Fifty Shades Freed (88 page)

Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh.

“You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face.

I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good. New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that.

Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stock-ing. Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N.

Daddy sits on my bed. He reads to me. I hold my blankie. I have a big room. Sometimes the room is dark and I have bad dreams. Bad dreams about before. My new mommy comes to bed with me when I have the bad dreams. She lies down and she sings soft songs and I go to sleep. She smells of soft and new and lovely. My new mommy is not cold. Not like . . . not like . . . And my bad dreams go when she is there asleep with me.

Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter. My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and flies over Daddy and flies over Lelliot as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies past the door to Daddy’s study and upstairs in my bedroom, in Lelliot’s bedroom, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. He flies through the house, because it’s my house. My house where I live.

Monday, May 9, 2011

“Tomorrow,” I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.

“Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too . . . and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.

As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics.
What the hell is keeping her?
Intent on finding out what she’s playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.

Oh, Christ!
I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine.
Why the fuck did I agree to this?
I loathe interviews—inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes.

“Yes,” I snap at Andrea as if she’s to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.

“Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey.”

“Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh.”

“It’s Miss Anastasia Steele who’s here, sir.”

I scowl. I hate the unexpected. “Show her in,” I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck.

Well, well
 . . .
Miss Kavanagh is unavailable.
I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We’ve done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes and repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.

Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary color—guileless, powder-blue—and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel . . . exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane.
Fuck.
I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction.
What the fuck are you thinking, Grey. This girl is much too young.
She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again.
Yeah, yeah, baby, it’s just a face, and the beauty is only skin-deep.
I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.

Showtime, Grey. Let’s have some fun.
“Miss Kavanagh? I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

There’s that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She’s quite attractive, in a gauche way—slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.” Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh at Washington State.”

A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt.
Christ, does she have no dress sense at all?
She looks nervously around my office—everywhere but at me, I note with amused irony.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn’t have an assertive bone in her body. She’s all charmingly flustered, meek, mild . . . submissive. I shake my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I’m explaining them. “A local artist. Trouton.”

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate—an upturned nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly.
“The ordinary raised to extraordinary.”
It’s a keen observation. Miss Steele is bright.

I mutter my agreement and watch that flush creep slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts.

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a mini-disc recorder out of her overly large bag. Mini-disc recorder?
Didn’t those go out with VHS tapes?
Christ—she’s all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee table. She’s obviously never done this before, but for some reason I can’t fathom, I find it amusing. Normally this kind of fumbling maladroitness irritates the fuck out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set it up for her myself.

As she grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her motor skills with the aid of a riding crop. Adeptly used it can bring even the most skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip.
Fuck me!
How did I not notice that mouth before?

“Sorry, I’m not used to this.”

I can tell, baby—
my thought is ironic—
but right now I don’t give a fuck, because I can’t take my eyes off your mouth.

“Take all the time you need, Miss Steele.” I need yet another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts.
Grey . . . stop this, now.

“Do you mind if I record your answers?” she asks, her face candid and expectant.

I want to laugh.
Oh, thank Christ.

“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?” She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I feel an unfamiliar twinge of guilt.
Stop being such a shit, Grey.

“No, I don’t mind,” I mutter, not wanting to be responsible for that look.

“Did Kate—I mean Miss Kavanagh—explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.” Why the fuck I’ve agreed to do
that,
I don’t know. Sam in PR tells me it’s an honor, and the environmental science department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I’ve given them.

Miss Steele blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise and fuck—she looks disapproving! Hasn’t she done any background work for this interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It’s . . . displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

“Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from my annoyance.

“I thought you might,” I mutter dryly.
Let’s make her squirm.
Obligingly she squirms, then pulls herself together, sitting up straight and squaring her small shoulders. Leaning forward she presses the start button on the mini-disc, and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?”

Oh Christ! Surely she can do better than this? What a fucking dull question. Not one iota of originality. It’s disappointing. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people in the U.S. working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well—blah, blah, blah . . . But Miss Steele, the simple fact is, I’m a fucking genius at what I do. For me it’s like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, or if they’re really broken, stripping their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It’s simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” she says quietly.

Lucky?
A frisson of annoyance runs through me.
Lucky?
No fucking luck involved here, Miss Steele. She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question? No one has ever asked me if I was
lucky
. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, second-guessing them if I need to; and if they aren’t up to the task, ruthlessly ditching them.
That’s what I do, and I do it well.
It’s nothing to do with luck! Well, fuck that.
Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of my favorite American industrialist to her.

“You sound like a control freak,” she says, and she’s perfectly serious.

What the fuck?

Maybe those guileless eyes
can
see though me. Control is my middle name.