Friday, May 20 2011

It's past noon the next day, and I still haven't heard anything from Anastasia regarding the package I've sent her the day previous. Either she hasn't received it, or she's avoiding me.

I have half a mind to call Taylor and demand he find out what's going on.

Before I can, my cell is buzzing in my hand and I glance at the caller ID.

Elliot? What does my damn brother want?

"Elliot," I answer, immediately second-guessing myself. I should not have answered the phone.

"Baby bro!" he says, all boisterous and just… so himself.

"Hello, Elliot. What do you need?"

He scoffs, offended. "Can't I call my brother without needing something?"

"You rarely do." I say, pacing over to the window. The sun is fading, evening approaching, and again I find myself thinking of Miss Steele. What is she doing at this moment?

"I was wondering if you'd like to catch dinner, a drink, catch up? I haven't seen you in awhile."

I suddenly recall that I mentioned in one of my earlier emails this week that I'm staying in Seattle this week. Shit. Why did I tell him that?

Not that I don't want to see Elliot. I look up to him in a lot of ways—though I would never mention that to him. I was hoping to keep my schedule free, in case an opportunity with Miss Steele were to, perchance, pop up.

I shake my head, chiding myself.

Get over it, Grey. You and Ana are not going to happen.

"Christian? You still there?"

"Yeah—sorry. Sure. Where would you like to eat?"

.

We're heading back up to my suite—lost in a surprisingly good conversation. It always surprises me how much I like hanging out with my older brother. It's nice to be able to listen to the inane details of someone else's life.

Elliot is always more than willing to talk about his life—mostly it's sexual conquests, describing the latest lady he's had a one night stand with. But tonight he's talking about work—something we have in common. We've been discussing the latest in solar panels.

"The house I'm working on now is run completely on solar panels. It's amazing…"

He's saying something else now, helping himself to a Bourbon at the mini bar, when my Blackberry buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see Anastasia Steele pop up on the screen.

Fuck me. She's calling me.

"Anastasia?" I answer in greeting. I sound surprised.

"Why did you send me the books?" Not quite the question I was expecting, but then… At least she's received them. Hold on—she sounds… off.

"Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm not the strange one, you are." Her words slip and bleed together a little, and suddenly the puzzle pieces together.

"Anastasia, have you been drinking?" I demand, suddenly very angry. What the hell is she doing?

"What's it to you?" she retorts indignantly.

Why, Miss Steele, if you were mine, I'd love to turn your backside a delicious shade of pink right about now… My palm twitches at the thought, but I force myself to sound blasé as I answer her.

"I'm… curious. Where are you?" I'm going to go and pick her up.

"In a bar."

I roll my eyes. No fucking duh. "Which bar?"

"A bar in Portland." Could she be any more obtuse? I mean, seriously.

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll find a way." Her casual answer nearly boils my blood.

"Which bar are you in?" I have to fight to keep my tone even.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?" she inquires.

"Anastasia," I say, running a frustrated hand through my hair. My fucking god, this woman is unbelievable. "Where are you? Tell me now."

She laughs, that gorgeous chorus bell sound, and it throws me off. "You're so… domineering," she giggles.

"Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?" The malice in my tone brings it down a timbre, low and soft.

As if completely unaffected by me, she giggles again. Fucking lord, would I like to show her how much of an affect I can have. "I'm in Portland… s' a long way from Seattle."

"Where. In. Portland?" I am beyond frustrated.

"Goodnight, Christian." I can nearly hear her grin over the line.

"Ana! Do not hang up the phone!" I shout, but halfway through she's gone.

Anastasia Steele just hung up on me! Un-fucking-believable. This girl is more feisty than I would have thought. The realization may have turned me on if I weren't so angry right now.

"What was that about?" Elliot asks from where he sits on the couch across the room. He's nearly finished his first Bourbon.

I ignore him, scrolling through my phone for Welch's number.

"Welch." He picks up on the first ring.

"Welch, locate Miss Anastasia Steele for me now," I growl into the phone.

"Right away, sir." He's completely professional, and in the background, I can hear him typing away on the keys of his computer. After a moment he says, "Sending the coordinates now, sir."

"Thank you."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey. Will that be all?"

"Yes," I say, and hang up. Glancing at my screen, I note the pin Welch has dropped.

I see you, Miss Steele.

"Elliot, we're going for a drive," I say, grabbing my jacket.

He groans, pulling his feet off the table reluctantly. "Dude, I was just getting comfortable."

"I'm taking you to see some girls. College age."

His eyes light up, and he ditches the glass on the edge of the counter. "What are we waiting for?" He strides past me toward the door.

I follow him out into the hallway, dialing Taylor quickly to let him know we need a ride.

I lock the door behind us, and as we head toward the bank of elevators, I dial Ana's number once more.

"Hi," she answers, her tone meek, timid, ashamed. As it should be. What a lesson I could teach her… But no, I need her consent first.

"I'm coming to get you."

.

The music in the bar is loud and thumping. I can feel it reverberating in my chest cavity. The lights are bright, and they spin hectically, lighting the place alternating colors of blue, green, red and white.

Now to find her… I scan the bar quickly, searching for that familiar face, that tight body. First I'm looking out on the dance floor, but after a moment I wonder if Ana's even a dancer.

"Who are you looking for?" Elliot shouts over the music, at my elbow. I don't bother to answer him, spying Ana's friend Kate, in the corner.

Immediately I'm striding towards them.

A couple of the people she's with glance up at me, and then away, back to their conversations.

"Mr. Grey," Kate says, standing. "What are you doing here?"

"What a pleasure it is to see you again, Miss Kavanagh," I say. "I'm here with my brother Elliot," I say, gesturing to him, who stands beside me. "Elliot, this is Katherine Kavanagh; Miss Kavanagh, my brother, Elliot Grey."

Elliot's eyeing her in that way, and I cringe inwardly. Please don't give my name a bad reputation. If you hurt Kate, Ana's never going to agree to anything I ask of her.

"Kate, please," she's giggling as Elliot takes her hand and kisses it, "Call me Kate."

"Kate. How nice it is to meet you," Elliot says to her, that wicked gleam in his eye.

"Kate—is Ana here with you?"

Miss Kavanagh turns her attention back to me momentarily. "Uh, I think she stepped outside."

"Thank you," I say, and immediately I'm striding back toward the doors.

Emerging once again into the night, I spy her almost instantly. And that damn fucking photographer. It only takes one look their way to see she's not into the way he's holding her.

He's got his arms wrapped around her, holding her body to his, whispering something in her ear.

As I move swiftly toward them, I hear her pleading. "Jose, no."

It takes all I have in me not to yell at this scum of a boy and rip him away from her.

"I think the lady said no." My tone sounds murderous, and I like it that way.

Get your fucking hands off of her, you prick, or I'll fucking make you.

Obediently, he releases his hold on her and steps back.

"Grey." He has the nerve to greet me.

I'm about to give this boy a piece of my mind, giving him the worst glare I can muster, when Ana bends at the waist, vomit spewing from her mouth.

"Ugh—Dios mio, Ana!" I vaguely hear the boy cry, but as he jumps back, I step forward, sweeping Ana's hair up and back, winding it into a makeshift ponytail. With the other hand on her shoulder, I lead her over to a raised flowerbed, where she'll have more privacy.

"If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you," I tell her. Most of her weight sags against the arm I have wrapped around her shoulders, my other hand still holding her hair back.

Her hands come up, weak and clumsily, shoving against my chest, attempting to push me away, but she throws up again. And once more.

I ignore the stench of the vile concoction emptying her body.

Each time she retches, I feel her shoulder blades pull together, and desperately I wish she'd stop, because I know how awful this must be for her.

She vomits again, and again.

Fucking Christ, how much did she drink?

After what seems like forever, the vomiting stops, and she grips the edge of the brick wall, gasping for breath. I imagine her arms are like jelly, and so I release her slowly, ready to support her again if she needs it.

I pull my handkerchief from the inside pocket of my jacket and hand it to her in silence.

She doesn't look at me as she wipes her mouth clean. I imagine she's mortified.

In this moment, I feel an undercurrent of concern for her, but more than that I am angry. Fucking Jesus, am I angry. Angry at her for putting herself in this position, angry at Jose for pressing his suit, angry at Katherine for leaving her alone in this state, angry at myself more than anything—for not being here, for letting her out of my site, for not calling her sooner. This whole thing could have been avoided if I'd called sooner.

As she lifts her gaze to mine, I force composure. I will not let her know how angry I am, because the concern is growing, overshadowing the anger.

I want to take her home and put her to bed. She needs to sleep.

I watch her eyes shift over to where the boy stands near the entrance.

Get the fuck out of here, you prick, I want to snap. But I restrain myself. Much to my satisfaction, I watch her glare at the boy.

Seemingly intimidated by the look she casts him, he mutters some feeble excuse and heads back inside.

And we're finally alone.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs lowly, twisting my handkerchief in her fingers, watching it, as if it is the most interesting thing on the planet.

Sorry? What on fucking Earth is she sorry for?

"What are you sorry for, Anastasia?"

"The phone call, mainly," she says, "Being sick. Oh, the list is endless." The shame is evident in her tone, and in the dim light the outside light of the bar gives off, I see the blush flood her face.

"We've all been here," I assure her, "Perhaps not quite as dramatically as you. It's about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I'm all for pushing the limits"—Christ, would I love to push your limits right now, Miss Steele—"but really, this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

"No," she says, sheepish, "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again."

Well, that, at least, makes me feel a bit better.

Ana's face goes pale, and she wobbles. Shit, is she going to faint?

I grip her before she falls, hoisting her off her feet. If she's going to pass out, she can do it where she's safe in my arms.

"Come on, I'll take you home." My voice is soft, close to her ear. Though she's tainted with the reek of alcohol and vomit, that lovely freesia and sandalwood scent enters my nostrils again.

"I need to tell Kate," she murmurs weakly.

"My brother can tell her." I head toward the Audi, where Taylor waits.

"What?"

"My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh," I inform her. Possibly more, now that we've given him some time… Oh, Elliot, please don't do anything idiotic…

"Oh?" She's confused.

"He was with me when you phoned," I explain.

"In Seattle?" I can tell she's still bewildered, and I'm surprised by the amount of patience I have with her, in this moment.

"No, I'm staying at the Heathman." Still… I never left. I don't know if I can… I balk at that thought. Where the hell did that come from?

"How did you find me?" she's inquiring now.

Well, there's no time like the present for honesty… "I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia. Do you have a jacket or a purse?"

"Er… Yes, I came with both." She's squirming in my arms now. "Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

For a moment I think about telling her no, taking her straight home. Because, really, she should be in bed, resting. Who am I, at the moment, to tell her what to do, though? I have no hold over her… Yet.

I sigh. "If you must." I set her carefully on her feet, and lead her back into the bar by the hand. I'm worried that if I let her go, she may collapse.

Ana leads me back to the table in the corner, where we find only one familiar person. Kate is gone, and I imagine she's on the dance floor with Elliot. That's where he does most of his seducing.

The boy sitting at the table confirms this when Ana asks.

I watch Ana struggle into her jacket—a casual black thing, Walmart brand I imagine. She slings her small, black leather (fake) shoulder bag over her shoulder and across her body. She touches my arm and leans up on her tiptoes, enveloping me with her presence, her nearness, her smell.

"She's on the dance floor," she yells in my ear.

I can see the way our closeness affects her. To be honest, it affects me too, but I control the response of my body.

I roll my eyes at the obvious lust in her eyes—her body is so easy to read—and take her hand again. There is no way anything is happening tonight. Not when she's in this predicament.

I lead her to the bar and order a large glass of iced water.

"Drink," I shout at her as I pass her the vestibule.

She stares up at me through her lashes and takes a teeny, nervous sip.

"All of it," I insist. We're not moving from this spot until she's drunk that entire glass of water. She's going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, and part of me believes she'd be getting what she deserves. The other part wants this night to be over and done with, for her to wake up in the morning with no lasting symptoms from this night.

She needs hydration either way. I don't want her passing out on me.

As I think this, she sways again, her eyes glazing over a little, and automatically I reach out to steady her. She doesn't need any more encouragement—she gulps the glass of water down.

Once she's finished—I find a great deal of satisfaction in the fact—I take the glass from her and set it on the bar, leaving the bartender to deal with it.

Taking her hand once more, I lead her toward the dance floor. While we're searching for my brother, we might as well have a little fun. I smirk, feeling her resistance.

Oh no, Ana. Don't be shy with me.

I coax her into a little quick step, holding her body tightly against mine, mostly so I can support her. I try to block from my mind the way her breasts press against my chest as we move. Her breathing is erratic against my neck.

I easily spot Elliot and Kate through the throngs of sweaty, grinding dancers—Christ, have some decency people—and I move us toward them.

"I'm taking Ana home. Please keep me updated on where you end up." I shout close to Elliot's ear.

Elliot just grins at me, and pulls Kate closer.

There. All figured out. Now I can take Miss Steele home to bed. Ah, but alas, only to sleep…

I dance us back off the dance floor, but as we reach the edge, I feel Ana start to fade. Her body turns to Jello, and she's going down.

Quickly I react, catching her before she falls.

"Fuck!" I cry.

I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

I begin to make my way toward the doors. Someone tries to stop me, asks if I need any help. I brush them off.

Taylor is waiting where I've left him, and when he sees me carrying Miss Steele toward him he jumps out, rushing around the Audi to open the back door.

He stands back in silence as I slide her easily across the buttery back seat and climb in beside her.

Carefully, I smooth her hair away from her face, loose and damp.

"Where to, Mr. Grey?" Taylor inquires as he climbs back into the driver's seat.

"The Heathman, Taylor," I say, not looking away from Ana's face.

She really is quite beautiful. She has a beautiful heart-shaped face, and relaxed in sleep, her lips are slightly parted, full and pouty. They look so soft… and I want to kiss them.

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks; there's a slight pucker between her brows.

I smooth it with my finger, and it disappears under my touch.

.

When we arrive back at the hotel, it's after one in the morning.

Taylor helps me get Ana up to my suite.

He stands at the bedroom door as I lay her gently across my bed.

"Will that be all, Mr. Grey?"

"Get me some orange juice and some Advil, please, Taylor," I murmur, unable to take my eyes off the peaceful image of Miss Steele.

I manage to remove her jacket, her shoes, her socks and her jeans, all without waking her. She stirs slightly as I slip the denim over her hips, but that is all.

Something clenches tight in my throat. I imagine her in the photographer's bed for a short, dark moment. Unresponsive, unable to put up any sort of a fight… I am so fucking relieved that she's here with me.

After the orange juice is in the fridge, I return to the bedroom.

She's curled up under the duvet where I've left her, snoring softly. Her cheeks are slightly flushed… I am again disarmed by the depth of her beauty.

I remove my jacket, my shirt, my pants. I slip into a pair of PJ pants, and after only a moment of hesitation, crawl in beside her.

A first. I've never slept with a woman before. I've never even had a woman in my bed, now that I come to think about it.

I turn onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow, unable to tear my gaze from her face.

I could stare at her all night… Maybe I will.