand, I lead her to the sofa. “I wanted to show you something.” We both sit, and I pass her The Seattle Times. The photograph makes her laugh. Not quite the reaction I was expecting.
“So I’m your ‘friend’ now,” she teases.
“So it would appear. And it’s in the newspaper, so it must be true.”
I’m calmer now that she’s here—probably because she’s here. She hasn’t run. I tuck her soft, silky hair behind her ear; my fingers are itching to braid it.
“So, Anastasia, you have a much better idea of what I’m about since you were last here.”
“Yes.” Her gaze is intense…knowing.
“And yet you’ve returned.”
She nods, giving me a coy smile.
