Grey
Page 137
“Chicken Chasseur?” she asks, her voice uncertain.
“Sure,” I mutter.
“For two?” she asks.
I stare at her, and she looks embarrassed.
“For one.”
“Ten minutes?” she says, her voice wavering.
“Fine.” My voice is frigid.
I turn to leave.
“Mr. Grey?” She stops me.
“What, Gail?”
“It’s nothing. Sorry to disturb you.” She turns to the stove to stir the chicken, and I head off to have another shower.
Christ, even my staff have noticed that something’s rotten in the state of fucking Denmark.
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.
“Sure,” I mutter.
“For two?” she asks.
I stare at her, and she looks embarrassed.
“For one.”
“Ten minutes?” she says, her voice wavering.
“Fine.” My voice is frigid.
I turn to leave.
“Mr. Grey?” She stops me.
“What, Gail?”
“It’s nothing. Sorry to disturb you.” She turns to the stove to stir the chicken, and I head off to have another shower.
Christ, even my staff have noticed that something’s rotten in the state of fucking Denmark.
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.
