Fifty Shades Shadier (2 page)

“I left in such a hurry I forgot my ... oh, for the love of ... you’re disgusting—the both of you.”

I slump down and rest my cheek against Bea’s abdomen as Grandma grabs her purse, leaves, and slams the door. Bea runs her fingers through my hair as we giggle.

This won’t be easy.

Chapter Four

Write the bad things that are done to you in sand, but write the good things that happen to you on a piece of marble. – Anonymous

After a night of proper, horizontal celebration about our engagement, I decide to sneak out of bed and make a nice breakfast for my princess. Cooking is a passion, and a great way for me to decompress. I slide on my boxer-briefs, and stumble foggy-eyed into the kitchen. I open the fridge, grab eggs, and begin searching beneath the stove for a pan. Suddenly, I hear a spoon clinking against the side of a glass.
Where am I, at a wedding reception?

I turn to find Grandma seated at the breakfast nook wearing reading glasses while browsing the Union Tribune.

“Be a good boy and warm up my coffee,” she orders as she slides the mug in my direction.

“Huh?”

“Oh, and put on a shirt, will you? I wouldn’t want to find one of your silver chest hairs in my eggs.”

“Grandma, what are you doing here?”

“You may call me by my proper name, Silver.”

“Which is?”

“Gertrude Aspinwald ... Ms. A, if you like.”

Silly name.

“Fine,” I agree as I carry the pot of coffee over and top off her mug. She doesn’t look up.

I retreat to the bedroom, grab my shirt off the floor, and return—no longer a health risk.

“So, Ms. A, how would you like your eggs?”

“Two whites with one yolk over easy. Fry up some bacon too. I prefer it crisp, but not burned.”

“Don’t you have room service here?”

She’s testing me...

“Of course. Don’t you know how to separate eggs?”

... and I’m not giving in.

“Of course.”

“Then you best get a-crackin’. You have a long day ahead of you.”

“In fact, I do. I’ve fallen behind in my blogging. I was supposed to interview Bea, and in two blinks I’m halfway down the aisle.”

“Not even one-tenth the way.”

I ignore her sass and begin cooking silently. I can feel her eyes. The TV remote is sitting on the counter, so I flip on the TV to catch some news. Naturally, in my groggy, yet agitated state I forget the video of yours truly strapped to the bed is still loaded. Grandma snickers. I hit the “Source” button and finally find the news.

“You know something, maybe you should interview me for your blob.”

“Blog. B-L-O-G.”

“Whatever.”

“What, of interest, would you have for my readers?”

“Plenty. We could talk about my empire, how my father became rich by investing in Canadian oil fields, how I’m going to turn this property back into the thriving Mecca it once was.”

“Hm.”

“Or, I could tell you all about my granddaughter Bea’s
other
fiancé.”

“WHAT?”

I’m wide-awake now.

Chapter Five

It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages. – Friedrich Nietzsche

“I never said yes,” Bea says as she enters the kitchen.

“An insignificant technicality,” the beast insists.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt, “you’re already engaged to someone else?”

“No. Not really.”

“Yes, she is,” insists Grandma, “I witnessed the proposal. Sorry, blubber, you’re too late.”

“BLOGGER.”

“How are those eggs coming along? Don’t let them get dry.”

The nerve of this woman!

I remove the pan from the fire and try to process what I’m hearing.

“Bea? Are you engaged to someone else or not?”

“No, of course not. He asked, but I wasn’t interested.”

“Who is he?”

“That’s not important.”

“Chris,” Grandma volunteers, “and he’s young, successful, and quite dashing.”

Bea walks over and wraps her arms around me from behind.

“You know I love you. He’s just an insignificant detail from my past.”

“Show him the ring,” Grandma suggests.

What a relentless woman.

“Wait, there’s a ring? I thought you didn’t accept.”

“It’s in my dresser somewhere. He refused to take it back. This is the only ring with meaning,” Bea says while showing us the one I gave her.
That’s my girl.

“Well, I’ll let you two work out the terms of your parting ways. I have work to do. You can come back and interview me at noon, blobber.”

I sigh and count to five.

“What about your eggs, Ms. A?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Think I’ll have a scone.”

She gathers her newspaper and purse, and leaves wearing a smirk.

I’m not sure what’s going on. There are dozens of questions floating around my mind. I don’t want to get into a big fight over it. If Bea wanted to be with Chris, she’d be with him. I can’t let this old woman derail our affair.
Fuck Chris and the white stallion he rode off on.

After breakfast, I head home to do some writing. Words are flowing nicely. I have little interest in interviewing Grandma, but I remember wise advice from
The Godfather
: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I’ll return for that interview and find the Achilles heel on that dragon.

Chapter Six

Those who bring sunshine into the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves. – Sir James M. Barrie

I manage to clear a slew of emails and enjoy a late-morning workout before it’s time for my interview. After cleaning up, I grab my iPad and a certain “gift” for Bea, in hopes I see her later this afternoon.

I valet at the Hyatt and go to the lobby. As I enter, a server walks past me in a huff, with smeared mascara.
What’s going on here?

Grandma didn’t specify where I’d find her, so I walk through the corridor looking for a parked broomstick. The bellhop stops me.

“Mr. Silver?”

“Yes?”

“Boss is waiting for you in the lounge,” he directs me.

“Thank you.”

I check my watch—12:02, almost exactly on time. That should impress her. I round the divider and find Her Highness standing next to another woman who could almost be her twin. They’re both reviewing a printout, and look up in eerie unison.

“You’re late, blobber.”

“Two minutes? Jesus. Nice to see you, too.”

The woman next to Grandma is the same height, same hairstyle, and the same rimless glasses on her nose, except...

“This is my restaurant manager, Kazuko Origami.”

... she’s Asian. I extend a hand, which is ignored as usual.

“Why you late?”

It sounded more like ‘rate’ to me.

“Huh?”

“Why you late?”

“I had to wait for the valet.”

“Bad excuse.”

“I’m sorry, is this woman a replica of you, made in China perhaps?”

Kazuko kicks me in the shin.

“Ouch!”

“Not Chinese, fuckwad. Japanese!”

“Fine. I apologize. I was just trying to be funny.”

“Not funny. Here,” she hands me a polo shirt and a server’s apron, “you put this on.”

“Actually, I’m here to interview Ms. Aspinwald.”

“You put this on.”

“Ms. A? What’s this about?”

“We had to let a server go, which has left us short. We have an important luncheon beginning in the Marina Room, and I told Kazuko about your gracious offer to help.”

I stand there incredulously, considering my options. The Manager glares at me while holding the uniform. I can’t let her win.
It’s food service. I’ve done this. How difficult can it be? Sure, it has been thirty years, but it couldn’t have changed that much.

“All right,” I agree as I take the shirt and apron. As a minor act of defiance, I put down my iPad and begin removing my T-shirt.

“What you doing? You go change in bathroom.”

“I go change right here. I save time,” I insist. She kicks me again. “Hey! And, no kicking or I
am
going the get all Ming Dynasty on your ass,” I tease as I flex and growl like Hulk Hogan. Naturally, she kicks me again.

“Not Chinese, brobber. Japanese. You hurry. Guests waiting.”

What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Seven

Within you, I lose myself. Without you, I find myself wanting to become lost again. – Anonymous

It turns out the luncheon is for a group of third graders. What could be worse? The little brats have their choice of pizza, grilled cheese, or chicken chunks, which is simple enough to memorize as I jot down their orders. Ms. A and Kazuko are socializing and handing out gifts, like inverted sour patch ladies—sweet on the outside, sour on the inside.

I get a quick break and step into the walk-in to cool off. I text Bea to brag about my sacrifice.

Bea Plastique: Aw, you’re such a sweetie. I want to see you in your cute server outfit. I bet you look hot. ;)

Mormon Silver: Yes, aprons become me. Now if I could only find one in argyle.

Bea Plastique: Tell you what, Uncle M, let me know when you’re done, and I’ll give you a tour of the infamous Blue Room.

Mormon Silver: The what?

Bea Plastique: I think you’ll like how it’s decorated. I know I LOVE it.

As I finish reading the last text, the walk-in door opens to Kazuko.

“You slackass. Put away phone. Get movin’.”

“I was ... um ... looking for the desserts.”

“Ice cream in freezer, dumdum, not walk-in.”

I prepare a tray of tri-flavor ice cream, and proceed out to the table. The kids are already unruly; sugar is the last thing they need. As I approach, the kids become silent and start giggling and whispering.
Who’s paranoid? Me.

Just as I fill both hands with plates, one little fucker whips out a squirt gun and start nailing me, right in the crotch.
Perfect.
I grab the gun from him.

“Very funny. Where did you get this?”

“That old lady over there gave it to me. She says you’re bad, and I should squirt you in da wiener.”

“Cute,” I say as I glare at Grandma.

“Gimme back my gun.”

“You can either have the squirt gun or the ice cream.”

“But ...”

“I’ll throw in five bucks. Which one will it be?”

“Ice cweam, pwease.”

“Good boy.”

I holster the squirt gun in my apron, give the brat a fiver, and plot my revenge. After the kids leave, the perimeter of the table looks like a war zone. Kazuko hands an odd-looking sweeping contraption to me.

“You crean.”

I mumble to myself as I run over the same french fry ten times, unsuccessfully. A text pings in.

Bea Plastique: Ready, Uncle M?

Mormon Silver: Oh, you have no idea how ready, Lovergirl. Where to?

Bea Plastique: Take the elevator down to P2 underground. Look for parking space 243. Knock three times on the blue door next to it.

Mormon Silver: This better be good.

I finish sweeping kid shrapnel and another message pings in. It has an attached picture of Bea from the neck down—naked and glistening in oil—holding the camera in front of a mirror.
Slick! I’m out of here.

Chapter Eight

A friend is one who knows us, but loves us anyway. – Fr. Jerome Cummings

I sneak away before the two-headed beast can find me. I search for the Blue Room. When I arrive, it looks like an ordinary janitor’s closet. As I reach to knock, I hear a buzz of the door unlocking. I open it and feel to the right for a light switch. It is a closet. Odd. Suddenly, the wall with shelves swings open to my glistening Lovergirl.

“Hello, Uncle M.”

“This is some
Get Smart
shit right here.”

“Some what?”

“Never mind. Before your time. You look delicious, my love.”

“And you look ... like a server who was dragged around the beaches of Normandy,” she giggles.

I’m happy, as usual, to provide entertainment.

“Ugh, no kidding.”

“Ready for your tour?”

“Lead the way.”

The room is a BDSM fantasy suite. There are rubberized floors, like you’d see in a gym. The walls have mirrors, TVs, and cabinets. There’s blue leather furniture throughout. Bea looks sexy, shining in the subtle golden light. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” thumps while we walk.

“What’s this?” I ask as I examine a swing set with odd straps and pulleys.

“Oh, that’s for advanced lovers. We need to work up to that.”

“Looks like a back ache to me.”

There’s a laminated wooden paddle hanging on the wall next to three whips. The paddle has some obvious wear and a brass plaque with the initials CG.

“Who’s CG?”

“Nobody important. Check this out,” she redirects as we approach what resembles a large kid’s pool with a raised rubber mattress and Velcro straps in four corners. “Wanna take a dip?”

Although distracted, the thought is not extracted. I’ll find out who CG is.

“Fuck yes.”

“Mm, what do you want to do me, Uncle M?”

“Well, Lovergirl, I want to strap you down, massage you nose to toes, and then fuck you in the ass so hard you’ll limp for days.”

“Oh my god! YES! Do it!” she commands as she dives onto the mattress and spreads her arms and legs.

I work quickly as the NIN music and the thought of conquering her luscious ass motivates me. I strap her ankles and wrists, undress myself, and climb into the oily pool.
Oil and body hair doesn’t mix well. I must remember to trim.

She arches her buttocks up toward me as I bring her to her first peak with my probing fingers. She’s wet and slippery, ready for me.
Hm, this is an ideal position for interrogation.