Soulful Grey

Chapter One

The cab driver is kind enough to escort me inside the door of the building. As usual, I've tipped way too much, but I've never regretted it. After a polite farewell, he adds, "Well, you have my number. You call me any time, okay?"

We kind of bonded on the way from the train station, mainly because he didn't stop talking except to shout at another driver who almost hit us. After one cab ride, I know all about his family, his colleagues, some of his more outrageous clients over the years, quite a bit about this city, and his vociferous views on the current state of politics in this country. And he knows that I'll soon be moving here. And it occurs to me that it'll be nice knowing someone I can trust in this city I cannot. "Thanks, Manny. I'll hold you to that. In fact, when I get a job, you'll be the second person I tell."

He laughs—a strong, warm sound like tilled earth in the sun—and guesses, "After your mother?"

"Of course. Mom first, always. I'll see you around."

He hesitates a moment longer, and I wonder if he's about to say something else. But then he sighs and leaves. Even here on the ground floor, it's a busy place. There's sunlight streaming in through huge windows. I savor the warmth on my face for a moment. I've spent all morning on a train or inside a cab. My sun worship is interrupted by a young woman saying, "Welcome to Grey House. I'm Janet. What can I do for you, today?"

Remembering one of my favorite movies, the image I see in my mind is Jimmy Stewart drawling, 'Uh...what did you have in mind?'

"Oh, thank you, Janet. I'm standing in for Katherine Kavanaugh. I have an appointment with Mr. Grey. I'm a little early."

I can practically feel her disbelief that someone like me would be meeting her boss, but she limits it to, "Mr. Grey?"

"Yes. Christian Grey, CEO of this company. Unless I'm in the wrong building?"

As if suddenly remembering her job, Janet says, "No, ma'am. Correct building. Uh, are you okay to go up on your own? His office is on the top floor. I can accompany you, if you wish?"

"Thank you, but there's no need. If you point me towards an elevator, I can take it from there."

"Okay, if you're sure. I'll just get you a visitor's pass." She heads off, memorizing, "Katherine Kavanagh."

I call after her, "Uh, actually, it's Anastasia Steele." But she's already too far away in this hive of activity to hear me.

The elevator ride is scarier even than Kate's driving. Damn thing shoots up so fast, and with so little warning, that I stumble a little. Thankfully no one else sees my clumsiness, because Janet had escorted me to the express elevator, and explained that it only goes to Grey's office, unless the man himself enters a pass code for another floor. I didn't have time to ask Kate much about him, but this terrifying contraption suggests that he's not a patient man. It smells nice though, somehow floral and masculine at the same time. Blessedly, the ride is soon over. Even as the doors open, a woman is greeting me, "Welcome, Ms. Kavanagh. I'm Andrea. If you follow me_"

Quickly stepping through the doors, in case they're just as fast as the elevator, I interrupt, "Ms. Steele."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I'm sorry. Ms. Kavanagh is ill, and asked me to conduct this interview. I'm Anastasia Steele. I tried to tell them at reception, but..." I gesture behind me to conclude, "Well, everyone here seems to move as fast as this infernal machine, so I didn't quite get the chance." I hope that my smile mollifies her, just in case this is a huge breach of protocol. I wouldn't want to get Janet in trouble.

Andrea laughs—a sound that reminds me of running water—and explains, "Mr. Grey works very hard, and expects no less from his employees. I'm sure even the elevator wouldn't dare slow down while he's in the building. Just between you and me, I call it the Space Shuttle. Thank you for being punctual. I'll show you in."

As if to prove her words, she says all this in record time. But she's obviously not upset at the mix-up, so I breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Thank you."

Once we're inside Grey's office, which smells as good as the elevator, Andrea informs him, "Anastasia Steele, sir."

"Steele? I was expecting a Ms. Kavanagh."

His voice is...I can't even describe it. My life is words. So every voice reminds me of something. For the first time since I can remember, all I experience is the sound. It wraps around me like a caress, sending a slight shiver down my spine. I'm still processing this phenomenon when Andrea explains, "It seems that Ms. Kavanagh is unwell.'

Looking at him with what I hope is more confidence than I feel, I say, "Kate is a friend, and asked me to conduct the interview in her place. Is that all right?"

He stands up from his chair, and his assistant somehow knows to leave the room. As the door clicks shut, he asks, "I hope it's nothing serious?" And he sounds like he means it.

"No, sir. She's claiming flu, but I think it's just a bad cold. She'll be fine in a few days."

He's walking towards me as he says, "Very sensible of Ms. Kavanagh to prioritize her health. You seem well. I presume you're unaffected?"

The closer he gets, the more nervous I feel. And I don't even know why. I manage to retain enough control to avoid blurting out that he smells like his elevator. Extending my hand as he nears me, I joke, "Surely you mean un-in-fected?"

He laughs, and it's the best sound I've ever heard. "Just so, Ms. Steele." His warm hand encloses mine in a refreshingly firm handshake—men tend to take my hand as if they're worried it might break—and says, "At the risk of offending you, may I ask a personal question?"

Worried that this interview is suddenly heading in an unpleasant direction, I swallow my fear to squeak, "Uh, okay."

He's still holding my hand when he asks, "Ms. Steele, are you blind?" For some reason, his question makes me giggle. He snatches his hand from mine, and his voice is suddenly like flint when he demands, "Something funny, Ms. Steele?"

Crap, we've literally just met, and I've already pissed him off. "No, sorry, it's just...when you said personal, I was worried that..." My brain catches up with what I'm about to say, and stops my mouth from accusing him, though it's not up to the task of finishing that sentence.

There's a terrifying silence for a few seconds, and then he laughs again before guessing, "You thought I was hitting on you?"

I swear that the blush begins at my toes. By the time it reaches my face, all I've thought to say in my defense is, "I'm sorry."

Laughter in his voice, he says, "No need, Ms. Steele. I wouldn't say the thought hadn't entered my mind, but I'm not unprofessional enough to act on such thoughts in this setting. And you haven't answered my question."

He's having thoughts about me? What thoughts? "Yes, I'm effectively blind. I can see some shapes and movement, but no details or colors. How did you know? Thought I'd done a pretty good job of hiding it this time."

"This time? You often conceal the fact?"

His voice is neutral now. I can't tell if he's pleased or upset, so I settle for a shrug and, "I try to."

Another interminable pause, and his voice is so gentle that it barely reaches me. "You don't want their pity."

I'm hit with the overwhelming sense that he's not just talking about me. Even as I have that thought, I hear a telltale rustling of fabric that suggests he's shuffling on the spot. He's uncomfortable at revealing so much. I understand that all too well, so I smile, and say, "Well, shall we begin? If you can verbally guide me to a seat, we can do the interview, and I'll be out of your hair."

God, yet another pause. Sound is my only clue to people's thoughts, and he has an amazing knack for remaining absolutely silent while he thinks. It's unnerving. Finally, he says, "You're facing the back of a large armchair, about eight feet from where you're standing. In front of that is a low coffee table with only a dried flower arrangement in the middle. The rest of the surface is yours, if you need it. I'll sit opposite you, okay?"

"Any rugs, briefcases or bearskins between me and the chair?"

"Shit, an Egyptian rug under the coffee table. You'll feel the edge of it just before you sit down. Sorry."

"It's okay. That's a good description, thank you. After you, Mr. Grey."

"Forgive me, but I'd rather you go first." He's probably worried that I'll hurt myself, or he's incredibly old-fashioned. Either way, it's his office, so I concentrate on my steps, and somehow still manage to trip over my own feet. I'm preparing to land safely when iron bars break my fall. They're moving. When I clutch at them, I realize they're his arms. He hisses in surprise, as if I've somehow hurt him, so I immediately release him, and he exclaims, "Fuck, are you okay?"

The only good thing about often falling down is that it eventually becomes less humiliating. As he helps me to stand, I reassure him, "I'm fine, thank you. Dad taught me how to fall as light as a feather. Not that I'd need such a skill on this carpet. I could sleep on it."

"Don't you have a cane?" Fuck, he sounds really angry.

Without even knowing why, I match his anger to snap, "Of course I have a cane. Not that it's any of your business."

After a deep sigh, his tone is softer when he says, "It would very much be my business if you hurt yourself in my building, and sued me for damages."

Genuinely shocked that he might think that of me, I vehemently assure him, "I wouldn't."

"I'm glad to hear it." After another sigh, and what could be the sound of him running a hand through his hair, he says, "As for sleeping in my office, we'll keep that on the backburner."

There can only be one implication of such a statement. Even if there were others, his tone confirms that he's being flirtatious. Nothing he's done suggests that he'd actually follow through on it, so I smile and ask, "What happened to professional?"

He chuckles—it really is a delightful sound—and lies, "Merely offering a lady the courtesy of my reply."

I can feel the wide grin on my face as I admonish, "I don't believe you."

"Very wise. Ms. Steele, may I please physically guide you to your chair?" When I hesitate, he teases, "If you'd rather end up in my arms again, I'm happy to oblige."

Of course, I'm only guessing, but there is no doubt in my mind that he now has a constant smile on his face. And, for the first time, I wonder what he looks like. And then something finally dawns on me. "You didn't tell me how you knew I'm blind?"

"You, uh...I'm used to women, and some men, reacting to me in a certain way. You didn't react at all until I got close enough to shake your hand. You're very good at meeting people's gaze. I'd assume gay, except that you seemed similarly unmoved by Andrea's beauty. She's not my type, but model gorgeous."

"You're handsome?"

"So they tell me. What were you reacting to when I got close?"

"You smell like the Space Shuttle." What is the point of even having a brain if it's going to let me say stuff like that?

"Sorry?"

Fuck, I'm blushing yet again. He must think I'm an absolute imbecile. "Uh, your elevator. You smell like it."

He breathes a soft laugh and says, "Surely it smells like me?"

He doesn't seem upset, so I manage a smile. "I guess so."

"And what do you think of my elevator's aroma?"

Don't blush. Don't blush. "It's not unpleasant." Okay, now resigned to remaining pink for the duration of this interview.

He enters one of those terrifying silent introspections, and eventually says, "Something else to put on the backburner. For now, how do you suggest I get a stubborn woman safely to her chair without offending her?"

The word "stubborn" rankles, even though he's not the first person to say it. I wasn't born blind, and still sometimes struggle against my fate. Perhaps I always will. None of that is his fault, and I've not felt an ounce of the dreaded pity from him, so I get brave enough to extend a hand, saying, "If you lend me your forearm, I'll_"

It's a literal shock when my hand is suddenly enclosed in his. Some sort of static charge must've built up when I stumbled. I don't know if he genuinely misinterpreted my gesture, or just felt like holding my hand. As he leads me slowly across the room, I find myself not caring. This close to each other, I hear and feel him say, "One more step to the back of the chair."

I reach out a hand and touch soft leather, then glide my hand along the back of the chair to gauge its size. "Thank you, I've got it from here."

"Ms. Steele." He sounds so formal that I wonder if he bows as he releases me, and I hear him walk a short distance and sit down. He doesn't even do that like a regular person. Most people collapse into a chair, so that I feel sorry for furniture. But Mr. Grey barely makes a sound.

Remembering the rug and coffee table, I safely make it into my chair. He hasn't said anything, so I open my handbag and start preparing. The possibility that he's silently watching every move makes me even more clumsy than usual, but it's finally done. "Uh, okay if I record the interview? I can't easily take notes."

"That's fine." His voice is neutral again. I don't like it.

"Okay, uh, Kate recorded her questions onto my phone before I left. Her voice is a bit croaky, but I couldn't work out how else to do it with limited time. I'll play a question aloud, and then_"

"Just begin, Ms. Steele. We'll muddle through."

He sounds so cold now. Is he angry again? I don't like that either. "Right, okay." And I manage to press play without fucking it up.

We've barely begun the laborious process, when a knock on the door is immediately followed by Andrea entering to announce, "Your next appointment is here, sir."

"Put them in the conference room, and tell them I'll be a little late."

After a moment, Andrea echoes, "Late?"

"Late. Make them comfortable, and offer my apologies." I still haven't heard the door close when Mr. Grey adds, "That'll be all, Andrea."

"Uh, yes, sir."

I wait for the click of the door, and then suggest, "You're obviously very busy. Perhaps I should go? I know Kate was hoping for a live interview, but I'm sure she'd be content if you emailed her the answers, given the circumstances."

He sounds weary when he sighs, and then asks, "Other than the cane, what aids do you use?"

Too shocked at the question to remind him it's not his business, I reveal, "Not many. They cost money."

"And what sort of career will you pursue? I presume you're studying journalism, like your tenacious friend?"

"English Lit. I'm hoping to get into publishing. Books are...well, I was already addicted to them when I could no longer read them."

"Do you at least have a reader?" When I blink at him, he adds, "A device that fits on your finger, or spectacles that_"

"I know what it is. I just don't understand why you're asking me."

"Because your life would be a lot easier if_"

"Your life is easy?"

The resulting profound silence makes me certain that it's a step too far, but then he utters a harsh laugh, and says, "Excellent point, Ms. Steele. I'm asking because I feel a connection with you, and therefore care what happens to you." When I open my mouth to protest, he quickly continues, "I'm not speaking of pity. You are clearly a bright, capable young woman. I just feel...drawn to you. I'm afraid that I can't explain it any better than that, as it's a new feeling for me."

This is getting ridiculous. Shaking my head, I can only think to point out the obvious, "We met only minutes ago."

"What is the prescribed time to form an attachment to someone?"

"I've no idea, but it has to be longer than twenty minutes."

This time his laugh is warm and wraps me in comfort. "Perhaps you're right. Do you have a hard copy of the questions on you?"

"Uh, yeah." For obvious reasons, I keep the contents of my handbag very ordered, so I offer him the sheet of paper only moments later. It gives me something to think about when he manages to take it from me without touching my hand at all, and that I'm disappointed by this.

"Thank you. I'll answer these later, aloud, and email the recording to Ms. Kavanagh this evening. Do you think that will fulfill your obligations to her?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, thank you. She'll be delighted."

"As am I, Ms. Steele."

How the hell did he manage to get from his chair to my side without me hearing him? "I need a bell."

"Excuse me?"

I begin packing my bag as I explain, "A bell, like they put on cats. You startled me just now."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound it."

"No." When I've finished, he says, "Come, I'll walk you to the Space Shuttle."

I smile at the name, and say, "That's not necessary, Mr. Grey. Your next appointment must be getting impatient."

"I don't give a fuck, Ms. Steele. And please call me Christian. I'd like to hear how you say my name."

"No, sir. I'm also professional. And you're becoming far too flirty."

"Flirty? Well, I've never been accused of that before. Have I said or done anything inappropriate?"

"Other than declare feelings for me?"

"Feelings of what, Ms. Steele?"

Only then, thinking back over what's happened, do I finally begin to understand my feelings for him. His honesty compels mine. "Uh, nothing actually inappropriate. After all, I don't work for you. And I think maybe...maybe you're right."

"You feel it too?" His voice is filled with wonder, so that he sounds years younger.

"Something. I'm not sure what. Your voice is...oh, Andrea is a babbling brook through a rainforest. Whereas Janet is a merry-go-round in_"

"Who the fuck is Janet?"

"One of your minions. She greeted me when I arrived."

"And how was she?"

He's suddenly very intense. Glad that I don't need to lie, I reveal, "First class. A credit to your company."

"I'm glad. So, what am I?"

"Uh...a credit to your company?"

He laughs, and says, "No, you dope. What were you saying about my voice?"

Dope? "Oh. You're...I don't get an image in my mind when you speak. It's just the sound, enveloping me."

He's now so close that I can feel his body heat when he gently asks, "And how does that feel?"

"Good. Comfortable. Safe."

"Safe?" I can hear his smile.

"Why is that funny?"

Suddenly taking my hand in his, he says, "If we become friends, maybe I'll tell you. For now, I have an irritated investment banker waiting for me, and you have finals to ace."

I'd actually managed to forget all about them for a few minutes. "I don't think that I'll ace them."

He squeezes my hand a little tighter for a moment, and says, "Ms. Steele, I'd bet this building on it."