I do not own Fifty Shades

All rights go to E.L. James

~ Chapter 5: Under his thumb ~

I yawned fiercely, turning to my other side on the bed. I always relished those few minutes of half-sleep where one was conscious, yet still weary and unable to force themselves out of bed. I tried to recollect occurrences from the night before, frowning in my half-sleep and flopping over on my back.

"The difference in the clothes she wears, down to me…"

Was that…Mick Jagger? I paused. My eyelashes fluttered open at the sound of The Rolling Stones' Under My Thumb playing lightly. I was looking up at a tall ceiling where a small sky-light invited soft rays of light to pour into the room, causing me to squint. Two walls were of the same crimson brick as the club that—

I sat up in the large bed of light-grey sheets in one quick motion. The club—how could I forget? I pressed my memory, frantically trying to piece the night together: Okay, so I drove Jen and I there, there was something about her hooking up with the bouncer, I ordered a lemonade, the bartender was really cute…okay, I guess that detail wasn't too important...wait…Gatsby was there! The terribly handsome boy from the Starbucks! There was a fight…I remember something about a fight…who fought…?

Wait. Where was I?! I lifted the cover off of my body to peak at what I was wearing and gasped, immediately letting go of the sheet. Jen's bodycon dress no longer hugged the curves of my body, instead, I found myself wearing a WSU long-sleeved maroon shirt and too-big light-grey joggers.

My head turned for a full view of the space from the bed. I appeared to be in some sort of industrial loft—an old garage perhaps that's been renovated into an apartment. The bed and the two black nightstands beside it were on an elevated platform that acted as a second floor—I imagined that the clear modern fence around the platform prevented accidents from occurring. Past the sky-light, about ten plain lightbulbs hung from the high ceiling on long black wires, keeping to the industrial theme of the apartment.

I slowly pushed the heavy covers off of my body and stepped onto the hardwood floor.

Okay: I had no idea where I was, I had no idea whose clothes I was wearing, I had no idea what happened the night before. It took me everything not to cry from shame; I've been on my own for less than a week and I've already managed to get myself into trouble.

I tiptoed down the spiral stair-case to the main floor, pulling my messy hair into a bun with the elastic on my wrist. Mick Jagger's cooing became louder and more prominent. I found myself in the living room area of the loft where enormous bookshelves covered two whole walls. The leather couch, coffee table, television, and entertainment system did nothing in making the large space look occupied; the tall walls and high ceilings gave the apartment a definitively empty look. I found myself liking it, I felt so small.

I ventured further, to the bend where the music was coming from, peeking my head around a corner. I gasped and flushed brick-red. There, right there—in front of me—stood Gatsby: messy ash-hair, prominent jawline, dark eyes, and all. The bend seemed to lead to the kitchen which also followed the same industrial theme as the rest of the house. He was seated at one of the three iron bar stools at the long kitchen island, only wearing a pair of loose grey sweats, skimming through the Seattle Times.

He looked up from the newspapers and smirked, "Good morning."

My stomach cartwheeled. Did I sleep with him?! Oh god, oh god, oh god…

He must've noticed the mortifying shade of my face and the tenseness of my body. He clarified, "I slept on the couch."

I exhaled, stepping nearer to the kitchen island. He motioned for me to have a seat on one of the stools and I obliged. Still in unease about what was going on, I watched him close the Seattle Times and step off the stool, nearing the grand silver refrigerator. Those. Abs. My grey eyes widened. It was as if his body was sculpted by an artist, perfectly planned and perfectly chiseled out. I tried to keep my eyes from the obvious V line just visible above the line of his sweats.

"Don't worry, I'll fill you in on last night as I guess you don't remember much, but it would probably be a good idea to get some food in you first. Would you be okay with an omelette?"

I nodded sheepishly, averting my eyes from his body, as he opened the fridge and began rummaging through for the necessary ingredients. He pulled out a couple of eggs, green onions, red peppers, mushrooms, and grated cheese before shutting the door. As he diced the onions, peppers, and mushroom on the island, he glanced up at me.

Under My Thumb came to its classic finish as Sympathy for the Devil began playing, Mick Jagger's voice picking up where it left off.

"You're not much of a talker are you?"

I blinked, "To be fair, I've been at Washington State for less than a week and I've just woken up in a stranger's house—presumably wearing his clothes—after a night that I can't seem to remember."

He was smiling, looking down at the vegetables as he continued to cut them in perfect little squares, "Stranger." He mulled over the word, trying it out.

There was something so boyish about him that was evidently part of his charm. Maybe it was the lop-sided smirks or maybe it was the hair that, every now and then, fell into his eyes. I tried my best to keep my composure. I seemed to be doing well.

"Yes, stranger," I straightened my back, proud of my sudden confidence, "I don't even know your name."

He stopped cutting abruptly and looked up at me, his brown eyes on my grey eyes. Suddenly every shard of confidence that I had managed to configure into mock poise and self-assurance escaped me and I was left feeling vulnerable and weak. I was conscious of my legs shaking. I was conscious of my heart shaking. One look. One freaking look.

"It's Daniel," He spoke sincerely, his voice caressing me before the smirk was back and his eyes and attention were on the vegetables again, "But I've recently become known as Gatsby."

I gasped. I must have said something last night…idiot. I mentally slapped myself.

He moved to the stove where he cracked a few eggs into the pan, his back towards me, "I suppose that your little nickname for me is in reference to my current read."

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Was it possible to die of embarrassment? If so, I needed to see a doctor immediately.

"Um, yeah," I stammered, "I, uh, noticed you reading it at the coffee shop a few days ago. Good book." Good book. Good book? I winced at the sound of my own stupidity. I sounded like an idiot.

"Yeah," he said and I could feel him smiling even as he was facing away from me, "It is a good book."

Daniel turned back to the island counter to grab the veggies, he nonchalantly tossed a sliced mushroom in his mouth, smirking at me, "Tell me, shouldn't I be a little concerned? Here I am—a Good Samaritan—letting a stranger sleep over when I don't even know her name!" He put emphasis on the word 'stranger.'

"I'm Phoebe," I said, narrowing my eyes at his mockery.

"Phoebe," He repeated, smiling, "Like Phoebe the titan in ancient Greek mythology?"

"Like Phoebe the outlandish Friends character," I countered.

He laughed and turned back to the stove, tossing in the veggies and sprinkling the omelette with pre-grated cheese, "So you're in your first year?"

"How did you know?" Most people praised my maturity.

Daniel shrugged, "We have this saying around campus: Gatsby is the mistake all first years will make. It's a really sleazy bar, all upper year students know better than to go out to Gatsby."

I frowned and crossed my arms, "Then what were you doing there?"

He sighed, using the spatula to pry the omelette from the pan and onto two separate plates, "A few of my friends dragged me out to that place. It's our first weekend back on campus together. Trust me, if it was up to me, we would've gone out to a place much less…loud—In every aspect."

He seemed so easy-going, yet he was still intimidating. I couldn't pin down why exactly—perhaps it was his confidence. Or his abs.

"Which reminds me," he began, handing me a plate and a fork while slowly pacing to my side of the kitchen island, "That redhead doesn't seem to be much of a good friend, leaving you alone in place like that."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to make any judgements before talking to Jen about it later today. I cut off a piece of the omelette and stuck it in my mouth. It was actually quite good, and reminded me of Mrs. Taylor's cooking back home in Seattle.

"I know you don't like to hear that, but you need to learn how to take care of yourself. Who knows what that blonde creep was capable of," He added, aggressively cutting off a piece of omelette with the side of his fork.

I turned to Daniel, "blonde creep…?"

He sighed, "I was at the other end of the bar and noticed the guy talking to you slip something in your drink."

I dropped my fork.

Daniel continued, not looking up at me, "So I…confronted him—physically—and the three of us ended up getting kicked out. You passed out on me while we were outside, and—I'm sorry for this—I looked through your bag trying to find your phone hoping to call someone who would know your address."

My face went white as I remembered purposely leaving my phone behind in my dorm. Even my seemingly good ideas were bad.

Daniel sighed again, "I couldn't find your phone so I brought you back here, changed you into more comfortable clothing, and lay you down on my bed."

My face went from white to red in mere seconds as I tried to recall what underwear I was wearing—what underwear he had seen. Okay—a black lace bra with matching lace hipster underwear—it could've been worse.

"Um," I began, not even knowing where to start, "I left my phone at home."

I shoved the last piece of omelette in my mouth and got up, moving towards the sink in order to wash my dish. Daniel was at my side in seconds, taking the plate from my hand and smirking at me.

"The washroom is beside the bookshelves, you left your stuff there last night while you were barely conscious," He took both of the plates to the sink and gently rinsed them, "I'll give you a second to get ready while I wash the dishes and change, then I can drive you back to your place."

My car! It was still at the club! After a minute of trying to figure out what to do, I decided it would be best to let Daniel drive me back to the dorm and then pay for a cab to my car later in the day.

I sauntered over the washroom and found last night's dress , heels, and bag folded neatly on the side of the counter by the sink. The mirror showed me an image of a skinny girl with messy hair, dark strands loosely escaping the hold of the hair tie. Soft prints of mascara were dotted on my cheek and beneath my lower lashes. I did not look effortless. I did not look cute. I looked like a mess.

Sighing to myself, I rinsed my face, causing it to turn a pinkish colour from the cold and dried it with one of the small towels hung beside the sink. I paused. It smelt good—perhaps of cologne—perhaps of him.

"Are you ready to go?" I heard Daniel call.

In one quick motion, I hooked the towel back where it was hung and dashed out of the bathroom, clutching my dress, heels, and handbag. I stopped in my tracks at the sight of him in the living room. His hair was still messy, but now he sported a grey fitted T-shirt, dark rinse jeans, and chocolate brown deck shoes.

I looked down at the dress in my hand, maybe I should've put it on and—

"Don't worry about my clothes," He said, referring to the WSU shirt and joggers as if reading my mind, "You can always give them back another time."

I slipped on my heels and chuckled to myself. Not exactly an outfit my family's personal shopper would admire—but then again, Caroline Acton loathed all of my casual outfits anyway.

Walking out the front door of his loft, I had noticed that I was right; it was a sort of garage at one point. Beside his industrial building was a small parking lot where only three cars were parked, one of which belonged to him. Daniel drove a humble Nissan, the model was definitely more than a couple years old, though it still held a charm.

We drove without playing music as I gave him directions from the main street to the dorm though he seemed to know where it was without my help. I sighed as the car slowed to a stop at the front door of the residence.

"Thank you. For everything," I said, undoing my seatbelt.

He gave me one last smirk, "Stay out of trouble."

Author's Note: Thank you for the follows/reviews/favs thus far! I gratefully appreciate each and every one of them, they really fuel my desire to continue this story!