Fifty Shades belongs to EL James. I'm just playing with the characters and putting a new spin on them. I had a new idea come to me, I am not sure if it has been done before. Would love to know your thoughts on whether I should continue it. Sorry if its not very good. I'm not confident with my writing at all.
Blood and Bone
When I wake up, I roll onto my side, checking the time on my alarm clock. The illuminated red blinking numbers tell me that it is already ten thirty. Shit. I must have overslept and not heard the alarm go off the first time.
In a panic, I get up, throwing the blankets off me while I race around the room, gathering a clean pair of underwear and a bra, as well as the clothes I had ironed the night before in advance to prepare. I yank off both old socks, jam them into the laundry hamper, then run into the bathroom to take a quick, cleansing shower to both clean myself and wake myself up.
Today I have an interview for a job I applied for last week. I am supposed to be sitting the interview in a mere two hours time.
It's as an Office Assistant position for one of the most expansive companies in Seattle, Grey Holdings Enterprises.
The job position requirements were up-to-date knowledge of computer software and email, experience with working in an office role, and someone that is an organised team player, able to meet deadlines with a professional, friendly nature- all criteria that I feel I am capable of. I haven't had a job in an office secretarial position before, but I know it is a role I would do well in.
I received the confirmation letter just the Friday before that I have been one of three candidates selected for a job interview, so I am hoping it goes well today.
My head still feels a bit heavy and achy from the late night I have had last night. Once I'm finished in the shower and I feel a bit more sober, I turn it off and step out onto the towels I laid out on the tiled floor. The bathroom mirror is fogged up so I scrub at it furiously with my hand until I am able to see my reflection.
I stand, naked and shivering, my dark hair damp and dripping wet before the mirror.
I look different than I did yesterday, I feel. I seem paler than I had yesterday with dark circles under my eyes. I have always normally had alabaster skin, but usually I haven't noticed such prominent circles beneath my eyes. I press my thumbs around the creases of them, trying to rid the purple color and work some circulation into them by friction. I'm not very successful.
Last night comes back to me slowly in fragments of distorted memories. Heading with Kate to a club that was packed and busy, the music loud. Drinking three shots of hard tequila, then moving onto whiskey and coke.
Self-consciously, I cup my hand over my mouth, then exhale out against my palm, sniffing the odor of my breath through my nostrils. Somehow, I still manage to smell like a drunken sailor despite showering.
Against all better judgment, I had went with my roommate Kate for a social night out, drinking. I got a little messed up, and my head is throbbing from the after-affects of the hangover. Definitely not a smart thing to do when you have such an important thing happening, like today with a job interview. How can I possibly focus on putting my best foot forward if I'm hungover?
I grab my towel off the rack, wiping the water off my skin, drying myself. That's when I spot it while bending down. I hadn't even noticed it when I woke up. On my ankle, there is a bandage wrapped around it. It's damp now obviously due to the shower water, but I hadn't even noticed it. Weird. I must be more hungover than I initially thought.
Using my fingernails, I find the opening to the bandage. I start peeling it off, then I inspect the wound curiously, turning my shin around.
Dried blood is caked around what looks like a scratch. No memories come to me of how I obtained it. Then again, I am known to be clumsy, especially when drunk. Maybe I tripped? Wouldn't surprise me. I find my clean underwear, then shuffle into them before closing the toilet lid and plopping down on it, lifting my leg up again for closer inspection. Maybe its the light in the bathroom, but around my ankle, it appears to be swollen and inflamed. The veins usually on someone's leg, they seems more noticeable and brighter against my complexion than usual.
Did something happen last night? Did I get hurt? It's a mystery at this point.
But I decide not to dwell on it. I have to focus on looking presentable. Today is most possibly the most important day of my life.
Dressed in a knee-length black skirt, white blouse, and stockings, I make my way to the waiting area that the woman behind the desk directs me to.
The building of Grey House is larger than I had anticipated on, at over fifteen floors and counting. I'm to be interviewed by the company's CEO, Christian Grey. I'm assuming he's a guy in his late forties or early fifties with control freak tendencies.
I sit into the comfy chair, fighting the urge to scratch my ankle. I'm fifteen minutes early as it turns out, fortunately. I read somewhere that it makes a good impression- being both punctual and early for an interview. It shows a keenness and enthusiasm to work apparently. My head is still thrumming though; a dull ache that originates from my temples, down through my ears and my jaw.
.I have never felt so terrible before. Kate and I really must have drank like champions last night, though that does not explain why the mysterious scratch on my ankle is now stinging and just screaming for me to scratch it with my fingernails to provide myself a certain sense of relief.
Gripping my resume in one hand, I look at the woman behind her desk, making sure she won't catch me. Yeah, coast is clear. I bend down, my eyes remaining on the crown of the woman's skull, before I start scratching with my long fingernails through the sheer fabric of my stockings at the scratch. Ah, there we go. The relief is instantaneous. I wouldn't be surprised if my eyes roll back into my head.
"Excuse me, Miss Steele?"
I stop scratching immediately, startled by a woman's voice. It's the woman behind the counter. She's smiling at me.
"Yes?" I stand, clutching onto my resume while resting my other hand on top of it.
"Mr Grey will see you now for the interview. He's just in his office." She gestures towards the door with her hand.
"Thank you." I smile at her thankfully.
"Your welcome." My ankle starts throbbing again, dying to be itched as I walk towards his office. It's probably my fault. My stockings are probably rubbing against it, irritating it. I glance down at the back of my fingers that I used to scratch it curiously once I knock on Mr Grey's office door.
The tips of my fingernails are lined with redness. I think its blood from scratching the skin on my ankle so hard.
I gasp in horror, bringing the tips of my nails up to my mouth to suck them hastily. There is no way that I am greeting this guy with blood on my fingernails.
"You don't need to knock," the woman at the desk says over the thrumming in my ears, "You can just go straight in."
Distracted, I flex my fingers over the brass doorknob, pushing my way inside. I'm not sure how it happens. Maybe I'm so flustered from the blood on my fingers that I don't notice the doorjamb and it gets in the way, but before I know it, I'm falling to my knees on the carpet in his office. Oh, God. I close my eyes tight for a moment, wishing this were all such a terrible dream. This is a nightmare and any second now, I'll wake up. Only he makes sure I know it isn't a dream.
"Anastasia Steele, I presume?" I glance up, and a pale, long-fingered hand is in front of me, waiting for me to take it. The veins on the thin skin of his palm are very prominent. I don't know why I notice it, but I do. "I'm Christian Grey. I'm here to interview you for the job position. Are you all right?"
Gathering my wits, I reach out, accepting his hand. Cold. His skin is strangely cold in comparison to mine. He helps me up and when I glance down, I realize my resume is far away from me, having drifted to the floor from me falling over.
"Oh, thank you," I manage, once I find my voice. "What a disaster, falling into your office when I'm here to be interviewed by you. I'm sure I've made such a good impression already." Sarcasm is the only way I can find to diffuse the embarrassment of the situation as I pick up my resume. "Here is my current up-to-date resume, Sir. I'm assuming you'll need it?" I finally glance up at his face while he takes my resume from me.
"Yes, thank you. I never had the chance to properly look yours over on the application."
Just like that, all my former preconceptions about the man interviewing me is squashed. He isn't middle-aged; He's about in his late twenties or early thirties or so. He's about six feet tall. He's young and incredibly good-looking in the three piece suit he is wearing. The black trousers and black jacket seem to cling to him perfectly. But there is something about his eyes, especially, that are inexplicably captivating to look at; they are a deep, clear grey, framed by thick, dark eyelashes. His hair is tousled.
"Please. Take a seat," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips as he waves me towards a white chair in the center of the room.
His office is big. Too big, for one man, in fact. His taste in decorations is eclectic yet artful; There's tapestry hanging on the wall on one corner of the room. On another wall, he has a framed painting that looks like a colorful swirl of different shades of reds. There are a few old-looking red glass vases around the room on the floor. He's obviously a fan of the color red. I'm surprised his desk isn't painted red; It's dark mahogany, kept neat and organised.
The view outside his office window is beautiful, though. Seattle opens up before me as I sit into the plush seat. I bring my eyes back to him as he sits in the chair behind his desk, placing my resume in front of him. I feel the horrible urge to itch my ankle again.
"Did it take you long to find the office?" Mr Grey asks without lifting his gaze from my resume that he is reading. I notice he licks the tip if his thumb before turning the page of my resume. He has very gorgeous lips- a strange observation to make perhaps, but true.
"Sort of," I admit. "I got lost, because the building is so big but... luckily a very nice man explained to me which floor you were on and where the elevators were."
He nods once, his expression absorbed and concentrated with reading my resume. I am uncertain whether to begin talking or not. The silence is nerve-wracking.
"Are you aware that your bleeding?" he asks unexpectedly, and as he brings his eyes up to meet mine, I see that the pupils have dilated, overriding the grey of his irises. But I'm bleeding? What?
"I'm sorry?" I mutter slowly. I have no idea what he is talking about.
"Your ankle. It's bleeding and your stockings are torn."
Oh my goodness. I feel heat spread across my cheeks as I glance down at my ankles anxiously. I turn my heels to the side, looking. Shit. Surely enough, Mr Grey is right. There is a big hole split in my stockings now where I scratched through it to get at the itch. I mustn't have noticed how hard I was scratching it. The scratch mark is covered in wet, fresh blood. It's oozed down through the stocking. How did he even notice? How unnerving.
"Oh," I get out. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't realize that-"
"-Not to worry," Mr Grey says, rather warmly. He stands from his chair, disappearing to the side of his office for a second. Once he turns around, I see that he is holding a First Aid Kit. "We can fix that up for you quite easily."
Wow. He actually cares that much? "Oh, please, Sir. You don't have to-"
"-Well, I insist," he says firmly.
He comes to stand in front of me, crouching down while searching through the kit. He finds a bandage, then he grabs my ankle, lifting it and resting the heel of my shoe on his kneecap. His kindness and compassion and insistence to treat me- it's so unexpected. Honestly, I didn't think bosses gave a crap about anyone else but themselves. Christian Grey, he is obviously different.
"Keep still for a second," Mr Grey says in a low command, and I watch as he leans closer, inspecting my scratch and all the blood. He seems so fascinated, so... engrossed in the wound. It makes me feel crazily flustered. The tip of his thumb touches the center of the wound and I hiss at the sharp stinging sensation it presents. He lifts his gaze to look up at me apologetically. "How did this happen?" he asks curiously, and he grabs the compression bandage. He starts wrapping it slowly around the torn material of my stocking, as well as the bloody scratch.
"That's a very good question," I say. "I'm not completely sure what happened myself. I think I over-scratched it and took the skin off with my fingernails. That probably explains the-" My words falter at the look on his face.
His eyes are clenched closed as he holds his thumb in mid-air towards his nose. My eyes fall down to his neck as I hear him swallow thickly. A tendon in his neck twitches, the veins sticking out. His jaw muscles contract. Like a gunshot rippling through the air, he stands abruptly, moving away from me, his gait hunched, footsteps slow and fatigued. He keeps his face hidden from me. His reaction is baffling. What is going on with him?
"Um, sir. Are you all right?" I ask in concern, staring at a spot on his back. "I tend to get a little queasy at the sight of blood myself, so you aren't the only one."
I hear him start breathing in ragged, deep exhales. His shoulders are tense. "When can you start?"
"What? When can I start?" I repeat slowly, a burst of hope spreading through me. "I can start anytime you like."
"-Then congratulations, Miss Steele." His voice is low, guttural. "You are now my new assistant."
He's hiring me? But he hasn't even asked me the standard questions yet; Like why I want the job position in the first place and my previous employment history. I've been to a few job interviews before and, usually, that is standard procedure when it comes to these things.
"But you haven't even asked me anything yet?" I whisper, surprised. "Don't you want to go through my resume with me and discuss my qualifications?"
"I have everything I need to know." The words are abrupt and I don't even need to be able to look at his face to see what he wants; He is dismissing me, and he wants me out of his office. "You start on next Monday. When you leave the office, go straight to Andrea behind the desk. She will tell you everything you need to know on what to expect on your first day here at my company and what to wear. If you have any questions, you should ask it of her."
What do you think? :) Interesting? Is it something you would like more of? I plan to update chapter every third day or so when I have the time available to me. This won't be like Twilight, I assure you. It will be darker and for more mature adults- blood, lemons, mystery. But hopefully you will enjoy it.