A/N: This story is now being fleshed out on the fly. I hope you enjoy, buckle down and enjoy the ride, before everything plunges into freefall. I've warned you.

Chapter Summary: Taylor considers the women in Grey's life.

Inspiration Song(s): Nine Inch Nails - Closer

TPoV

Less museum as mausoleum.

Thankfully, their visits coincided with Gail's days off and grateful that she wasn't physically hurt. Of course, Grey doesn't want to involve local law enforcement, hamstringing us even more. What's the use of having the best security system if he never bothers to use it? I'd almost understand if he'd allow us to make the crazy bitch disappear after we apprehend her, but he wants to get her help. Good luck with that. What she wants is Grey back, not that she ever had him.

But we're left playing in the dark because he won't let us do our jobs right. Before they ever entered his apartment, I wanted to investigate these women from snot to twat. We live here, and the woman with the deepest throat gets the codes. If we're lucky, they're only replaced every six months, but some only last three, playing havoc on our operational security.

Wait for it… "She has no real ties to the community…" The hell you say. This whore has nothing but ties to the community. I've seen her trussed like a turkey, spread out like a spatchcocked chicken, even hogtied, ball-gagged and cuffed. And off goes another phone as he channels his impotent rage into a Blackberry-shaped throwing star…

Grey's ladies, if you could call them that, all resembled one another. Petite, pale, brunettes with high pain thresholds. Looked alike, sounded alike and sometimes even dressed alike thanks to wardrobe shipments from Caroline Acton. They even zipped around Seattle in little red Audis so Grey could see 'em coming and going. Red soles, red cars, red room. Redrum… The Shining, the whole setup is a horror flick. Don't go up the stairs… but up the go anyway, sometimes practically running to their dooms. He's just not that into you, despite the fact that he shreds your asses like chitterlings weekly.

Couldn't help wondering if they were copies of a woman he wanted but could not have due to his kinky inclinations or if she had died. If she had seen the setup on the second floor and run away to the other side of the world, I wouldn't have been surprised. He must've really loved her as much as his black heart could, because it seemed as if he was punishing her more and more for having left him, at least those poor clones of her.

They were well remunerated, and by the stack of signed contracts, I could honestly say they were asking, no, pleading for it. Besides, no matter the sounds emanating from the room of horrors, nothing outstripped the injured animal screams coming from his bedroom when he was alone.

He spent his free time running, kickboxing, sailing, and fucking himself and those crazy women practically to death, but nothing the rich bastard did in his pursuit of oblivion could banish the night-terrors. I have to hand it to him. Some people in his position might turn to pharmaceuticals to grant them oblivion, but many of these drugs can kill you. With my luck, he'd die on my watch, be locked out of both heaven and hell, before being returned to roam the earth as a banshee specter.

Many times, I wanted to shake those deranged doppelbangers and demand they show some self-respect, but I knew it would be fruitless. They were as locked into the melodrama as Grey.

If he wanted, the team could've procured carefully curated cunts for his use. It wouldn't be the first time a client had me trolling for trim. But those broads Empress Elena sent over? No way were they as thoroughly vetted as I'd prefer. Any of those batshit crazy bitches could've murdered Grey in his sleep.

Though they appeared normal at first glance, I was sure all that hard fucking and beating was gonna knock something vital loose one day and that'd be all she wrote. For security purposes, I've read those "contracts" and promptly showered and scoured as soon as I left his office. When it comes to his fucking life, Grey left no stone unturned. And they agreed to it all, the vultures. The NDAs concern me, though. One day, one or more of these broads is going to blab. Or cry rape.

As much as he insisted on the protection of his family and to a large extent, GEH, he was mulishly obstructionist in the security of his person and abode. He stonewalled any real forays into implementing more efficient safety protocols. After meeting the Merry Widow, I fully understood our tenuous position in the household.

Attempts to change anything were met with extreme prejudice. Grey saw any disagreement as casting judgement on his lifestyle, as if we really cared who he fucked. His BDSM lifestyle was easily the highest risk he took, and considering one of the hobbies he most enjoyed involved navigating an aircraft without an engine, that was saying something.

His Escala apartment was just another example of this. Mrs Lincoln may not have decorated it, but it's just as cold and lifeless as she is. Almost everything in the place is uninterrupted white and silver, a post-modernist nightmare echoing the stark decor of GEH; the only splashes of color in the living area are the piano and the multitude of Madonna and child portraits. Everything else follows a neutral palette. His bedroom is turned out in nautical colors, but I think that was Miss Matteo's doing. But his dungeon upstairs is decked out in shades of Hell. Blood red walls, oxblood leather Chesterfield, the St Andrews cross, a ceiling grid for thumbscrew turning good times for when nipple clamps and whipping benches just aren't enough.

Now Miss Williams has crawled out of the woodwork. I knew she'd left too quietly, but Grey gave her the standard severance package and sent her on her heartbroken way. Only a handful left with anything approaching dignity, if slightly bowlegged. Now Satan's handmaiden has returned with a vengeance, scaring Gail and upsetting Grey's plans with Miss Steele.

Grey was bound to Humpty-Dumpty the fuck out of this relationship. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put it back together. It'd take an act of God to make it work, especially with Mrs Lincoln conducting the Devil's orchestra. She was in his ear day and night. The crafty snatch attempted to shuttle over another sub last night straight after Grey told her Miss Steele had left him. If I was a betting man, I'd swear she's had a sub on standby since Mrs Grey walked in on the boss and Miss Steele in flagrante.

Grey had an interesting method to fight his demons; he invited more demons into his world on a weekly basis. His nightmares, steeped in almost paralyzing terror, that he visited upon the willing wenches Lincoln procured for him.

Surprisingly, everything that brought him the greatest pleasure was fraught with danger, risk, peril.

Thankfully, he didn't tell her it was because he belted her after she returned to Escala out of frustration that we couldn't pin down the Williams broad.

Those others just washed away like footprints on the sand.

Like a dog worrying a bone, a niggling sensation that I've missed a vital piece of the puzzle has gripped me. Miss Williams had more than long enough to detox from whatever scandalous bat-dance craziness to which she'd subjected herself. If being kicked out of Grey's life was enough to send Miss Williams 'round the twist, why did she just slit her wrists now? We'd followed up on the subs long enough to ensure there were no love nuggets, pleasure biscuits or any other long-term consequences from any of his liaisons.

Like any itch I can't reach, this situation is puzzling me intensely. The clues are all here. Grey wants us to do it his way, but his approach leaves us all vulnerable. I only hope Grey corrects his counterproductive course before the shit hits the fan.