Again I don't own anything to do with the 50 Shades Trilogy. I'm just a massive fan here.
Thank you so much for the alerts I have received, as well as the comments. You are all too kind. I hope you enjoy this one, too ;)
Chapter Two
Once dinner gets underway, I feel ridiculously self-conscious as I sit at the table, something I've never really felt in my own home before.
My heart is pounding and my hands keep shaking stupidly every time I use my fork to shovel some of the food Mom has cooked into my mouth. I have no idea why I'm feeling this way, though. Okay, so maybe I do. It's due to our dinner guest, the handsome Christian Grey. He's just so charming, and his voice is that naturally compelling that you just automatically sit up and listen.
He tells us stories about how he was adopted and how he grew up loving to play the piano, and I'd have to be full of shit if I didn't admit that, not only was he charming the pants off my Mom with his witty and endearing tales, but me as well.
Every time his eyes flit over to me while he talks, like he wants to make sure he has my undivided attention as well as my mother's, I feel myself get even hotter under the intensity of his stare. As for my Mom, well, I have no idea how she is feeling right now.
He had gone back out to his chauffeur in the car to get the bottle of wine he had bothered to bring with him for dinner, and ever since Mom has started gulping down her third glass, she's been acting strange. Maybe wine effects people in that way? Not that I'd know, of course. Mom has only let me have a mouthful of wine once, and that had to have been over twelve months ago during Christmas time.
Halfway through dinner, Mom's fork and knife clatters loudly on her plate and she supports her head in her hand while she waves her face with the other, blowing out through her mouth shakily. Her eyes have gone all glassy. I've never really seen her that way before.
I lean over towards her in my seat nervously. "Mom, are you feeling okay?" I ask, worried.
She laughs at herself and her unusual behavior, shaking her head. "God, I must be a lightweight. It's the glasses of wine." She looks over at our dinner guest Christian apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's just been a long time since I've had wine."
"Do you maybe need to go lay down for a bit?" I ask her. "Would that maybe make you feel better?" I look Christian's way for assistance, because really, I have no idea what to do in this situation. Mom has never gotten drunk in front of me before. Not on any occasion that I remember, anyway.
"I'm so sorry," she apologizes again, her voice slurred. "This is what happens when you get to my age, I think. Ana, take this as a lesson. The older you get, the sooner things start to go downhill. I certainly can't handle my drink like I used to. How embarrassing."
"Don't apologize," Christian says, his eyes flickering back towards both me and my Mom uncertainly. "I'm the one that should be apologizing, forcing those glasses of wine on you like that."
It seems to be the charming words Mom needs to hear, because she laughs.
"No, no," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "This is definitely all my fault. I should have controlled myself better. You just know your wines, and this one"- She pauses to lift her glass up to her lips, taking in another loud slurp -"This one is marvelous."
"I suppose that is why I only drink two glasses of this wine at a time, otherwise I won't be able to work to my best capabilities in the morning. All about knowing your limits, and all that..." He smiles at my Mom and I can't help staring. He really is the most handsome man I've ever seen, whether he is older than me or otherwise.
"Then there, we have it. This is my fault. I should have stopped at two, yet I didn't. Did I? I have terrible impulse control and self-restraint." She takes another long sip of her glass of wine, finishing it all off in a daring manner. "This is really the best wine I've tasted in a long time."
I guess Mom really is right, about things going downhill. Because barely five minutes later, she can hardly control her body.
"I... I think I need to go to bed," she says, her voice garbled. "Ana, would you mind helping me up?"
"Of course, Mom." I get up quickly from my chair, sliding a hand beneath her arms as I help her up. She is really in a bad way, though; Her arms dangle at her sides and she staggers into me.
"Again, I apologize about this, Christian," she says profusely, about the eighth time she has said it. "Next time I'll know not to indulge so much."
"It's fine, Carla. Really."
"I'm terribly sorry about having to call the evening short. Thank you for the wonderful evening and the wonderful wine."
Christian stands, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets with a nod. "You're very welcome. And thank you. It has been a... wonderful night. I really enjoyed myself."
"Oh, you're a darling," Mom says, lifting a hand to pat him on his chest before I struggle to help her upstairs into her room. It's a tricky task, but after a few tries we manage to get upstairs and into her room, where she literally collapses down on the side of the bed, her dress bunched up around her knees. "God, Ana, honey. I'm so sorry."
"Mom, don't be silly. You have nothing to apologize for."
I find a spare blanket in her closet and shake it out before throwing it over her body.
"I do," she insists, looking up at me with her glossy eyes while I tuck the blanket around her so she's warm. "I shouldn't have drank so much. But you know me, don't you? I have never been particularly good with controlling myself, and really, that wine was too good and proved too hard to resist." She laughs again in embarrassment.
"Mom, it's fine. You don't need to explain yourself to me. Lift your head up." She moves around, trying to make herself lay more comfortably on her bed while I bring her pillows around her head. "Are you warm enough?"
"I definitely should be, honey." She makes a low humming noise as she spreads out on her back, her long hair strewn around her. "Please, tell him I'm sorry. He probably thinks I'm this crazy old hag with a drinking problem."
"Mom, stop it," I warn her. What on earth is she talking about? Definitely must be the three glasses of wine that she's gulped down in a half an hour period.
"I just... I haven't had a drink in so long. I definitely can't handle it the way I used to."
"Mom, stop apologizing."
"He's just... too young, isn't it?" She peers up at me doubtfully. "He's too young for me."
"I really don't believe that's it, Mom," I tell her gently. "You need to stop it."
"Is she better than me?" she asks me quietly. Is she better than her? Who?
"Um, who, Mom?"
"You know..." She laughs. "The woman your father is now married to. Does she seem... better than me?"
I feel my heart sink. While I knew Mom had trouble accepting that my father has moved on and remarried, I didn't know she was struggling this much. Wine must be like truth serum. "Mom, you really need to stop this. She is in no way better than you. You're amazing, and I love you."
"Yeah, well, your my daughter. It's what you're expected to say. But just tell him I'm sorry, okay? Tell him I'm sorry for not controlling myself better and that I understand completely if he doesn't want to see me again..."
"Okay, Mom. Whatever makes you happy." Leaning down, I kiss her on the cheek. "I'll show him out and tell him. Then I'll come up to check on you in another couple of minutes, okay?"
"Okay, honey."
Turning the lamp on near her drawer, I head out, switching the main light off. I feel my stomach twist with nerves as I head back downstairs to attend to our guest. I have no experience in this situation, and I hardly know what to do or say. A part of me hopes he has already let himself out, but that wish is immediately doused when I see him sitting in his chair at the kitchen table still.
"Well, this is a disaster," I whisper awkwardly, the only thing I can seem to manage as a way to lighten the situation.
Christian straightens up in the chair, his grey eyes alight with both concern and humor as he looks at me. I think he is almost trying to hide a smile.
"Is she all right?" he asks me uncertainly. He clears his throat, in a kind of anxious way. "She got into that wine fairly quickly?"
"I know she did. It's been a real long time since she's drank anything." I smile at him sadly. Gosh, poor Mom. "I don't know if she's going to be all right, though. She's pretty tipsy." Butterflies. I feel as though I have butterflies fluttering around inside me when I start collecting our plates and cutlery to wash them. Mom always gets me to wash up as part of my chores, so I figure she'll be glad if I do it for her now considering the terrible state she is in. "She said she's so sorry and that she understands if you don't want to see her ever again."
He nods a couple of times and licks his lips. I have no idea how he feels on the idea of not seeing my Mom ever again.
All I know, is that the way he moistens his lips is strangely distracting. Out of nowhere, I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him. How the amount of stubble on his chin and around his upper lip would feel against me. I feel myself redden as I give my head a little shake. Talk about terrible of me. My poor Mom's upstairs tipsy and off her head while here I am, her daughter, fantasizing about the man she is supposed to be with now kissing me...
I really must have serious brain problems.
"Would you like me to help you clean up?" he asks me, surprising me. "Seeing as I'm the reason your mother is in the state she is, it would really be the least I could do." Not waiting for my answer, he stands, gathering his plate himself.
He follows me over to the kitchen sink while I start running the water. When I spray a decent amount of detergent in, I feel super self-conscious that he is probably staring at me. When I let myself look up at his face quickly, I discover that he is. He is staring at me in a bizarre way. A bit like he concentrating hard. A rush of heat hits my face again. I wouldn't be surprised if I have gone as red as a tomato.
"Okay, then. You can help if you're really wanting to, I guess? I really don't mind doing it all myself, anyway. It's part of my household chores."
"Your household chores?" He repeats in amusement. "You have household chores?" Clearly he is finding the fact that I do hilarious. Couldn't imagine why, though.
"Yeah, I do." I scrape the scrapes of uneaten food into the bin before dropping the plates in the sink. "Didn't you have... household chores when you were my age?"
"No, I don't believe I did. Or perhaps I did, but I just only can't remember."
When I plunge my hands down into the water to start washing up, its really too hot and scalding. But in my view, the hotter the better. We fall into an awkward silence when he grabs a hand towel and starts drying the dirty dishes after I've finished cleaning them. Somewhere along the line, I had been too preoccupied with washing up to have even noticed him remove his jacket. The sleeves on his white shirt and rolled up neatly past his elbows, and I can't help looking. I've just got to look.
Clearly he is a man who believes in taking good care of his body, because I see the muscles in his arms flex while he wipes the dishes clean. Hopefully in a way that he doesn't notice, I let my eyes drift upwards, noticing the two top buttons on his shirt are undone, his collar loose and open. He has a sprinkling of chest hair there, not too much, but not too little either. He isn't a hairy bear, of course. I'd say he is just perfect all around.
I know this is so wrong, perving on the guy who is supposed to be here for my mother tonight; My poor mother who accidentally drank too much of the wine he bought around and is now probably upstairs suffering. I just can't help it, though.
He's, like, the finest man I've ever seen in my entire life. Even half of the younger male teachers in high school pale compared to him.
I force my eyes away, giving my head a little shake in annoyance at myself. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Don't go there. He probably sees you as this little girl anyway. Fuck, he probably even has a sister your age. It's stupid!
"Where do these go?" I'm so busy having a mental pep-talk inside my head that I almost jump out of my skin when I suddenly hear him talk to me.
"Huh?" I ask idiotically.
"The plates. Where do you and your mother usually put them?"
"Oh, um..." I jerk my head towards the cabinet behind us, purposefully making sure I don't look at him. "Just over there, behind us. The fourth shelf in the rack."
"Right. So you don't have any plans on what you want to do after high school? Not even any vague plans?" I have no idea why he is so interested in my future plans, but maybe he is just trying to be polite and show interest to get into my Mom's good graces?
"Yep, no plans as yet. But I'm only seventeen. I figure I have loads of time to figure that out."
"Well, you better hurry." His shoulder brushes up against me when he reaches over to the last plate to wipe up. "Time flies. Before you'll know it, you will run out of time to figure out what it is that you really want to do with yourself."
I shrug, not really concerned either way. "Maybe, you're right. But I was thinking about maybe taking some time off to go travelling. Or maybe... going to college. I don't really know as yet. What I do know, is that I'm real big on literature and English. Maybe I could find something to do revolving around that?" My voice is too quiet and nervous, and I absolutely hate it. I don't want to sound like some child who can't make up her own mind, especially not in front of him.
"And do you have a boyfriend?" I think I hear him ask.
I almost flip-out. Whoa. Why the hell would he want to know that, unless... he was somewhat interested?
I slip up, scrutinizing his face carefully. He meets my gaze, his head cocked to the side. Again, he makes me feel as though I'm such an interesting person to him. Like I'm somebody he just can't figure out. I love it. But really, he simply seems as though he is asking out of curiosity, like he is just being nice and trying to get to know me. Probably simply for my Mom's sake, not mine. Not because he is interested in me in any way. Besides, he's almost a thirty year old, grown man. What reason could he have to possibly ever be interested in me, a school girl, who still gets gross zits? Not that I'm not enjoying the attention, though...
I consider lying, telling him that I do have a boyfriend. But really, wouldn't that be kind of pointless? No boy has ever asked me out in school, not once. Kate, on the other hand... all the boys seem to go for her. Probably because she is so ballsy and outgoing and blonde, whereas I'm more reserved and fixated on my school work half the time.
I know what Kate's answer would be to this, and how she would act. I know Kate perfectly, and all the boys seem to go for her. So, taking a leaf out of her book, I try to seem cool.
"Why do you want to know whether I have a boyfriend?" I ask, embarrassingly breathless. "Are you interested?"
His reaction to that is something I don't quite understand. He tears his eyes away, a slight frown there. Great, I think I've gone and screwed it up, made him feel uncomfortable. "I'm not so sure why I asked," he mutters with a shrug. "I suppose I just want to know."
"No, I don't have a boyfriend," I answer quickly. "I'm more focused on studying and getting good grades. Besides, I like older mature men. No guys my age really interest me. Well, not the ones in school anyhow. They're so... emotionally immature, you know?" There, I can act grown-up.
Christian nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. Then a wry smile forms. "But serial killers and perverts are an instant deal breaker," he says, kind of joking, referring to our conversation in the car.
"Yes, that's right." I laugh nervously. "Potential serial killers and perverts are an immediate deal breaker."
He smiles at me, showing me his straight teeth, and I get so flustered that I can hardly remember what I'm doing. I go to keep washing up the cutlery, and that's when it happens. Since the water is so soapy with detergent, I misjudge where one of the knives are, and I feel the blade slice straight through my finger in a horrible pricking sensation that makes me gasp out loud.
I draw my hand out of the water immediately, checking my finger. Water always makes cuts seem worse, because already, I see the red watery blood there on my forefinger, and I start to feel woozy. Me and blood have never mixed all too well, and I feel my throat tighten.
"What happened?" Christian asks, probably noticing my sudden change of mood and the way I'm holding my finger. "Are you all right?" When I glance up at his face again, he appears startling concerned.
"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine. I just accidentally sliced my finger on one of the knives I was washing up. I thought it was the handle, but clearly not."
To my relief, he doesn't seem affected by blood in anyway. He brushes past me to empty out the sink of water, picking all cutlery out and putting them on top of the sink, while I hold onto my cut finger. My hands won't seem to quit shaking. While I know it isn't a serious cut and I'm reacting rather overboard, its just the sight of blood that gets to me the most. When I squeeze down on it with my thumb, even more blood oozes out. Yeah, its definitely not good for me.
"Show me," he says, it sounding like an order. "Let me have a good look."
Standing closer near me, I feel my stomach muscles clench when he takes my hand, holding it up near his face to have a better look at my cut. Then he turns and runs warm water into the sink, and tells me to hold my bleeding finger under it for a second while he searches for some band-aids.
"This isn't the first time I've done this," I say, deliberately looking away from my finger while I hold it under the spray of water. It stings, but it isn't too painful. "I can be real clumsy sometimes. The band-aids are in the last drawer."
At last finding them, he grabs one out of the box while turning the water off.
"Keep your hand still for a second," he commands, and doing something that makes me feel crazily embarrassed, he tears a corner of the packaging on the band-aid open by his teeth.
Stupid as it probably is of me to think, I find it super hot, everything; The way he tore the corner of the band-aid packaging open with his teeth, how concerned and attentive he is being over a small cut on my finger. I hold my finger out to him, my entire hand shaking pathetically. Now that my finger isn't wet or covered in watery blood anymore, the cut actually doesn't seem as severe as it first did. I had definitely been over-exaggerating, but oh well. As for Christian, he seems to be taking it seriously.
I notice the way his eyes alternate between glancing down at both my finger while he smooths the band-aid over it, to my face again. He licks his lips and god, I never knew I could be so silly over a man before. I definitely have never felt this way before. While he may simply be doing a good thing in helping me by putting a band-aid on my finger, its strangely... intimate to me. Well, it feels more intimate than what it probably is meant to be.
Once the band-aid is one completely, he looks up at me again, a mischievous smile there. "Do you want me to kiss it better for you now, too?" he breathes, and if he's trying to seem patronizing towards me, it certainly doesn't sound that way. His tone of voice is both playful, and... something else. Hopeful, maybe? Maybe he's hoping I'll actually say yes? Or maybe I'm just reading more into it than I should be?
"Um... that... that's a really strange question," I say apprehensively with a short bark of laughter. "I mean, did... do you want to kiss it better?"
"Well, that all ultimately depends on you, Ana. After all, I wouldn't dream of doing something you didn't want me to do?"
Oh, my god. Is he flirting with me?
"I don't really think there is anything that I wouldn't like for you to do to me," I whisper foolishly without sense. God, what am I doing right now? Really, it seems as though he is flirting with me. I mean, he has to be, right? Then again, it isn't like full-grown men flirt with me every day...
He nods once, and then, with his eyes on nothing else but mine, he brings my finger up towards his mouth. When my finger touches his lips, he closes them over it, kissing my fingertip quickly in a way that makes my heart pound furiously. But just as quickly, he pulls my hand down and glances away, putting a reasonable amount of distance between us. When I catch sight of his face again nervously, I think he looks almost ashamed for some reason. Ashamed? What for, though?
But all of this has only served to seal the deal. For the first time in all my seventeen years of life, I actually find myself having a crush on somebody. Once Kate hears about all of this at school tomorrow, she was going to flip.
