So about a week or so ago I was just scrolling through iTunes and stumbled upon a band called We Are The In Crowd. It took me all of two songs to fall in love with their music and I downloaded their three CDs. My personal favorite songs are Rumor Mill, The Best Thing, and Kiss Me Again. Love them!
I do math for a living and it's our busy season in the insurance world, so I sit at my desk performing calculations with my iPod blasting away for 10-12 hours per day, sometimes more. For the past week I've found inspiration for this story from some of their songs. Yeah, this story might be a dud. I don't know yet, but I'm feeling my way through the start, though right now it feels right. The entire story will be told from Elliot and Christian's perspective. Let me know what you think.
Chapter 1 – Apathy Blues
My parents always believed that a well-rounded education should include music. My brother plays the piano, my sister the cello, and I play the guitar. Out of the three of us, I'm the only one to play music professionally. Okay, well, semi-professionally. I haven't quit my day job as owner of Grey Construction, nor do I believe I ever will be able to do so with my earnings from playing in my band – Apathy Blues.
I formed the band in high school, then some of the members dropped out along the way and I picked up a few here and there. I'm pushing thirty, so if fame hasn't happened by now, well, it's not happening. We play for fun and charity, not money. We're realists, who play a mix of covers and original songs and yes, we actually have a local following. The band consists of me, Elliot Grey, on guitar and lead vocals; my girlfriend's brother, Ethan Kavanagh, on base and vocals; Trevor Ryan, one of my brother's security people on drums; Tara Hart on keyboard and lead female vocals; and Ed Hart, Tara's husband on guitar.
Luck, or should I say fate, has been on my side the past two years. You see I needed a songwriting partner and oddly enough, I found her on a website for writers, well poets. While I'm not into poetry, the reality is I knew writing poetry is similar to writing a song, so I went searching the web for someone whose lyrics would go with the original melodies that constantly played in my head. I'm not a deep person, so if I didn't find a lyricist all of my songs would have been about women, sex, and knowing me, probably food. When it came to song writing, shy, withdrawn, Anastasia Steele was the Ying to my Yang, the spaghetti to my meatball, and the peanut butter to my chocolate. This quiet, petite co-ed from WSU wrote poetry that fit with my tunes and then some. Her poems ran the spectrum of themes such as self-identity, love, hope, hate, fear, and darkness. Oddly it came out of one of the shyest, most reserved people I'd ever met in my life. She's so fucking sweet, yet when she lets the darkness out on paper it's alarming. I asked her about it once and she claimed to read a lot. I didn't buy it. Well not totally anyway. There's more to the painfully shy twenty-one year old than meets the eye.
Her roommate, coincidentally my now girlfriend Kate Kavanagh, has known her for almost four years and the girl hasn't been on a date. I met Kate when she came to Seattle to visit her father and Ana had her bring down hand-written sheet music and lyrics for a few new songs. It was love and lust at first site. What can I say about Kate? She's blonde, beautiful, smart, and snarky. The perfect woman for me, so naturally my anal retentive brother hates her or as he would say – loathes her. He needs to get the stick out of his ass and get laid – man, woman, I don't give a fuck. He just needs to fuck the cobwebs out of his dick and relax for once.
I head to Portland every weekend to spend time with Kate and write with Ana. It's a juggling act between my girlfriend and her best friend, who doubles as my songwriting partner. Luckily Ethan has a major case of the hard-on for Ana, though he hasn't acted on it yet. Ana as always is completely oblivious. How else can I describe Ana Steele other than painfully shy? Well, she's a beautiful, petite brunette with the biggest, bluest eyes I've ever seen. She's absolutely stunning, yet is utterly clueless to her looks. Men fawn all over her constantly, yet she doesn't notice. Her time is spent studying, reading, cooking, writing music and poems, working part-time at Clayton's Hardware Store, and then reading some more. If she's in her bedroom, her headphones are on constantly, which works because Kate and I can get a bit wild and loud when it comes to the loving department.
When we first began writing music together, we would Skype. It took over a year for her to agree to meet me in person, and then another three months before she would sing the songs we wrote with me in front of Kate. We are her only audience. Vocally she has a smooth, edgy, sound with quite a range, but also exudes her innate sweetness. Hell, she can do raspy when necessary too. Spend an hour with her and you too will have a cavity.
I know Ed and Tara are moving to Europe in a few weeks because he was transferred with the company he works for, so we'll need a vocalist and another guitarist. The guitarist won't be too difficult to replace. There are plenty of good ones around Seattle. A female vocalist who can harmonize with me and play keyboards, well, that's another story. My preference is to get Ana to do it, but Kate said that will never happen. Ana, who spends all of her free time either reading or writing, freezes when she has to make a presentation before her class. There's no way she can or would be willing to front a rock band, even if we are just local hacks. That frustrates me to no end because we sound really good together. Honestly, I really shouldn't complain as we've managed to sell a few songs to some Indy artists and Ana earned enough to pay a full year's tuition and expenses from it. Me? Well, I sunk my share into Grey Construction, as usual. I love building things almost as much as I love music.
Apathy Blues has gained some prominence as a local cover band over the years, but we gained a full head of steam when we began performing our original works. We even won a battle of the local bands to be the opening act in Seattle for Pink's upcoming charity tour stop benefiting autism research. It takes place in a week at The Showbox. We were excited until we noticed the performance date, which was right when Ed and Tara were supposed to be in London to house hunt, so the band desperately needed not only a female vocalist, but one who either knew our material or could learn it quickly. The only answer was Ana. She helped write and arrange the songs, she plays keyboard, and vocally we just jive. And so Kate and I went into planning mode…
After hours of planning and playing in bed, we decided to blindside Ana with it by inviting her to the performance, and then play the emergency substitution card. It's a dick move – I know, but if we asked her now, she'd say no and then smartly avoid the performance in Seattle so I couldn't screw her over and drag her on stage. She knows me well enough that I'd pull that dick move. Sometimes she's too insightful when it comes to me and in general, can read me like a book. This is why I've avoided her this week, because one look at my face and she'd know. She just would.
Kate came down from Portland a few days ago as the band prepared for today's event. Ana agreed to drive down today and stay at my place after the show. I know I never would have pulled this off without Kate, as she picked the clothes Ana would perform in and was ready to twist her arm if necessary to get her to help out. Fate can be a wonderful thing, but if you put your fate in the hands or gearbox of a forty-year old VW Beetle named Wanda, well, you're a stupid asshole. I, Elliot Grey, am a stupid asshole. Wanda decided after forty years that she's lay break an axle when Ana hit the sewer drain on her way to Seattle. Have I mentioned Ana is one of the worst drivers ever? She's lucky Wanda didn't do her impression of a turtle and end up wheels up as she hit the drain going forty-five miles per hour, or as my brother would say – recklessly speeding in a commercial zone. The thought of Ana's beloved Wanda being able to speed always makes me chuckle. The car is fucking older than I am by a decade. It should have been put in the compactor ages ago.
Can you say we're fucked? I can, but not in the good way. Ethan had one of his friends ready for the missing guitarist, but without a female vocalist we're just screwed. Frankly, if Kate had a smidgen of musical talent I'd use her, but think of the movie Dogma when God spoke and head's exploded and it will give you some idea of her singing voice. Yeah, it's that bad. It's fucking embarrassing, but I love her anyway. She makes up for it with her amorous adventures. She's creative where it really cun… counts – Freudian slip, sorry about that.
My only choice is to call my businessman brother, who I know is in Salem Oregon on business, which was his excuse not to come to our biggest performance to date. Can you say: he can be an asshole? I also know he flew down in his chopper, Charlie Tango, so my only choice is to try to convince him to make a hop-skip-and-a-jump from Salem to Portland to pick up Ana and then Seattle. Show time is in about four hours, if he left Salem in the next hour by chopper, he could get Ana here forty minutes or so before show time. That would leave me the perfect amount of time to blind-side her.
I finally give in and pull out my cell phone and dial Christian. Hopefully having a billionaire brother will come in handy – especially one that has his own chopper. When he answers, I immediately explain the situation – the concert, intending to blind-side Ana into performing, and the timeframe.
"I don't have time for this Elliot," Christian barks. "I just finished closing the deal here in Salem and right now all I want is a nice dinner and quiet. The last thing I want to do is shuttle Kate's probably equally obnoxious room mate to Seattle for you to pull the rug out from under her feet."
"Yeah, but you promised you'd see the show and you ended up in Salem," I counter. "It's our biggest venue yet and frankly, just writing a check to the charity isn't enough. You need to use your name to spread the word about autism treatment."
"I'd rather write another check."
"Fuck you Christian!" I snap. "It's not like I generally ask you for anything. Hell, I built and designed Grey House and brought it in under budget. You owe me this bro. The band will look like idiots if we cancel at the last minute and indirectly that will reflect on you as we share the same surname and are known as brothers." I'm an asshole playing that card. We might not be genetically related, but he's my brother in every way, shape and form – we both can deal the asshole card as a given situation requires. Come to think of it, I'm an asshole a lot lately, but I know I've got him now.
"Fine. Have this Ana person meet me at the helipad at the downtown airport in Portland in an hour. Send Taylor her information so we can run a background check. Anyone who has lived with Kate has got to be just like her or fucking insane. If any red flags come up on the check I'm leaving her in Portland," he growls before hanging up on me.
"Taylor!" I yell into my phone after dialing. "We're heading to the heliport in five minutes to pick up Kate Kavanagh's roommate and fly her to Seattle. We need to be in Seattle at The Showbox by six thirty tonight as Elliot plans on throwing her on stage as a lead vocalist beginning at seven."
"Are you talking about Anastasia Steele, your brother's song writing partner?" he asks me. I agree. "We've run the background check on her. She's a sweet kid and a real bookworm. I can't see her getting on stage and performing with the band. From what I've heard from Ryan, she's ridiculously shy to the point where he hasn't even heard her sing. Only your brother and Ms. Kavanagh have. I can't see this mousy little co-ed fronting a band."
"So what you're saying this is another of Elliot's delusional ideas?" I ask bitterly.
"Most likely Sir."
We meet in the lobby and head to the heliport. I love flying and today would be no different. I just hoped that Miss Steele didn't yabber like a howler monkey, as her friend Kate occasionally did, and my sister Mia did regularly. It always amazes me how I get mildly irritated when Mia does it, but when Kate does it all I want to do is reach out my hand and gag her – preferably covering her nose as well. I honestly don't understand why I feel so strongly against Kate Kavanagh because Elliot clearly loves the woman, yet I absolutely loathe her.
Forty-five minutes later, I touch Charlie Tango down in Portland. We glance around looking for Miss Steele. All I know is she's a brunette. The only brunette I see is a teenager sitting on the ground with her legs crossed scribbling in a notebook. She looks to be in her mid-teens, though it's hard to tell from this distance as she's wearing large, dark sunglasses, jeans, a Seattle Sounders jersey with matching beanie and scarf, and finally a pair of battered chucks. It's seventy degrees out, why would anyone wear a scarf unless it's to hide hickeys?
"I think that's her Sir," Taylor informs me as he points toward the teen.
He exits the helicopter and heads over to the girl and introduces himself. She blushes when she shakes his hand. It's amusing watching her struggle with her over-sized Sounders backpack as she heads toward Charlie Tango, refusing to allow Taylor to carry her bag. If she's like Kate, well, even though she's a feminist, she'd have Taylor carry her belongings. Kate's used to servants. So what's the deal with Miss Steele?
The woman is tiny – five one or two tops and can't weight more than one hundred pounds. Hell, her backpack probably weighs more than she does. I know from Elliot she's twenty-one and writes music with him but that's about it. Apparently she's the lyricist and he's the melody. The closer they get to Charlie Tango, the more nervous she appears. Her hands are trembling. Perhaps she held on to her backpack in case she decided flying wasn't for her and she made a run for it. That would screw Elliot over and I find that thought oddly amusing with a major hint of Karma.
Taylor opens the front door for her. Oddly she refuses with her soft voice barely a whisper as she asks to sit in the back. "Oh forgive me. Hello Mr. Grey Sir. I appreciate the ride to Seattle. I apologize for the inconvenience." She reaches across the seat and shakes my hand. For a little thing, she has a firm handshake and soft skin. From what I can see of her face, she's pretty even though she's not wearing any make up. I almost wish she would take off the sunglasses and remove the cap so her hair cascades down her back so I can see what she really looks like. Outwardly she appears the complete opposite of Kate, but time will tell. She could be playing the sweet card to help get into my favor. It happens all the time, but I'm not stupid.
I have Taylor strap her into the back seat and secure her backpack. Even though she has a set of headphones on and hears my communication with the controllers, she's quiet. I venture a glance back at her and her hands are white as she grips the armrests as tightly as possible.
"I assure you Miss Steele, you are quite safe in here," I try to reassure her.
"Sorry," she barely whispers but continues to stare down at her hands. Miss Steele comes off as submissive. Perhaps that is how her friendship with Kate Kavanagh works – Kate is the dominant in the friendship and Miss Steele is the submissive. It's seems like a logical conclusion with the little I know so far. I have to admit, I never thought about the dominant-submissive relationship in anything but a sexual way before. I find myself intrigued by the thought and now can't wait to observe the two of them together.
She doesn't utter another word until we touch down at Boeing Field. She merely thanks me, grabs her backpack and heads toward the terminal.
"Miss Steele, can I offer you a ride to the venue? We are heading to the same place after all," I inform her.
She tilts her head and looks at me. I wish I could see her eyes so I had some clue as to what was going through her mind at that moment. "I wouldn't want to impose any further Sir, as I'm certain I've reached my limit for the day."
All I can do is cross my arms and glare at her. "Follow us please," I order as Taylor and I head toward the waiting SUV. Amazingly she follows without another word said until she sits in the backseat with me. Even then, all she said was thank you. She's profoundly shy and socially awkward. I have no idea how Elliot thinks she can front his band. I've seen them perform and this isn't, as Elliot would say, a rocker chick. This is going to be a disaster and I'll have a front row seat when she freezes up on stage, if they manage to get her there at all. I almost feel bad for my brother – almost.
As I scroll through emails on my phone, Miss Steele pulls out a paperback and begins to read. Who reads print books anymore? I mean, she's twenty-one. Don't all twenty-one year olds have tablets now? At least she's reading a good book – Stephen King's Dark Tower - The Drawing of the Three. It was my favorite in the series. I should be happy that she's not yabbering away, but rather it's unnerving to be in the back of the SUV with someone so overwhelmingly shy.
Clearly Miss Steele is familiar with Seattle. When we are a few blocks from the venue, she packs up her book and sunglasses, but calmly sits looking out the window. As the car pulls to a stop before the venue and Taylor opens her door, she turns to me, shakes my hand, and thanks me for the ride. Her large, bright blue eyes take my breath away. She's stunning. All I could think as I watched her pert little ass get out of the SUV was: I think I've found my new submissive. The mere thought of Miss Steele in the playroom made my jeans that much tighter until I remember that her best friend is soon to be reporter Kate Kavanagh and my fantasy is over before it begins.