Elena L.
2. Contact
Chic Salvage did a brisk business on Saturday. A sunny weekend in Seattle brings out the shoppers, particularly after the wet, bleak winter we've endured. Homeowners are eager to improve and make their stored dreams a reality.
I certainly could have used another pair of hands in the shop today, in addition to the Chinese MBA intern assigned to the shop for the month, courtesy of Linc's association with Seattle Pacific University. Then there's our Russian repair master, Dimitri, and his son of the same name, both exceedingly talented in up-cycling and repairing anything to working order.
Anthony arrived on-time and eager for occupation, as always. I inquired after his sleep last night.
Checking that we are alone, whispers close, "Like a fucking rock, Madam. The GF thought I was dead. She'd be right, nearly."
I turned away, preening. Selfishly, I wanted nothing left for her.
The work day progresses quickly and sales of in-store product is impressive. Contacts phoned with inside skinny on upcoming estate sales, and a trusted scout provided a heads-up on a wealthy octogenarian widow being moved to assisted living, her Broadmore manse ripe for the picking at auction.
At day's close, I found myself recording sale details in the oversized ledger, Tony beside me, counting and recording cash from the til.
"It's Saturday night, Mr. Sharpe. Have you any plans, you and the GF?"
He finishes counting out loud. "…sixty, eighty, ninety, eight hundred. We're seeing the Red Hot Chil Peppers at the stadium tonight."
I smiled broadly, happy for him - and a bit jealous. But it gives me an idea.
"Have a great time, Tony."
He looks up, meeting my eyes softly. "Thanks, Elena."
I stroke his bulging, tatooed bicep. "See you Monday."
"Yes, Ma'am."
After closing up I drive home, with no plans on the docket other than mixing a drink and listening to music. Linc goes to his golf club every Saturday night, not that his company is something I relish. He'll be home around 1 o'clock, long after I've been in bed, having spent hours marinating in Hennessey and smoking cigars with his cronies.
These are the times when I regret that we have no children. He has three from his first marriage and wants no more. Someday Linc will be gone, one way or the other, and I will be entirely alone. At 34 I look exceptionally good, so good that I retain a hot submissisve lover twelve years my junior, one who seems in no hurry to move on to marriage or a younger Dom.
At the wet bar I mix a drink: Tanqueray gin and tonic with lime. I carry it out to the poolside patio. I wrap my cableknit cardigan close around me, being a breezy and chill springtime evening, and I sit, putting my feet up on a lounge chair.
I wonder what Gray Eyes is doing tonight. Having been expelled from school yesterday, I can't imagine he's with friends. Surely he's at home, in his bedroom, alone. Maybe listening to music like me. Maybe watching TV. Maybe laying on his bed, thinking.
Maybe masturbating. What does young Christian think about when he's masturbating?
When he's mine, I'll put a stop to that. All of it will be mine. Only for me. He will learn total control under my training.
No premature ejaculation shit for my Christian. Never will he disappoint me or any other woman. I will teach him right. Never will he come first. I'll beat any shade of that bullshit out of him. Through me, he will be perfect. He will learn to use every tactic, every sense; sight, sound, taste, touch and expertly placed use of pain.
He will learn to give mind shattering orgasms, and he will learn subspace-land like the back of his hand. There will be no better lover anywhere, ever. All I've be taught, he will learn.
I will be his master, his tutor, his priestess. And Christian will be my masterpiece.
I take another sip of my gin and tonic, and look at my phone.
10 o'clock. Late, but not bad-manners late.
I pick up my Nokia, searching through my contacts.
Christian Grey.
Fuck it. *call*
I sip as the line rings.
Once…twice…three times…
"Hullo?" his adolescent voice comes on the line.
"Christian?"
Warily he says, "Yes?"
"This is Mrs. Lincoln, your mom's friend."
A pause. "Oh. Yes. Hello, Mrs. Lincoln," he says politely. He wasn't sleeping, but he sounds subdued.
"Christian, I spoke to your mom yesterday and asked if you could come down to my salvage shop to work for me when you have time. I really could use your help you know, lifting things and helping with deliveries. I'd pay you. And you'd be working with a nice young guy who does work like that for me now. We really need another person. Would you be interested?"
He's silent, and I count the beats.
"Um, yes, I think so, Mrs. Lincoln. I'd be happy to come help you. It sounds like a cool job."
"Good, Christian. The store is closed for business on Sundays, but if you'd like, I could pick you up and take you to look at it. That's if you have the time."
He pauses again. "What time are you thinking, ma'am?"
His last word sends a thrill through my pelvis.
"Not early. Sleep in and I can pick you up around noon. Is that okay?"
"Sure. I can be ready at noon."
"We'll have lunch together at the shop," I add, prolonging the conversation.
"Yeah, okay, Mrs. Lincoln. Wait, um…did my mom ask you to give me a job?"
"No," I laugh. "I've been thinking about you for a while. And it was me who made the offer."
A pause. "She told you what I did on Friday, didn't she?"
I make my voice gentle. "Your fight? Yes, I know about it. I'm interested in hearing what happened. Will you tell me?"
Another pause. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Okay, Christian. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Good night."
"Good night, Mrs. Lincoln."
And I hang up, smiling broadly as the glass meets my lips. Step one is underway.
That night, in bed, I plan how this lunch date with Christian will go. I close my eyes in the moonlit darkness, bedded down in the sumptuous duvet of my extended length, full-size mattress (purchased specifically for occupancy of one) and drift in and out of sleep with sweet anticipation fluttering in my chest. There's something about that boy. This feeling… it's not a choice. It's a compulsion, a hunger.
Has Christian changed much over the past four months since I saw him last? He was in a rather gawky teen phase at New Year's. Is he taller? Did he cut that glorious auburn mop of hair or did he leave it long; more than wavy, less than curly? Even now I feel tingling between my fingers, wanting to delve deep in his hair, to massage his scalp, pressed close behind him, my breasts to his back and thighs tightly holding his hips, and whisper in his ear. Maybe something in Russian about how I love to touch him.
Distantly I hear a cough. The sound comes from outside, approaching from the garage. Holding my breath, I'm glad I remembered to lock my bedroom door. Now the cough is downstairs. Shit, it's getting closer.
Linc, go to bed. Take your stinking drunk ass and go to your own room. Leave me alone.
My eyes glance to the bedroom doorknob.
Don't you do it. Don't think you're coming in here.
The doorknob turns and creaks. But the door stays closed.
I hear muttered, muffled expletives and then the cough again, right outside my door. Staggering steps retreat down the hallway toward the stairs. Is he going to the kitchen for the master key? With any divine mercy he'll fall down the stairs and lay there unconscious. Or will he pass out in the living room?
Either way, leave me alone.
I know, I know, it's terrible. But I fantasize about Linc's death daily. Nothing prolonged, violent or painful. Just final and freeing.
It must be an hour before I relax enough to drift toward sleep again, comforted by fantasies of tutoring my young apprentice in the arts of sensual pleasures. How will I begin this quest? Okay, let's call it what it is: a seduction.
I desire strongly to be his first, to teach him well, and to be the diversion he apparently needs, instead of ruining his future with hot-headed, violent outbursts. How will Christian become anything in this world if he can't control his temper? Control… that's what the boy needs to learn. Control of self and others.
Lessons I learned early.
Morning comes all too quickly, and I wake to find the day bright and full of promise. I'm out of bed by 6am, then showered and standing in my walk-in closet preparing my costume for the day. What image do I want to project? Youthful, carefree, soft, alluring, honest. I choose a newer pair of fitted, faded jeans and a close-fitting V-neck t-shirt in baby blue and white. My blonde hair is left down, softly falling over my shoulders.
No severe up-do and business attire today.
Minimal makeup. Just enough mascara to accentuate my eyes and powder to even my coloring. Pale pink lip gloss to draw the eyes.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I pour my tea and read the newspaper front page, enjoying the solitude of a sunny weekend morning. But not for long.
In velour bathrobe and leather slippers, hubby comes staggering into the kitchen.
"Did you make coffee?" are his first words.
"Good morning, dear. No, I didn't. I'm having tea."
He scoffs. "How many years does it take before you to notice that I drink coffee every morning?"
It's easier to accept the scolding than it is to debate his grievance.
"I'm sorry dear."
Linc sets about making his coffee, banging the percolator pot on the counter loudly.
He turns to stare at me. "Why do you lock your bedroom door at night?"
I blink once. "Because I sleep better when I know its locked."
He's silent, but I can't concentrate on the newspaper, knowing he's boiling over.
Again he stares at me. "Why are you dressed already? Where are you going?"
"I have work to do at the warehouse. We were very busy yesterday, and I anticipate a hectic week."
"You need to show me the books. This is no charity case, Elena. I want to know your little houseware's hobby is making money. I pay a fortune every month to lease that building you know."
"I really enjoy running my own business, Linc…"
"It is not your business Elena, it is mine."
I take a settling breath, not wishing to wear habitual frustration on my face today.
"Linc, I know what you pay, and every month I prove to you a net profit. We can go over the books this evening if you'd like."
"Fine."
Without another word, my husband takes his coffee and heads to his study.
I decide now would be a good time to head to Chic Salvage and make a few furniture adjustments before my noon lunch date. Linc will be at the club playing 18 holes today, and besides, he hates the salvage shop, complaining that it smells of dust and besides, he finds old things distasteful.
Right on, buddy. With one crusty old item in mind, so do I.
Although the warehouse district of downtown Seattle is quite the opposite direction of where I will pick up Christian, I feel that preparation is of the essence.
I flick on a few lights inside Chic Salvage and tune the stereo behind the register area to 95.7 FM's classical station. The vast floorspace is quiet and dim. Perfect.
There's an intimate corner at the back of the warehouse I've had in mind, on the first floor. The corner was set up by our MBA intern and truly looks staged as if for an Edwardian era theatrical production, complete with a pair of newly upholstered wingchairs, a burgundy wool rug beneath, an ornate fireplace surround beside, and a charming brass chandelier, wired and in working order. A small side table of Burmese carved rosewood is placed just so. I stage the area to resemble an intimate rendezvous for two, whether it is used for that purpose today or not.
In another hour, I take out my Nokia and call Grace Trevelyan-Grey. Best to remain upfront and above suspicion in all things.
I've caught her returning from church and inform her that Christian is interested in a look around the warehouse and a brief job interview. She is thrilled and offers her warmest blessings.
Another box ticked.
Shortly after noon, I'm in the Grey's turnaround drive and a very tall and slim young Christian Grey opens the passenger door to my 1998 Lexus SC 400. As he looks appreciatively about the interior, I notice the evidence of his fight on Friday. Bruises and a swollen lip do nothing to detract from his beauty. He really is a stunning young man.
"Nice ride, Mrs. Lincoln," he says with a gently enthusiastic smile.
"Get in. Let's go for a drive," I tell him.
Christian pauses as if to consider whether he really wants to do this, then apparently decides the answer is yes. He gets in and fastens his seatbelt.
He's wearing khaki trousers and a white Polo shirt, pristinely ironed and well presented. On his feet are Doc Marten's brown leather ankle boots, a leather belt to match.
A brief span of uncomfortable silence ensues as I head out of the drive. I decide to take a chance that he's a car guy.
I pat the steering wheel and ask, "So what do you think of my baby, Christian?"
"It's alright."
I glance at him with a smile. "Just 'alright'?"
He turns in the passenger seat to look at me squarely, holding his assessing gaze while I can only look straight ahead.
"Since you ask, Mrs. Lincoln, I assume you want my honest opinion."
"Yes, of course."
"Well then, as far as automobiles go, my first love is German luxury engineering. Audi is my top choice. Then the Mercedes-Benz, Porsche and BMW. In that order."
"But…" I stammer, "But this is a Lexus!"
"It's a Toyota, Mrs. Lincoln. Japanese engineering is making an effort to catch up, but I'm not buying it. Did your husband give you this car?"
Unexpectedly I feel like I'm being interrogated. "Well…yes, he did."
"He should have bought you a Jaguar or an Aston Martin. Yeah, I can see you in a Jag. You have the beauty to carry it off."
He's still looking straight at my profile, no shyness or hesitation.
Sunday traffic is light, so I glance to take an appraising look at my young companion.
He continues, "Your husband is Carter Lincoln of Lincoln Timber, isn't he?"
""Yes."
Christian nods and looks ahead down the road. "Megabucks," he breathes. "He could have done better for you. I'll bet the purchase of this Lexus was leverage in a deal. A sweetener."
Being that I have no idea whether he's right or not, I say nothing except, "You may be right."
He's all self-assurance, adding, "I am right."
For the next ten minutes, Christian provides a smooth dissertation on the specifics of this make and model of Lexus as well as his prefered selections, telling me diplomatically and in-not-so-many-words that my automobile is inferior. He's a sharp kid, and he obviously loves not only luxury cars, but the good life in every way; boats, planes, helicopters as well.
"How do you know all this, Christian?"
"Reading, ma'am. Reading is fundamental," he replies, quoting the slogan.
"What else do you read?"
He turns his piercing gadze to me again. "I do my reasearch. On people."
"People?"
"Yeah. I like to know my friends as well as adversaries. You'd be surprised what an inquisitive search of public records can produce."
Holy shit, is this kid really fourteen? I glance quickly at him, and I'm sure my expression is one of wide eyed wariness.
"Please, call me Elena."
"I think not, ma'am."
"Why not?"
"Because Elena isn't your given name. If we're going to be real, then let's be real. If not, then take me home."
I have an overwhelming desire to extend my hand and touch his fingers, to see if he is in fact real, because I have my doubts.
