3. Interview
We arrive downtown and I parallel park in front of Chic Salvage. We exit the Lexus and I unlock the front door, leading Christian into the quiet, dusky warehouse, flicking on a few lights as we go. Christian remains silent, walking ahead and following the narrow, winding aisle examining the eclectic treasures lining his path. Meanwhile I appraise his shape.
Christian has grown in height significantly since the first of this year. If not six foot, he's close. His weight I'd guess at 135 lbs. There's not an ounce of excess fat on him which stands to reason. He's a cross-country runner and soccer player. I ponder his choices in minimal contact sports. Regardless of the reason, he's definitely got endurance, and that's what matters to me most.
His shoulders are broad. I imagine that he lifts weights, and although he doesn't yet have muscle bulk, he likely has definition under that shirt. It's difficult to tell. I continue to follow him to the back of the warehouse. Alone and secluded, I suddenly feel a bit guilty having led a teenager to a carefully crafted den of seduction.
"Do you want to phone your mom, to let her know you're here and okay?" I ask.
He turns and looks at me squarely with those captivating grey eyes. "No."
Jeez, now I'm the one who's nervous.
My own voice sounds shaky. "Christian, I ordered some lunch for us. It should be here soon. Sub sandwiches from down the block." And the unintentional irony makes me snort a laugh.
He looks at me warily. "I'm okay with subs."
"Good," I nod, hiding my smirk. " I didn't know what you drink, so I got you San Pellegrino, a Sprite and a Coke."
"Water is always fine. Sparkling works."
Enough of this awkward lead-up.
"Christian," I sigh heavily, "listen, I like you. I asked you to come here because I don't want to see you in trouble at school or with your family. I want us to be friends."
He's silent, lips parted, unsure of what to make of his bizarre surroundings and this mostly strange lady telling him she likes him.
I was soon to learn that, in all things, when Christian's equilibrium is shifted, he not only recovers at lightning speed but turns the tables most adeptly.
He steps toward me. "You want to be my friend?"
"Yes. Christian, I feel something about you. An affinity, a draw. Like you're a kindred spirit." I sigh and add, "I know that sounds silly."
"No, it doesn't. You feel like we've done this before. Is that right, Mrs. Lincoln? Maybe a long time ago, somewhere else?" He's standing directly in front of me now. Oh my, those lips.
Somehow, he's running this meeting. I feel quite under his thumb, flustered and blushing, neither of which I've done for ages. This doesn't happen to me in the presence of men. Correction: boys.
"Christian, let's get a few things straight." I say firmly and stand taller. "When we are alone, I want you to call me Elena. Unless directed otherwise."
Ma'am, Madam or my Mistress. Thosecan wait.
While looking down at me, he says, "What else do you want to get straight, Elena?"
Oh my. Young Christian knows his power.
"This." I swallow hard and say, "It's monumentally important. That you can trust me. Nothing you tell me or show me or do…here…will go any further. This is your safe place, and if you like, your confessional."
"Why? Why are you offering all this?"
I pause and think of why I'm doing this, deciding to divert him before I act truly irrationally.
"You see a therapist. How is that working out for you, Christian?"
"Therapists? Really?" The spell is broken and he scoffs at the word. "Okay, let's see. I've been through half a dozen therapists. If one more of them takes fucking inventory of my history, then asks 'how do you feel about that, Christian?' I'm going to lean across his cheap-ass wooden veneer Office Depot desk and strangle him with his bargain basement JC Penney tie. I've not met one yet that can hear what I'm fucking saying."
I'm effectively silenced.
He settles his burst of anger. "Sorry for the profanity, Elena."
God damn, his mind is so quick.
Catching my breath, I venture, "All the more reason there needs to be total trust between us. You and me. And it goes both ways. I think you can learn a lot from me, and I can from you."
He licks his lips, eyes casting across the floor. "Do you have many friends?" he asks.
I smirk and speak the truth, "No. Lots of acquaintences but no one I trust implicitly."
"What about your husband?"
I scoff bitterly, "Linc? Seriously? Absolutely no, no way. Not ever."
"Then why are you married to him?"
I can't believe fourteen year-old Christian Grey and I are having this conversation. He clearly is not ike any teenager I've ever known, even when I was a teenager. There's something sensible and solid about him. He's lived lives before. He's certain and experienced and versed well beyond his years. This kid has seen some shit.
His gray eyes pull from me an unspoken confession; one I've never revealed to anyone.
"I married Linc because my mother told me to. She said, and I precisely mimic my mother's Russian accent "You'll not starf. You'll have cloths. Who cares for love? He want pretty girl, and he take care of you."
Christian looks down at me from his excellent posture and height, nodding his understanding.
"What is your real name, Elena Lincoln? Don't lie to me because I already know the answer."
His audacity!
"What's your's Christian?" I counter, knowing he's adopted. Who knows where, when or how his given name appeared? Does he know?
"Christian Grey is the only name I've been told or can recall. Beyond that," he shrugs, "I'll never know."
"You must have a birth certificate. Everybody has one."
"Yeah," he says. "Of course I do. But I've never looked at it. I don't want to see it."
"Why?"
He shakes his head. "I don't want to be that kid again. He belongs to a far-away place a long time ago. He's dead. Knowing his name will resurrect him."
I quietly try to process that. His existence before being adopted must have been quite traumatic. To pull him out of this dark topic, I answer his question about my name.
"You want to know my original name? Before I was married? It was Yelena Svetlana Kazakova."
He nods, a gentle smile playing upon his sweet lips. Information confirmed.
I realize we're standing in a cluttered aisle of Chic Salvage's warehouse.
At the same time there's a knock on the locked front door. The sandwiches. I go to pay the delivery man and bring in our packed drinks and lunches. I take them to the Edwardian stage-set, urging Christian to take one of the chairs. Silence ensues while we eat.
Tension of strangers alone together has decreased significantly. A different kind of tension has taken its place; one I like.
Christian wants to be certain of my trustworthiness, and I'm ready to give it all.
"You were saying?" he continues between mouthfuls. "About your name."
"Yes, I don't go by Yelena anymore."
"Why?"
"I dropped it in high school. Kids were merciless. They'll find any reason to ridicule."
"Yeah, no shit." Christian's gray eyes look at me, serious and smoldering. "Why do you think I got expelled from school on Friday?"
I shrug. "Someone gave you a hard time, and in response you beat the crap out of him?"
"Somewhat. I was already on probation at that school. The headmaster and board were done with me."
"Why do you fight, Christian? What sets you off?"
He sighs long and heavy. "The school year starts out fine. But then they catch on. All of them. They figure it out."
I continue with my sandwich, raising my eyebrows in a 'go on' expression.
"I'm fucking weird. I know it. I've always known it. It's just becoming more… vivid and problematic. Can I call you El? Elena seems so formal."
"Yeah, sure."
"Alright. El. Here it is. I'm not right. People instictively know that I'm not right."
"Not right?" I repeat, puzzled.
"Yeah. Here and here," he says, touching his head and chest.
"They approach me like I'm some bizarre mythical creature. They want to touch me. They can't fucking stop touching me," Christian says, his anger rising.
"Christian, they want to touch you because you're beautiful," I laugh. "Even guys, though they probably do it to provoke you, out of jealousy. To test you. And girls? Well can anyone blame them for wanting to put their hands on you?"
"I can't stand to be touched," he continues, mired in escalating outrage. "There's sports I can't play because of it. I can't go out for wrestling. I can't play football. I thought soccer was safe, but if you do well then everyone wants to fucking hug you and pile on top of you. I can't go out for swimming or diving because then they'll see it. They'll ask questions."
"They'll see what?"
He ignores my question.
"Some dickhead douchebag couldn't keep his fucking hands off me last fall. I decked him at the Homecoming football game and it somehow turned into an all-out brawl between my school and the opposing team, though they didn't start it. Now the douchebag has my girl. She dumped me a few weeks ago, and she's with him."
The pain in his gray eyes is tremendous; it fills the space and makes me breathless.
"He just kept pushing me, gloating. So I decked him again. Broke out the fucker's teeth. His friends jumped in, and I had to kick the crap out of them too."
"Oh no," I whisper. There's going to legal trouble.
But Christian is still simmering about the girl. "Let's see how she likes kissing that shithead now."
Silent, I sit there, shaking my head in disbelief. Or dismay.
"Do you still want me here?" he asks softly and lifts his face to meet my eyes.
"Yes," I say, meaning it. "Of course. More than ever."
His frame relaxes and he continues with his sandwich and San Pellegrino.
"I liked her a whole lot, and I thought she liked me," he continues. "As I said, I'm weird, El. I can kiss girls and grind on them, and feel up their tits. But then they want to touch me, and I can't have that. Not from anyone." He pauses, then adds, "I guess she had enough of my weirdness. She's just gone. She wouldn't take my phone calls. Wouldn't talk to me when I saw her. And then I saw her with him. Laughing and hugging him."
My heart breaks for him. "Oh, Christian, I'm sorry. That hurts. I know."
"Yeah, pain and me seem to go together. I just want to fucking die."
"No you don't. Christian, you've got so much life ahead of you. So much to experience and contribute to the world. You're so intelligent and good and beautiful."
"I'm going to be alone until I die," he says with real conviction. "I've known for a long time; I can never have a normal relationship, ever. Touch…it kills me inside, El. Touch is supposed to be pleasant, right?"
"Yes."
"It awakens demons that live in me," he says, gray eyes dark and desperate. "I'd do anything to keep them quiet. They rise up and they torture and terrorize me."
Leaning forward, I take his hand. "Can I touch you here?" I ask, stroking his hand. "Are your hands okay to touch?"
He nods.
His hands bear the evidence of the fight two days ago. I bring the back of his hand to my lips. "Christian. There's a way." But I'm nowhere near ready to introduce him to that way. The way that I learned when I was his age. The way that made me all I am today, for better or for worse. Patience…
We fall silent for a few minutes. The radio's classical music continues to float through the warehouse. Lunches finished, we're in our leather chairs turned toward one another.
He shuts his eyes, listening and feeling the music.
"You know this?" I ask quietly.
"I play this. Pachelbel's Cannon in D."
Too soon, the music goes to commercial. "So, El," he says abruptly."Tell me about your Russian parents. They're both alive. They're from St. Petersburg. They run a dance studio in Tacoma."
"You do your homework, kid, I'll say that for you," I admit with a smirk. "When did you research all of this?"
He's turned to me fully, his fingers now at my bicep, toying with my t-shirt's sleeve. "After my parent's New Year's Eve party. You danced with me, remember?"
Not really. It was a very wet party. I shake my head apologetically.
"And you kissed me," he adds.
Oh shit. I hope I didn't make a spectacle in front of everyone, but I entirely see myself doing so. Grace permitted me to take her son away today, so it couldn't have been that bad.
"Christian," I breathe. "I wish I remembered that."
"I wish you did too. It was memorable," he says softly, cocking his head to one side. "You interest me too, El."
I couldn't say why at the time, but surely we're cut from the same cloth.
I have a pleasure in confessing to young Christian Grey, and I think he can say the same of me. Besides, he likely already knows all the answers to my secrets, and being caught in a trap of lies would only destroy trust and take him further away. My desire is to be closer. And so I launch into an abridged summary of my history, deciding to leave inthe unflattering specifics.
"As you seem to know, my parents are Soviet ex-pats."
He nods.
"They came to New York in the 50's. They're competetive ballroom dancers. Sounds glamorous but there's no money in it unless you win the major prize competitions. They never won the title of World Champions but they're panelists on the International Council for Ballroom Dancing. They competed for nearly twenty years. Brits almost always win. My parents won 3rd place in 1973 and 2nd place in 1979."
He's silent, his lovely eyes fixed on mine, listening intently. He's remembering every detail, I remind myself.
"I was born in New York City. We lived in Crown Heights, Brooklyn when I was a kid. I have three much-older siblings. My father supplemented the family income by working for the Russian mafia. He spent time at Riker's Island for racketeering and felonious assault. My brother Sergei too. Sergei is old enough to be my father incidently. Once Pop got out, we left New York and moved to Tacoma. I was twelve. They opened a dance studio where they teach ballroom dancing and do choreography."
Christian's gray eyes are intent and lips parted.
"Holy shit," he says, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Your father and brother are in the Russian mafia. I knew about their criminal record but… not that."
There's no point denying it. Once in the game, always in the game.
"Yep. A middle class upbringing for me, Christian, with a lingering black cloud. Seattle society would be scandalized. I've worked very hard to obscure those facts. It's crazy that a fourteen year old kid can find it all, no problem."
He smiles wryly and shrugs. "I've got talents, Mrs. Lincoln. You'd be amazed at what I can do."
My breathing is audible and short. Looking at his fingers still toying with my sleeve, I will for him to show me what he can do.
As if to tease, he backs up, taking his hand away and creating distance. "Do you do ballroom dancing too?" he asks.
I nod. "Yes. I competed on the junior level. For most of my career, I didn't crack the top ten for the World title. When I finally did, my partner went and died on me."
"Died? Of what?"
It's a painful memory. "Motorcycle versus truck. Amazing how the truck always wins," I state with sarcasm. "So you see, Christian, I'm a major disappointment to my parents."
"Agnessa and Maxim," he says. What a memory he has!
"Correct."
"Will you teach me?"
I smile from deep within. "Ballroom dancing? I would love to teach you."
Christian smiles back at me, beautifully. "Okay."
"Come, stand here with me." He does and I step close to him, looking up into his face, my breasts barely touching his chest. I had puzzled how I would begin directing his body to accept my will, and the answer presented itself so readily.
"We'll start with the waltz." I take his right hand. "This hand goes around my body. Place it on my low back."
He does as asked.
"Good. Now I'll place my hand on your right shoulder."
He tenses, gasps and licks his lips, trying to maintain composure.
Gently I whisper, "This touch makes you uncomfortable?"
Breathless, he lifts his chin, stretching his neck, considering my question. "Be still. Let me get used to this."
No trouble there, can stand here all night.
I take his left hand and position it correctly, holding my right.
He exhales sharply, his right hand firmly on my low back, holding me close to his body. His arousal is evident. He squeezes my right hand in his left.
"I want you to become very comfortable with me in your arms, Christian. We'll practice this, often."
He looks down at my face, then to the deep cleavage revealed by my V-neck t-shirt. He swallows hard.
"Okay that's enough," he says and lets me go, backing away. "Oh God, what an insane dichotomy," he exclaims, almost to himself.
"What is? All the negativity of being touched combined with the pleasure of holding a woman's body close to yours?"
He exhales sharply and gasps out an amused, "Yes."
"We are going to work on that, baby. When I'm done with you, your body will move with the grace of an angel; not just when dancing, but with any physical exertion, no matter what, where, when or with whom. You'll react without hesitation. Decisive, controlled, measured. If you trust me."
The time is getting late. I'll need to return him home.
He stands straight, fully composing himself again. "I'm not done asking you questions."
"Okay. What more would you like to know?"
"After you stopped competing in ballroom dancing, then you married Carter Lincoln. You're his third wife."
"Those are statements, Christian, not questions."
"Are they true or not?"
"They're true."
"Lincoln's marital history: divorced, died, and then hot young chick."
"Yes," I gently laugh, appreciating the compliment.
"You were only twenty-two. Why did you do it?"
I sigh heavily. "Oh Christian, I was taught that it's better to find protection with a rich man. I wanted approval. I wanted the good life. I wanted to escape. Then a rich man made me an offer."
Christian's eyes are knowing and pained. "I'm going to be a rich man."
"I do believe you are," I agree, stroking his cheek."Unfortunately you're too young for me."
"Who says?" he asks quietly, a burning flare in his eyes.
I smile, liking him more with each minute. "Society says."
"Fuck society."
I'm mezmerized by his mouth when he says the word 'fuck' and try not to gasp noticably.
"My sweet baby," I whisper. "We can figure that out. In the meantime, be my secret friend. True best friends are better than anything."
He holds out his hand to shake. "Best of friends, Yelena. Agreed?"
I take his hand and warmly cover our shake with my left. "Christian, darling. Agreed."
