by E. L. James
Startled awake again, I lie panting in the pale dawn light, waiting for my heart rate to slow, trying to lose the acrid taste of fear in my mouth.
She saved you from this shit, Grey.
You didn’t relive the pain of these memories when she was with you. Why did you let her leave?
I glance at the clock: 5:15. Time for a run.
HER BUILDING LOOKS GLOOMY; it’s still in shadow, untouched by the early-morning sun. Fitting. It reflects my mood. Her apartment is dark inside, yet the curtains to the room I watched before are drawn. It must be her room.
I hope to God that she’s sleeping alone up there. I envisage her curled up on her white iron bed, a small ball of Ana. Is she dreaming of me? Do I give her nightmares? Has she forgotten me?
I’ve never felt this miserable, not even as a teenager. Maybe before I was a Grey…my memory spirals back. No, no—not awake as well. This is too much. Pulling my hood up and leaning against the granite wall, I’m hidden in the doorway of the building opposite. The awful thought crosses my mind that I might be standing here in a week, a month…a year? Watching, waiting, just to catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be mine. It’s painful. I’ve become what she’s always accused me of being—her stalker.
I can’t go on like this. I have to see her. See that she’s okay. I need to erase the last image I have of her: hurt, humiliated, defeated…and leaving me.
I have to think of a way.
BACK AT ESCALA, GAIL watches me impassively.
“I didn’t ask for this.” I stare at the omelet she’s placed in front of me.
“I’ll throw it away, then, Mr. Grey,” she says, and reaches for the plate. She knows I hate waste, but she doesn’t quail at my hard stare.
“You did this on purpose, Mrs. Jones.” Interfering woman.
And she smiles, a small victorious smile. I scowl, but she’s unfazed, and with the memory of last night’s nightmare lingering, I devour my breakfast.
COULD I JUST CALL Ana and say hi? Would she take my call? My eyes wander to the glider on my desk. She asked for a clean break. I should honor that and leave her alone. But I want to hear her voice. For a moment I contemplate calling her and hanging up, just to hear her speak.
“Christian? Christian, are you okay?”
“Sorry, Ros, what was that?”
“You’re so distracted. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Shit—concentrate, Grey. “What were you saying?”
Ros eyes me suspiciously. “I was saying that SIP is in more financial difficulty than we thought. Are you sure you want to go ahead?”
“Yes.” My voice is vehement. “I am.”
“Their team will be here this afternoon to sign the heads of agreement.”
“Good. Now, what’s the latest on our proposal for Eamon Kavanagh?”
I STAND BROODING, STARING down through the slatted wooden blinds at Taylor, who is parked outside Flynn’s office. It’s late afternoon and I’m still thinking about Ana.
“Christian, I’m more than happy to take your money and watch you stare out the window, but I don’t think the view is the reason you’re here,” Flynn says.
When I turn to face him he’s regarding me with an air of polite anticipation. I sigh and make my way to his couch.
“The nightmares are back. Like never before.”
Flynn lifts a brow. “The same ones?”
“Yes.”
“What’s changed?” He cocks his head to one side, waiting for my response. When I remain mute, he adds, “Christian, you look as miserable as sin. Something’s happened.”
I feel like I did with Elena; part of me doesn’t want to tell him, because then it’s real.
“I met a girl.”
“And?”
“She left me.”
He looks surprised. “Women have left you before. Why is this different?”
I stare at him blankly.
Why is it different? Because Ana was different.
My thoughts blur together in a colorful tangled tapestry: she wasn’t a submissive. We had no contract. She was sexually inexperienced. She was the first woman I wanted more from than just sex. Christ—all the firsts I experienced with her: the first girl I’d slept beside, the first virgin, the first to meet my family, the first to fly in Charlie Tango, the first I took soaring.
Yeah…Different.
Flynn interrupts my thoughts. “It’s a simple question, Christian.”
“I miss her.”
His face remains kind and concerned, but he gives nothing away.
“You’ve never missed any of the women you were involved with previously?”
“No.”
“So there was something different about her,” he prompts.
I shrug, but he persists.
“Did you have a contractual relationship with her? Was she a submissive?”
“I’d hoped she would be. But it wasn’t for her.”
Flynn frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“I broke one of my rules. I chased this girl, thinking that she’d be interested, and it turned out it wasn’t for her.”
“Tell me what happened.”
The floodgates open and I recount the past month’s events, from the moment Ana fell into my office to when she left last Saturday morning.
“I see. You’ve certainly packed a lot in since we last spoke.” He rubs his chin as he studies me. “There are many issues here, Christian. But right now the one I want to focus on is how you felt when she said she loved you.”
I inhale sharply, my gut tightening with fear.
“Horrified,” I whisper.
“Of course you did.” He shakes his head. “You’re not the monster you think you are. You’re more than worthy of affection, Christian. You know that. I’ve told you often enough. It’s only in your mind that you’re not.”
I give him a level gaze, ignoring his platitude.
“And how do you feel now?” he asks.
Lost. I feel lost.
“I miss her. I want to see her.” I’m in the confessional once more, owning up to my sins: the dark, dark need that I have for her, as if she were an addiction.
“So in spite of the fact that, as you perceive it, she couldn’t fulfill your needs, you miss her?”
“Yes. It’s not just my perception, John. She can’t be what I want her to be, and I can’t be what she wants me to be.”
“Are you sure?”
“She walked out.”
“She walked out because you belted her. If she doesn’t share your tastes, can you blame her?”
“No.”
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?”
What? I stare at him, shocked. He continues, “Did you find sexual relations with her satisfying?”
“Yes, of course,” I snap, irritated. He ignores my tone.
“Did you find beating her satisfying?”
“Very.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
Do that to her again? And watch her walk out—again?
“No.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s not her scene. I hurt her. Really hurt her…and she can’t…she won’t…” I pause. “She doesn’t enjoy it. She was angry. Really fucking angry.” Her expression, her wounded eyes, will haunt me for a long time…and I never want to be the cause of that look again.
“Are you surprised?”
I shake my head. “She was mad,” I whisper. “I’d never seen her so angry.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Helpless.”
“And that’s a familiar feeling,” he prompts.
“Familiar, how?” What does he mean?
“D
on’t you recognize yourself at all? Your past?” His question knocks me off balance.
Fuck, we’ve been over and over this.
“No, I don’t. It’s different. The relationship I had with Mrs. Lincoln was completely different.”
“I wasn’t referring to Mrs. Lincoln.”
“What were you referring to?” My voice is pin-drop quiet, because suddenly I see where he’s going with this.
“You know.”
I gulp for air, swamped by the impotence and rage of a defenseless child. Yes. The rage. The deep infuriating rage…and fear. The darkness swirls angrily inside me.
“It’s not the same,” I hiss through gritted teeth, as I strain to hold my temper.
“No, it’s not,” Flynn concedes.
But the image of her rage comes unwelcome to my mind.
“This is what you really like? Me, like this?”
It dampens my anger.
“I know what you’re trying to do here, Doctor, but it’s an unfair comparison. She asked me to show her. She’s a consenting adult, for fuck’s sake. She could have safe-worded. She could have told me to stop. She didn’t.”
“I know. I know.” He holds his hand up. “I’m just callously illustrating a point, Christian. You’re an angry man, and you have every reason to be. I’m not going to rehash all that right now—you’re obviously suffering, and the whole point of these sessions is to move you to a place where you are more accepting and comfortable with yourself.” He pauses. “This girl…”
“Anastasia,” I mutter petulantly.
“Anastasia. She’s obviously had a profound effect on you. Her leaving has triggered your abandonment issues and your PTSD. She clearly means much more to you than you’re willing to admit to yourself.”
I take a sharp breath. Is that why this is so painful? Because she means more, so much more?
“You need to focus on where you want to be,” Flynn continues. “And it sounds to me like you want to be with this girl. You miss her. Do you want to be with her?”
Be with Ana?
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then you have to focus on that goal. This goes back to what I’ve been banging on about for our last few sessions—the SFBT. If she’s in love with you, as she told you she is, she must be suffering, too. So I repeat my question: have you considered a more conventional relationship with this girl?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s never occurred to me that I could.”
“Well if she’s not prepared to be your submissive, you can’t play the role of dominant.”
I glare at him. It’s not a role—it’s who I am. And from nowhere, I recall an earlier e-mail to Anastasia. My words: What I think you fail to realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub who has all the power. That’s you. I’ll repeat this—you are the one with all the power. Not I. If she doesn’t want to do this…then neither can I.
Hope stirs in my chest.
Could I?
Could I have a vanilla relationship with Anastasia?
My scalp prickles.
Fuck. Possibly.
If I could, would she want me back?
“Christian, you have demonstrated that you are an extraordinarily capable person, in spite of your problems. You’re a rare individual. Once you focus on a goal, you drive ahead and achieve it—usually surpassing all your own expectations. Listening to you today, it’s clear you were focused on getting Anastasia to where you wanted her to be, but you didn’t take into account her inexperience or her feelings. It seems to me that you’ve been so focused on reaching your goal that you missed the journey that you were taking together.”
The last month flashes before me: her tripping into my office, her acute embarrassment at Clayton’s, her witty, snarky e-mails, her smart mouth…her giggle…her quiet fortitude and defiance, her courage—and it occurs to me that I have enjoyed every single minute. Every infuriating, distracting, humorous, sensual, carnal second of her—yes, I have. We’ve been on an extraordinary journey, both of us—well, I certainly have.
My thoughts take a darker turn.
She doesn’t know the depths of my depravity, the darkness in my soul, the monster beneath—maybe I should leave her alone.
I’m not worthy of her. She can’t love me.
But even as I think the words, I know that I don’t have the strength to stay away from her…if she’ll have me.
Flynn summons my attention. “Christian, think about it. Our time is up now. I want to see you in a few days and talk through some of the other issues you mentioned. I’ll have Janet call Andrea and arrange an appointment.” He stands, and I know it’s time to leave.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Just a few days, Christian. We have so much more to talk about.” He shakes my hand and gives me a reassuring smile, and I leave with a small blossom of hope.
STANDING ON THE BALCONY, I survey Seattle at night. Up here I’m at one remove, away from it all. What did she call it?
My ivory tower.
Normally I find it peaceful—but lately my peace of mind has been shattered by a certain blue-eyed young woman.
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?” Flynn’s words taunt me, suggesting so many possibilities.
Could I win her back? The thought terrifies me.
I take a sip of my cognac. Why would she want me back? Could I ever be what she wants me to be? I won’t let go of my hope. I need to find a way.
I need her.
Something startles me—a movement, a shadow at the periphery of my vision. I frown. What the…? I turn toward the shadow, but find nothing. I’m seeing things now. I slug the cognac and head back into the living room.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8, 2011
* * *
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I shake her. She doesn’t wake up. I call her. She doesn’t wake up. He isn’t here and still Mommy doesn’t wake up.
I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my sweater. My sweater is dirty. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy, wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie and I cover Mommy and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her.
My tummy hurts. It is hungry, but Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. One red. One yellow. My green car is gone. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the icebox I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the icebox is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue sticks. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy. Mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.
I wake breathing hard, taking huge gulps of air, checking my surroundings. Oh, thank God—I’m in my bed. Slowly the fear recedes. I’m twenty-seven, not four. This shit has to stop.
I used to have my nightmares under control. Maybe one every couple of weeks, but nothing like this—night after night.
Since she left.
I turn over and lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. When she slept beside me,
I slept well. I need her in my life, in my bed. She was the day to my night. I’m going to get her back.
How?
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?”
She wants hearts and flowers. Can I give her that? I frown, trying to recall the romantic moments in my life…And there’s nothing…except with Ana. The “more.” The gliding, and IHOP, and taking her up in Charlie Tango.
Maybe I can do this. I drift back to sleep, the mantra in my head: She’s mine. She’s mine…and I smell her, feel her soft skin, taste her lips, and hear her moans. Exhausted, I fall into an erotic, Ana-filled dream.
I wake suddenly. My scalp tingles, and for a moment I think whatever’s disturbed me is external rather than internal. I sit up and rub my head and slowly scan the room.
In spite of the carnal dream, my body has behaved. Elena would be pleased. She texted yesterday, but Elena’s the last person I want to talk to—there’s only one thing I want to do right now. I get up and pull on my running gear.
I’m going to check on Ana.
HER STREET IS QUIET except for the rumble of a delivery truck and the out-of-tune whistling of a solitary dog walker. Her apartment is in darkness, the curtains to her room closed. I keep a silent vigil from my stalker’s hide, staring up at the windows and thinking. I need a plan—a plan to win her back.
As dawn’s light brightens her window, I turn my iPod up loud, and with Moby blaring in my ears I run back to Escala.
“I’LL HAVE A CROISSANT, Mrs. Jones.”
She stills in surprise and I raise a brow.
“Apricot preserves?” she asks, recovering.
“Please.”
“I’ll heat up a couple for you, Mr. Grey. Here’s your coffee.”
“Thank you, Gail.”
She smiles. Is it just because I’m having croissants? If it makes her that happy, I should have them more often.
