Grey (57 page)

MONDAY, JUNE 6, 2011

I
dread going to bed. It's after midnight, and I'm tired, but I sit at my piano, playing the Bach Marcello piece over and over again. Remembering her head resting on my shoulder, I can almost smell her sweet fragrance.

For fuck's sake, she said she'd try!

I stop playing and clutch my head in both hands, my elbows hammering out two discordant chords as I lean on the keys. She said she'd try, but she fell at the first hurdle.

Then she ran.

Why did I hit her so hard?

Deep inside I know the answer—because she asked me to, and I was too impetuous and selfish to resist the temptation. Seduced by her challenge, I seized the opportunity to move us on to where I wanted us to be. And she didn't safe-word, and I hurt her more than she could take—when I promised her I'd never do that.

What a fucking fool I am.

How could she trust me after that? It's right that she's gone.

Why the hell would she want to be with me, anyway?

I contemplate getting drunk. I have not been drunk since I was fifteen—well, once, when I was twenty-one. I loathe the loss of control: I know what alcohol can do to a man. I shudder and snap my mind shut to those memories, and decide to call it a night.

Lying in my bed, I pray for a dreamless sleep…but if I am to dream, I want to dream of her.

Mommy is pretty today. She sits down and lets me brush her hair. She looks at me in the mirror and she smiles her special smile. Her special smile for me. There is a loud
noise. A crash. He's back. No!
Where the fuck are you, bitch? Got a friend in need here. A friend with dough.
Mommy stands and takes my hand and pushes me into her closet. I sit on her shoes and try to be quiet and cover my ears and close my eyes tight. The clothes smell of Mommy. I like the smell. I like being here. Away from him. He is shouting.
Where is the little fucking runt?
He has my hair and he pulls me out of the closet.
Don't want you spoiling the party, you little shit.
He slaps Mommy hard on her face.
Make it good for my friend and you get your fix, bitch.
Mommy looks at me and she has tears. Don't cry, Mommy. Another man comes into the room. A big man with dirty hair. The big man smiles at Mommy. I am pulled into the other room. He pushes me onto the floor and I hurt my knees.
Now, what am I going to do with you, you piece of shit?
He smells nasty. He smells of beer and he is smoking a cigarette.

I wake. My heart is hammering like I've run forty blocks chased by the hounds of hell. I vault out of bed, pushing the nightmare back into the recesses of my consciousness, and hurry to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

I need to see Flynn. The nightmares are worse than ever. I didn't have nightmares when I slept with Ana beside me.

Hell.

It never occurred to me to sleep with any of my subs. Well, I never felt the inclination. Was I worried that they might touch me in the night? I don't know. It took an inebriated innocent to show me how restful it could be.

I'd watched my subs sleep before, but it was always as a prelude to waking them for some sexual relief.

I remember gazing at Ana for hours when she slept at The Heathman. The longer I watched her the more beautiful she became: her flawless skin luminous in the soft light, her dark hair fanning out on the white pillow, and her eyelashes fluttering while she slept. Her lips were parted, and I could see her teeth, and her tongue when she licked her lips. It was a most arousing
experience—just watching her. And when I finally went to sleep beside her, listening to her even breathing, watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath, I slept well…so well.

I wander into my study and pick up the glider. The sight of it elicits a fond smile and comforts me. I feel both proud to have made it and ridiculous for what I am about to do. It was her last gift to me. Her first gift being…what?

Of course.
Herself.

She sacrificed herself to my need. My greed. My lust. My ego…my fucking damaged ego.

Damn, will this pain ever just stop?

Feeling a little foolish, I take the glider with me to bed.

“WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE
for breakfast, sir?”

“Just coffee, Gail.”

She hesitates. “Sir, you didn't eat your dinner.”

“And?”

“Maybe you're coming down with something.”

“Gail, just coffee. Please.” I shut her down—this is none of her business. Her lips thin, but she nods and turns to the Gaggia. I head in to the study to collect my papers for the office and look for a padded envelope.

I CALL ROS FROM
the car.

“Great work on the SIP material, but the business plan needs some revision. Let's offer.”

“Christian, this is fast.”

“I want to move quickly. I've e-mailed you my thoughts on the offering price. I'll be in the office from seven thirty. Let's meet.”

“If you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“Okay. I'll call Andrea to schedule. I have the stats on Detroit v. Savannah.”

“Bottom line?”

“Detroit.”

“I see.”

Shit…not Savannah.

“Let's talk later.” I hang up.

I sit, brooding in the back of the Audi, as Taylor speeds through the traffic. I wonder how Anastasia will be getting to work this morning. Perhaps she bought a car yesterday, though somehow I doubt it. I wonder if she feels as miserable as I do…I hope not. Maybe she's realized that I was a ridiculous infatuation.

She can't love me.

And certainly not now—not after all I've done to her. No one's ever said they loved me, except Mom and Dad, of course, but even then it was out of their sense of duty. Flynn's nagging words about unconditional parental love—even for kids who are adopted—ring in my head. But I've never been convinced; I've been nothing but a disappointment to them.

“Mr. Grey?”

“Sorry, what is it?” Taylor has caught me unawares. He's holding the car door open, waiting for me with a look of concern.

“We're here, sir.”

Shit…how long have we been here? “
Thanks. I'll let you know what time this evening.”

Focus, Grey.

ANDREA AND OLIVIA BOTH
look up as I come out of the elevator. Olivia flutters her eyelashes and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
Christ—I'm done with this silly girl.
I need HR to move her to another department.

“Coffee, please, Olivia—and get me a croissant.” She leaps up to follow my orders.

“Andrea—get me Welch, Barney, then Flynn, then Claude Bastille on the phone. I don't want to be disturbed at all, not even by my mother…unless…unless Anastasia Steele calls. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. Do you want to go through your schedule now?”

“No. I need coffee and something to eat first.” I scowl at Olivia, who is moving at a snail's pace toward the elevator.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” Andrea calls after me as I open the door to my office.

From my briefcase I take the padded envelope that holds my most precious possession—the glider. I place it on my desk, and my mind drifts to Miss Steele.

She'll be starting her new job this morning, meeting new people…new men. The thought is depressing. She'll forget me.

No, she won't forget me. Women always remember the first man they fucked, don't they? I'll always hold a place in her memory, for that alone. But I don't want to be a memory: I want to stay in her mind. I need to stay in her mind. What can I do?

There's a knock at the door and Andrea appears. “Coffee and croissants for you, Mr. Grey.”

“Come in.”

As she scurries over to my desk her eyes dart to the glider, but wisely she holds her tongue. She places breakfast on my desk.

Black coffee.
Well done, Andrea.
“Thanks.”

“I've left messages for Welch, Barney, and Bastille. Flynn is calling back in five.”

“Good. I want you to cancel any social engagements I have this week. No lunches, nothing in the evening. Get Barney on the phone and find me the number of a good florist.”

She scribbles furiously on her notepad.

“Sir, we use Arcadia's Roses. Would you like me to send flowers for you?”

“No, give me the number. I'll do it myself. That's all.”

She nods and leaves promptly, as if she can't get out of my office fast enough. A few moments later the phone buzzes. It's Barney.

“Barney, I need you to make me a stand for a model glider.”

BETWEEN MEETINGS I CALL
the florist and order two dozen white roses for Ana, to be delivered to her home this evening. That way she won't be embarrassed or inconvenienced at work.

And she won't be able to forget me.

“Would you like a message with the flowers, sir?” the florist asks.

A message for Ana?

What to say?

Come back. I'm sorry. I won't hit you again.

The words pop unbidden into my head, making me frown.

“Um…something like, ‘Congratulations on your first day at work. I hope it went well.'  ” I spy the glider on my desk. “ ‘And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful. It has pride of place on my desk. Christian.'  ”

The florist reads it back to me.

Damn, it doesn't express what I want to say to her at all.

“Will that be all, Mr. Grey?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, sir, and have a nice day.”

I look daggers at the phone.
Nice day my ass.

“HEY, MAN, WHAT'S EATING
you?” Claude gets up from the floor, where I've just knocked him flat on his lean, mean rear end. “You're on fire this afternoon, Grey.” He rises slowly, with the grace of a big cat reassessing its prey. We are sparring alone in the basement gym at Grey House.

“I'm pissed off,” I hiss.

His expression is cool as we circle each other.

“Not a good idea to enter the ring if your thoughts are elsewhere,” Claude says, amused, but not taking his eyes off me.

“I'm finding it helps.”

“More on your left. Protect your right. Hand up, Grey.”

He swings and hits me on my shoulder, almost knocking me off balance.

“Concentrate, Grey. None of your boardroom bullshit in here. Or is it a girl? Some fine piece of ass finally cramping your cool.” He sneers, goading me. It works: I middle-kick to his side and drop-punch once, then twice, and he staggers back, dreadlocks flying.

“Mind your own fucking business, Bastille.”

“Whoa, we have found the source of the pain,” Claude crows in triumph. He swings suddenly, but I anticipate his action and block him, thrusting up with a punch and a swift kick. He jumps back this time, impressed.

“Whatever shit's happening in your privileged little world, Grey, it's working. Bring it on.”

Oh, he is going down. I lunge at him.

THE TRAFFIC IS LIGHT
on the way home.

“Taylor, can we make a detour?”

“Where to, sir?”

“Can you drive past Miss Steele's apartment?”

“Yes, sir.”

I've got used to this ache. It seems to be ever-present, like tinnitus. In meetings it's muted and less obtrusive; it's only when I'm alone with my thoughts that it flares up and rages inside me. How long does this last?

As we approach her apartment, my heartbeat spikes.

Perhaps I'll see her.

The possibility is thrilling and unsettling. And I realize that I have thought of nothing but her since she left. Her absence is my constant companion.

“Drive slow,” I instruct Taylor as we near her building.

The lights are on.

She's home!

I hope she's alone, and missing me.

Has she received my flowers?

I want to check my phone to see if she's sent me a message, but I can't drag my gaze away from her apartment; I don't want to miss seeing her. Is she well? Is she thinking about me? I wonder how her first day at work went.

“Again, sir?” Taylor asks, as we slowly cruise past, and the apartment disappears from view.

“No.” I exhale; I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing. As we head back to Escala I sift through my e-mails and texts, hoping for something from her…but there's nothing. There's a text from Elena.

You okay?

I ignore it.

IT'S QUIET IN MY
apartment; I'd not really noticed before. Anastasia's absence has accentuated the silence.

Taking a sip of cognac, I wander listlessly into my library. It's ironic I never showed her this room, given her love of literature. I expect to find some solace in here because the room holds no memories of us. I survey all my books, neatly shelved and cataloged, and my eyes stray to the billiard table. Does she play billiards? I don't suppose she does.

An image of her spread-eagled over the green baize springs to my mind. There may not be any memories in here, but my mind is more than capable, and more than willing, to create vivid erotic images of the lovely Miss Steele.

I can't bear it.

I take another swig of cognac and head out of the room.

TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 2011

We're fucking. Fucking hard. Against the bathroom door. She's mine. I bury myself in her, again and again. Glorying in her: the feel of her, her smell, her taste. Fisting my hand in her hair, holding her in place. Holding her ass. Her legs wrapped around my waist. She cannot move; she's pinioned by me. Wrapped around me like silk. Her hands pulling my hair. Oh yes. I'm home, she's home. This is the place I want to be…inside her…

She. Is. Mine. Her muscles are tightening as she comes, clenching around me, her head back. Come for me! She cries out and I follow…oh yes, my sweet, sweet Anastasia. She smiles, sleepy, sated—and oh so sexy. She stands and gazes at me, that playful smile on her lips, then pushes me away and walks backward, saying nothing. I grab her and we're in the playroom. I'm holding her down over the bench. I raise my arm to punish her, belt in hand…and she disappears. She's by the door. Her face white, shocked and sad, and she's silently drifting away…The door has disappeared, and she won't stop. She holds out her hands in entreaty.
Join me,
she whispers, but she's moving backward, getting fainter…disappearing before my eyes…vanishing…she's gone.
No!
I shout.
No!
But I have no voice. I have nothing. I'm mute. Mute…again.

I wake, confused.

Shit—it's a dream. Another vivid dream.

Different, though.

Hell!
I'm a sticky mess. Briefly I feel that long-forgotten but familiar sense of fear and exhilaration—but Elena doesn't own me now.

Jesus H. Christ
, I've come for Team USA. This hasn't happened to me since I was, what? Fifteen, sixteen?

I lie back in the darkness, disgusted with myself. I drag my T-shirt off and wipe myself down. There's semen everywhere. I find myself smirking in the darkness, despite the dull ache of loss. The erotic dream was worth it. The rest of it…fucking hell. I turn over and go back to sleep.

He is gone. Mommy is sitting on the couch. She is quiet. She looks at the wall and blinks sometimes. I stand in front of her, but she doesn't see me. I wave and she sees me, but she waves me away. No, Maggot, not now. He hurts Mommy. He hurts me. I hate him. He makes me so mad. It's best when it's just Mommy and me. She is mine then. My Mommy. My tummy hurts. It is hungry again. I am in the kitchen, looking for cookies. I pull the chair to the cupboard and climb up. I find a box of crackers. It is the only thing in the cupboard. I sit down on the chair and open the box. There are two left. I eat them. They taste good. I hear him. He's back. I jump down and I run to my bedroom and climb into bed. I pretend to be asleep. He pokes me with his finger.
Stay here, you little shit. I'm going to fuck your bitch of a mother. I don't want to see your fuck-ugly face for the rest of the evening. Understand?
He slaps my face when I don't reply.
Or you get the burn, you little prick.
No. No. I don't like that. I don't like the burn. It hurts.
Got it, retard?
I know he wants me to cry. But it's hard. I can't make the noise. He hits me with his fist—

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?

“Don'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?