by James, E L
I love you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
The plane pulls to a stop outside the terminal. Our car is waiting for us on the tarmac. It’s time to head to the Flatiron district and rally the troops.
I loathe the tedious drive from JFK to Manhattan. The traffic is always gridlocked, and even when it’s moving, it’s slow. That’s why I prefer to travel from Teterboro. I occupy myself with e-mails until I glance out of the car window. We’re driving through Queens on the expressway, heading to the Midtown Tunnel, and there she is—Manhattan. There is something magical about her skyline. I’ve not been to New York for a few months; well, since before I met Ana. And I know I must bring her here soon, as she’s never been before, if only to see this iconic view.
We head straight to the GEH Fiber Optics division, which is based in an old building on East Twenty-Second Street. We pull up outside, and I can feel the bustling energy of the city. It’s invigorating. As I step out of the car into the Manhattan throng, I’m hyped for my first meeting of the day.
The engineering team blows me away. Young. Creative. Energetic. I feel at home here. Over a long lunch of sandwiches and beer, I tell them how their technology is going to revolutionize Kavanagh Media’s operation and how the work they’re doing now is vital in future-proofing Kavanagh’s expansion plans. His will be the first major media outlet to use their technology, and when I show them how we intend to deploy their expertise in other fields, they’re all buzzing with excitement.
Ros was right—I needed to do this. Hassan, who is now the senior vice president of the company, is smart, young, and driven; he reminds me of myself. He’s far superior to Woods, an inspiring and worthy successor with vision and drive. One only has to see the premises that Woods has inflicted on his team to know he had a short-term, narrow perspective. What was he thinking? While the reception area is remarkably upscale and frankly pretentious, the offices are cramped, shabby, and in need of substantial refurbishment. We need to relocate. I’ve instructed Rachel Morris, their logistics chief, to get on that. She’s keen to do so, which is great, but it’s no wonder morale is low; the place is grim. I e-mail Ros and ask her to go through the lease to see if we can get out before the end of the term, which has another two years to run.
When I leave it’s after 6 p.m., and we’re behind schedule. I have just enough time to get to my apartment in Tribeca, change into my tux, then head out again to the Telecommunications Alliance Organization fundraiser near Union Square.
In the car I try to call Ana, but I can’t get a signal.
Hell.
The irony is not lost on me. I’ll try again later.
The event, as I expected, is convivial enough, and it gives me a chance to network with fellow senior executives and entrepreneurs in my field. But yesterday I attended a charity gala in Seattle with Ana, and it was more enjoyable for that reason alone.
While the gathered guests enjoy canapés and cocktails, I call her once more, but her phone goes to voice mail. I’m about to leave a message when I’m interrupted by the host, Dr. Alan Michaels, who is delighted to see me.
At 9:30 p.m., during the entrée, Taylor sidles up to me.
“Sir. Mrs. Grey is having a drink with Kate Kavanagh at the Zig Zag Café.”
“Really?” Ana said she would go back to the apartment. I check my watch. It’s 6:30 p.m. in Seattle. “Who’s with her?”
“Sawyer and Prescott.”
“Okay.” Maybe it’s just one drink. “Let me know when she leaves.”
She said she would stay at home.
Why would she do this?
She knows I’m concerned about her welfare.
Hyde is at large. He’s obviously crazy and unpredictable.
My mood sours, and I find it difficult to concentrate on the conversation that floats around me. I’m sitting at a table occupied by some of the titans of our industry and their wives—and a husband, in one case. We are here to raise money to provide technology for schools in less privileged and underserved communities across the country. But there are only nine of us at our table and one empty seat; my wife is conspicuous by her absence.
She’s also absent from our home.
“Where’s your wife this evening?” Callista Michaels asks me. Seated on my left, she’s the organizer of the event and Dr. Michaels’s wife. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, and dripping in diamonds.
“She’s in Seattle.”
At a fucking bar.
“Shame she couldn’t come tonight,” she says.
“She works. And she enjoys her job.”
“Oh. How quaint. What does she do?”
I grit my teeth. “She’s in publishing.”
And I wish she were here.
Or I were back in Seattle.
My mood grows bleaker. My sirloin with béarnaise sauce doesn’t taste quite as good as it did. It’s weird. I’ve always attended these events without a date; now I don’t know what possessed me to accept the invitation without Ana.
Well, I thought Ana would come with me.
Though, now that I think about it, she was a little bored at the benefit we attended yesterday.
And tonight, she’s out drinking. With Kate.
Having fun.
Shit.
Every time I’ve known them to go out together, Ana has had too much to drink. The first night we slept together in Portland she was so drunk she passed out in my arms. She was totally inebriated when she got home after her bachelorette party. An image of her naked in bed, her arms beckoning me, her sweet, seductive tone, calls to me. “You can do anything you want to me.”
Fuck!
It’s always when she’s out with Kavanagh.
Keep it together, Grey. The security team is with her.
What harm can she come to?
Hyde. He’s out there, somewhere. And he wants revenge? I don’t know.
He’s a maniac.
I look up at Taylor, who is standing on the other side of the room. He shakes his head.
She’s still out. She’s still drinking. With Kavanagh.
I’m dragged back into the now, and a conversation about conflict minerals and reliable sources of ethically mined materials.
After the delicious and frankly comforting dark chocolate torte, I look up at Taylor again.
He shakes his head.
Hell.
That’s time for how many drinks?
I hope she’s had something to eat.
“Excuse me, I have to make a call.” I leave the table and call Ana from the lobby. She doesn’t pick up. I try her again. No answer. I try once more. Still no answer.
Fuck.
I text her.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!
She should be home. Or here.
And I know I’m being petulant, but she won’t even pick up my calls.
I storm back into the ballroom, where a charity auction is about to begin. I listen to the first two lots. Both involve golf.
Fuck this.
I write a check for one hundred thousand dollars and hand it to Mrs. Michaels. “I am sorry, Callista, but I have to go. Thank you for hosting a lovely evening. I’ll pledge the same again for next year. It’s a worthy cause.”
“Christian, that’s so generous. Thank you.” I get up to leave, as does she, and she kisses me on both cheeks, which I’m not expecting.
“Good night,” I say to Callista, and I shake her husband’s hand.
I eye Taylor at the edge of the room, and I think he’s already calling the car.
Even with its high ceilings and great views over the city, the place suddenly feels claustrophobic, and I’m grateful when we get outside into the balmy evening heat of New York.
“Sir, the car will be a couple o
f minutes.”
“Okay. She’s still there? At the Zig Zag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go home.”
Taylor tilts his head. “Tribeca?”
“No, Seattle.”
He stares at me, his face giving nothing away, but I know he thinks I’m crazy.
I sigh. “Yes. I’m sure. I want to go home.” I answer his unspoken question.
“I’ll call Stephan,” he says.
He wanders over to the side of the main entrance and makes the call. I try Ana again, and her phone goes to voice mail. I don’t trust myself to leave a message. I realize I could call Sawyer, but I have only a flimsy hold on my temper.
Taylor could call him. But what would that achieve? It’s not like Sawyer can physically remove Ana from the bar.
Could he?
Grey! Behave.
Taylor finishes his call and walks back to me, his expression grim.
What the hell?
“Sir, the Gulfstream is at Teterboro. It can be ready to fly in an hour.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Do you want to go back to the apartment?” he asks.
“No, I don’t need anything there. Do you need to go back there?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll go straight to the airport.”
In the car I brood. I have a nagging suspicion that I’m behaving badly, but not as badly as my wife. Why can’t she do what she says? Or let me know?
Hyde is out for revenge, and I’m scared.
For her.
And for me, if I lose her.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Once we’re on board, I remove my bow tie, fold it, and stuff it into the outside breast pocket of my tux. Taylor hangs my jacket with his in the small closet, and I grab a blanket for each of us, then take a seat in the main cabin.
I gaze out into the New Jersey darkness, tension leaching from my muscles into my bones. While we were in the terminal waiting for the Gulfstream, I managed to restrain myself from calling Ana again. But I can bear it no longer, and as Stephan and Beighley do their final checks, I call Sawyer.
“Mr. Grey,” he says, above the background hum of the bar. People are out, enjoying themselves. Like Ana.
“Sawyer, good evening. Is Mrs. Grey still with you?”
“She is, sir.”
I’m tempted to ask him to hand his phone to her, but I know I will lose my shit and she’s probably having a good time. I’m reassured that she’s under Sawyer’s watchful eye.
“Do you want to talk to her?” he asks.
“No. Stick close to her. Keep her safe.”
Hyde could be anywhere.
“Yes, sir. Prescott and I have her covered,” Sawyer replies. I hang up and glance at Taylor, who is sitting diagonally opposite me, watching me impassively.
I look back down at my phone and I’m so mad at my wife, I didn’t even tell Sawyer that we were on our way home. Taylor must think I’m crazy.
I am crazy—crazy for my fucking wife, who cannot be trusted to do as she says. Taylor’s seen me sitting on the floor of my foyer, staring at the elevator, after she left me. And he had glue for the little glider.
“Sir, she’ll be fine,” he says gently.
I look up at him again and bite my tongue.
This is none of his goddamn business.
This is between me and my wife.
Deep down I think she’s going to be fine.
But I have to be sure.
Why the hell couldn’t she do what I needed her to do?
Just once.
Just now.
My temper simmers and I fire off a quick e-mail to her.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Angry. You’ve Not Seen Angry
Date: August 26 2011 00:42 EST
To: Anastasia Grey
Anastasia
Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.
Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Beighley announces that we will be taking off shortly. I buckle up as Taylor does the same. “You can take the bed, if you’d like to sleep,” I offer. “I think it will elude me.”
“I’m good, sir.”
Okay. I lay back and close my eyes, grateful that Beighley likes a nap and has slept all afternoon. She’s going to fly us home.
I sleep fitfully, my dreams a tangled mess of dominance and submission—standing over Ana with a cane in my hand. Elena standing with a cane over me.
It’s confusing and unsettling.
I try not to sleep.
To stay awake, I pace. Feeling like a caged animal, though that sense is exacerbated because the Gulfstream is not exactly designed for pacing.
Hell. I want to howl at the moon.
I want to be home.
I want to curl up with Ana.
The plane landing at Boeing Field wakes me from my restless sleep. Opening my eyes, which are gritty from lack of sleep and dry from the air-conditioning, I pick up my phone.
Taylor is awake. I wonder if he’s slept at all. “What’s the time?” I ask as Beighley brings the plane to a stop at the end of the runway.
“It’s ten after four.”
“That’s early. Will we be met?”
“I did e-mail Ryan. Let’s hope he got the message.” We both switch on our phones at the same time.
Shit. I have several messages. And judging by the irritating notifications coming from his phone, so does Taylor. There’s a text and missed call from Ana. I read her text first.
ANA
I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE.
I HAD A NICE TIME.
MISSING YOU—PLEASE DON’T BE MAD.
Too late, Ana.
At least she missed me.
She’s left a voice mail, which I listen to next. Her voice is breathy and anxious. “Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment. But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.”
What the fuck?
And my first thought is Leila has broken in again. Maybe it was her driving the Dodge. When I glance at Taylor, his face is ashen. “Hyde was caught in the apartment. Ryan took him down. He’s in police custody,” he says.
My world grinds to a screeching halt.
“Ana?” I whisper, as all the breath evaporates from my body.
“She’s fine.”
“Gail?”
“She’s fine, too.”
“What the hell?”
“Exactly.” Taylor looks as shaken as I feel. The plane taxies to a stop, and I call Ana immediately, but her phone goes straight to voice mail.
Shit.
Hyde. In the apartment? How? Why? What?
I’m trying to wrap my head around this, but exhaustion is clouding my thinking. Ana’s not answering; she must be asleep. I hope so. I’m relieved she’s okay, but I need to see her to make sure. Stephan has opened the aircraft door, and the early morning chill seeps into the main cabin and my bones. Shivering, I get up, and take my jacket from Taylor, who is first off the plane.
“Thanks, Beighley. Stephan,” I say, as I don my tux jacket to ward off the cool pre-dawn air.
“You’re welcome, sir,” she says.
“No. I mean it. Thank you. For the last-minute scramble of it all.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Get some rest.” I shake both their hands and follow Taylor out to where Sawyer is waiting with the Audi.
Sawyer gives us a debrief during the drive back to Escala. While Ana and Kate were carousing at the Zig
Zag Café, Hyde, dressed in coveralls, arrived at Escala and buzzed the apartment service entrance. Ryan recognized him. Let him in. And took him down. This all happened just before Ana, Sawyer, and Prescott returned home. The police and paramedics came. Took Hyde away. They questioned everyone.
What the actual fuck!
“Was he armed?” Taylor asks.
“Yes,” Sawyer responds.
“Is Ryan okay?” I ask.
“Yes. But there was an altercation. One of the doors needs repair.”
“Altercation?” I don’t believe it!
“They fought.”
Fuck. “But Ryan’s okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Gail. She was there?” Taylor presses.
“In the panic room.”
Thank you, Ros Bailey! I glance at Taylor, who rubs his forehead, his eyes screwed shut.
Hell. Both of our women threatened by that evil motherfucker Hyde.
“Who called the police?” Taylor asks.
“I did. Mrs. Grey insisted.”
“She did the right thing,” I mutter. “What the hell was he hoping to achieve?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Sawyer replies. “One more thing. The press were outside last night.”
Damn. And after they’d lost interest in us. This day just keeps getting better and better, and it’s only—I glance at my watch—4:40 a.m.
“Ryan didn’t get your e-mail until he turned in,” Sawyer says. “It was too late to let everyone know you were on your way back.”
“So Ana and Gail don’t know,” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“Okay.”
We’re quiet for the rest of the short journey. Each of us with our own haunting thoughts. If Ana had been home, she’d have been in the panic room with Gail, and Ryan would have had backup and wouldn’t have had to face Hyde alone.
Why can’t she do as she’s told?
Sawyer parks the Audi in the garage, and both Taylor and I fly out of the car and into the elevator.
“Glad we came home when we did,” I say to Taylor.
“Yes, sir.” He nods in agreement.
“What a fucking mess.”
“Indeed.” He remains tight-lipped.
“We should have a full debrief when everyone has had some sleep.”
“Agreed.”
