As always, I appreciate your feedback, ever so much!
For the first time, on the last chapter, I received some constructive criticism, which, I admit, has been sticking with me a little. I really want to make Christian as true to the one EL James has created (as I've mentioned before), and after reading that review, I feel like I may have strayed a bit in the last chapter...
But I also realizing, I'm creating a bit of 'my own' Christian, as well, so I'm trying to decide to let it really affect me or not.
As such, I AM searching for a new beta. A good while ago, now, my former beta unfortunately had to relieve her duties for personal reasons-if you're reading, I hope you're doing well and things have improved!
Anyway, if you're interested, please give me a PM.
The only requirements are grammar naziism-I do realize I make some mistakes despite proofreading a couple times before I post, and it drives me bonkers-and a true understanding of Christian's character. I want you to be able to point out flaws or discrepancies that you see.
Also, a bit of imagination. Some of those phone conversations really do stump me, and some of the time, I'm wondering if I'm creating an entirely new conversation! Lol.
ANYWAY. That is all.
Read on.
Love you all!
xoxo
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Saturday, June 11th 2011
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We eat out for breakfast, at a nearby Humpty's. Not as good as IHOP, but that's a cross-town trip.
"I'll get this," Ana says when we're finished, snatching up the tab before I know what she's doing.
I glare at her.
"You have to be quick around here, Grey," she tells me, haughty.
"You're right, I do," I agree bitterly, trying, really trying, to let it go.
"Don't look so cross," she teases and reminds me, "I'm twenty-four thousand dollars richer than I was this morning. I can afford twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents for breakfast."
"Thank you." My answer is short, and sour.
"Where to now?" she questions, unbothered.
"You really want your hair cut?" I ask her. I don't know how short she'll go, and I really do like it long...
"Yes, look at it."
"You look lovely to me," I assure her, "You always do."
She blushes and casts her gaze toward her hands, in her lap. "And there's your father's function this evening."
Yes. "Remember, it's black tie." Mmm... Anastasia Steele in a ball gown... Form fitting would be ideal...
"Where is it?"
"At my parents' house. They have a tent. You know, the works."
"What's the charity?" she inquires.
It could have saved the crack-whore.
I run my hands down my legs, uncomfortable at the thought. Uncomfortable at the thought of her dead, when she could have been saved. Why did no one help her? Why did she not reach out?
I shake the dark thoughts away and focus on the conversation at hand. I do not want to think about my birth mother right now.
"It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."
"Sounds like a good cause," she murmurs softly, and I know she's thinking about my childhood.
The thought of her pitying me angers me, makes me uncomfortable, and so I put an end to the topic.
"Come, let's go." I stand and hold out my hand to her. She reaches for me, and we clasp fingers.
Heading out onto the street, I take in a deep breath of coffee and freshly baked bread. It's a beautiful, mild morning-not too hot, but not too cold. Just about perfect. The sun is shining; I can feel the warmth of it.
As I head left, toward 1st Avenue, where Esclava is located, Ana asks, "Where are we going?"
"Surprise," I mutter. Partly because I don't think she'd willingly go to Elena's place of work, and partly because I just want it to be a surprise, plain and simple. Her stylists do good work-it's where I've taken all my submissives-and I know they'll do a good job with Anastasia.
Two blocks later, I lead Anastasia into Esclava. Elena recently renovated the place, and it looks very chique and modern-all white and leather. She did well.
Something about women and their sense for interior design. I'll never understand it.
Greta, who is seated at the reception desk, looks up as the bells chime overhead the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey," she greets us, unsurprised by the woman on my arm. If only she knew how different this woman was, how she's changed me, how she's nothing like any of the past women I've brought in here.
Nevertheless, despite I have someone with me, she flushes and bats her lashes at me.
"Hello, Greta," I greet her.
"Is this the usual, sir?" she inquires.
"No," I say, suddenly anxious. This is new. I glance over at Ana. "Miss Steele will tell you what she wants."
She turns baleful eyes on me, and my heart stops. Shit. Maybe this was the wrong place to take her. She's undoubtedly thinking about all the rules.
"Why here?" she hisses.
"I own this place, and three more like it." And I know their procedures. I don't mention that I own the salons with Elena. I don't think it would make Anastasia very happy right now.
"You own it?" This obviously surprises her, and honestly, it's a little out of character for me, I have to admit.
"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway-whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house. All sorts of massage: Swedish, shiatsu; hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff that women like-everything. It's done here." I wave my hand in the air. It's Elena's job to oversee all that stuff, which I'm glad for. I have no clue about any of it.
"Waxing?" Ana adds, lifting an eyebrow.
I can't help but laugh at her. "Yes, waxing, too. Everywhere," I add in whisper, enjoying watching her squirm and blush. Her gaze flits to Greta, who is gazing back at her expectantly.
"I'd like a haircut please," Ana tells her.
"Certainly, Miss Steele," Greta replies, and checks her screen. "Franco is free in five minutes."
"Franco is fine," I reassure Ana, who looks a tad out of her comfort zone. I don't blame her. She's probably never been in a salon so high class. I'd like to treat her to everything it has to offer; to treat her like the royalty she is.
Suddenly, across the salon, a back door opens, and Elena steps through.
Fuck! I only brought Ana here today because I didn't think Elena would be here! She hardly ever works at this location anymore! What the hell? Today of all fucking days!
She stops to talk to one of the stylists, then turns, eyes cutting immediately to me. She smiles widely, and I don't miss the commanding 'come see me' look in her eyes.
Something in me must still be in debt to her-can I deny that? Elena pretty much saved my life-because I excuse myself and make my way over to her, leaving Ana standing with Greta at the front desk. It's also because I know she'll give me hell later if I don't.
"Christian," she greets me, kissing me on each cheek, hands on my upper arms. "How are you? It's been awhile."
"I'm well, Elena. What are you doing here?"
"Gustavo got the stomach flu, so I had to fill in."
"And how is Isaac?"
"Isaac is fine."
"Good to hear. I see you haven't grown bored with him yet."
Elena grins. "Nearly. How is your... Girl? Anastasia was it?"
"I brought her in with me today," I say, my mood suddenly shifting. All of a sudden, I'm proud to have her with me, to have Elena see her, in all her beauty. The only hesitancy I have is regarding Anastasia meeting Elena.
She turns now, gazing across the salon at her, and smiles at her. Ana smiles softly back, polite, and I can't make out the mood in her eyes, but they look a tad icy.
"She wants a haircut, but I'm a little anxious about it. I don't want it too short."
Elena smiles and holds her hands up. "You know we have the best of the best here, Christian. We'll make her fabulous."
I smile at her. "Of course you will. I wouldn't expect anything less, Elena."
Suddenly, Elena's mood turns somber. "Speaking of submissives, have you heard anything on Leila yet?"
I sigh, feeling my shoulders slump underneath the weight of it all. "She approached Ana last night outside of her work place. I don't know how the hell she found her, but she did. Since then, she's disappeared again and it's driving me insane. If anything ever happened to Anastasia, I don't know what I'd do... And to know she approached her makes it even more worrisome..." As I speak, I hear my voice grow more and more urgent, animated.
Elena, who has been nodding and grimacing, reaches out to rub my arm. She nods in acknowledgment, and I see her offer Ana another smile, softer, reassuring.
"Anastasia's watching us," Elena tells me, "She looks angry."
I glance over and find that, yes, Anastasia is watching us, and yes, she does look rather peeved.
"I'd better go talk to her," I reply.
She nods at me. "Good luck."
"Thanks."
I head back across the salon, toward where Ana has not moved an inch, though her arms are folded across her chest now. Her eyebrow is raised at me, her mouth a thin, straight line.
I frown at her. "Are you okay?"
"Not really." Her voice is frigid, and sharp like a whip. "You didn't want to introduce me?"
What the hell?!
I feel my mouth pop open in shock. "But I thought-"
"For a bright man," she interrupts, "sometimes..." She pauses, "I'd like to go, please."
"Why?" I'm dumbfounded. I knew she didn't necessarily like Elena, but this seems a bit extreme.
"You know why," she says and rolls her eyes at me.
Giving way to anger, which burns through me quickly and suddenly, I glare down at her. What the hell is her problem with Elena? Doesn't she know that the woman saved my life, in all senses of the word? Doesn't she know I'd be in a very different place right now if she hadn't stepped into my life? Perhaps my grave?
"I'm sorry, Ana," I say, not knowing what else to say. "I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."
Abruptly, Ana turns and strides toward the door.
I guess we're leaving.
"We won't need Franco, Greta," I snap and follow after her, catching up just in time to hold the door open for her. Shit. I can feel a fight brewing.
I wait for it, the explosion, as we head back down the sidewalk. Every once in awhile, I glance over at Ana, who walks, gaze fixed on the ground a few steps in front of her, arms folded over her torso, that pucker between her brows. She's obviously deep in thought.
"You used to take your subs there?" she finally spits at me.
Half-relieved to hear her talk, and half-annoyed at her question, I answer, "Some of them, yes."
"Leila?" she pushes.
"Yes."
"The place looks very new," she notes, which I find a strange comment.
"It's been refurbished recently," I explain.
"I see," she says, "So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."
"Yes."
"Did they know about her?"
"No. None of them did. Only you." Because I never shared fucking anything with any of my subs. Doesn't she understand that?
"But I'm not your sub," she says now, and the words sober something inside me. God, she's mad. What if she leaves me again? What if she decides this is just too much for her? Anxiety-no, fear-grips me.
"No, you most definitely are not."
She stops so suddenly I nearly trip over my own two feet, and revolves to face me.
"Can you see how fucked-up this is?" Her voice is low, menacing, as she stares up at me with hard, icy eyes.
"Yes. I'm sorry," I apologize, truly ashamed. What was I thinking, taking her there? Even if Elena hadn't been working, why would I think it a good idea? Anastasia isn't like any of the other girls I've been with-why should I take her to the place where I took everyone else? Familiarity, knee-jerk reflex?
"I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't fucked either the staff or the clientele."
That hits a nerve, and I feel myself palpably flinch.
"Now if you'll excuse me," she says.
"You're not running. Are you?" I sound desperate, but fuck, I am desperate. She cannot leave me again!
"No," she sighs, exasperated, "I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget all about this baggage that accompanies you."
Absently, I run the fingers of my left hand through my hair. "I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place," I offer.
"She's very attractive."
I blink, surprised by the change in subject. "Yes, she is," I agree.
"Is she still married?"
"No. She divorced about five years ago."
"Why aren't you with her?" Ana asks.
"Because that's over between us. I've told you this." Before I can get really upset about her repetitive, nerve-irking question, I feel my Blackberry buzz against my chest, in the inside pocket of my jacket. I hold up a finger in Ana's direction and reach for it. I check the caller ID, and then answer.
"Welch."
"I have some information on Leila, sir. Apparently she and the former husband had been on the outs for more time than we'd thought. She left him about three months ago. Leila was with someone new, a boyfriend, who was killed in a car crash."
"Killed in a car crash?" I repeat. "When?"
"Mr. Reed said about four weeks ago, Sir."
"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Disgusted, I shake my head. The men in this day and age. "This is beginning to make sense."
"Have you heard anything from Flynn?"
"No."
"So at least we have more information on what may have triggered her suicidal ideation, and possible psychotic break."
"Explains why, but not where," I say, scanning the area around us, the passers-by in the crowd, watching for her face. Could she be somewhere close by, following us? She obviously knows where she works; could she know where she lives, too? Suddenly, it concretes inside me. Of course she's following us, of course she knows where Ana lives. "She's here. She's watching us."
"So you need more security, then."
"Yes."
"Will one more be adequate?"
"No. Two or four, twenty-four seven."
"Have you talked to Anastasia about staying with you yet? It's less ground to cover, and that way, there's eyes on her all the time, yours included. It's a smart move."
"I haven't broached that yet," I tell him, eyes flicking to Ana's face.
She frowns, and I regard her, wary. How will she take it? Will she say no? But it's for her own safety, dammit.
"I think you'd better," Welch says, "There's one more thing. It's dire."
"What..."
"She's obtained a concealed weapons permit."
I feel the blood drain from my face. "I see. When?"
"Yesterday, Sir."
"That recently? But how?"
"We're not quite sure," Welch says, and he sounds ashamed, off his game. "The company must be low-key."
"No background checks?"
"None, sir."
"I see. E-mail the name, address, photos if you have them."
"Right away. And the extra security detail-"
"Twenty-four seven, from this afternoon," I order. "Establish liaison with Taylor." I end the call.
"Well?"
"That was Welch."
"Who's Welch?" she asks.
"My security adviser."
"Okay. So what's happened?"
I consider, just for a moment, not telling her. But what the hell's the point? "Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago."
"Oh," she says simply.
"The asshole shrink should have found that out," I say, anger flaring at the obviously under-educated grief counselor. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." I take her hand, only to have her snatch it away a second later.
"Wait a minute," she says, "We were in the middle of a discussion about 'us.' About her, your Mrs. Robinson."
Does she seriously want to talk about this right now? There are more important goddamn things!
"She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."
"I don't want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!" she explodes.
Fine. She can get her goddamn fucking haircut.
I dial Escala.
"Good morning. Esclava, Greta speaking."
"Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln."
"Yes, Sir. He'll be there at one."
"Good."
I put the phone away and deliver the news to Ana.
"Christian...!" she cries, still upset.
Does she not understand the seriousness of the situation? That Leila has a gun, and is possibly following us, while we are unarmed and at her complete and utter mercy?
"Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."
"Why would I want to do that?"
Her question wounds me. "So I can keep you safe."
"But-" she interjects.
For fuck's sake, Ana! I'm trying to protect you!
Exasperated, and at the end of my fuse, I glare down at her.
"You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair." There is no way I am letting her out of my sight until Leila is found and admitted to a psychiatric hospital, receiving the help she very clearly needs.
"I think you're overreacting."
"I don't," I argue. "We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come." It is not a suggestion, it is an order.
She crosses her arms across her chest and scowls at me.
"No," she snaps.
This is non-negotiable, non-debatable. She is coming to my place whether she likes it or not.
"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Anastasia."
"You wouldn't dare."
Wouldn't I?
I feel a humorless, half-smile touch my lips.
"Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet, I'll be only too happy to pick it up."
With that, I bend at the waist, grab her around the thighs, and haul her over my shoulder.
"Put me down!" Her voice is loud, and shrill.
I ignore her, and begin the walk down Second Avenue, playing oblivious to the attention we are attracting.
With my free hand, I smack her ass, mostly playful, but moreso to quiet her.
"Christian!" she continues to yell. "I'll walk! I'll walk," she's finally pleading, reasoning, bargaining, agreeing, obeying.
The second her feet have found purchase on the sidewalk-and before I can totally straighten-she's turned and stalked off toward her apartment.
I catch up to her quickly, and don't push anything, casting sideways glances at her every once in awhile. She's obviously seething, lost in thought again, that furrow between her eyebrows apparent.
Abruptly, she stops walking, and automatically, my steps falter alongside hers.
"What's happened?" she asks.
Confused, I feel my brows furrow. "What do you mean?"
"With Leila."
"I've told you."
"No, you haven't," she insists, "There's something else. You didn't insist that I go to your place yesterday. So what's happened?"
Damn, she's too smart for her own good.
Two sides battle within me. I don't want her worried and anxious. She doesn't need to be concerned about this, too. But on the other hand, telling her might get across the seriousness of the situation, which she doesn't seem to grasp.
"Christian! Tell me!"
I give in. "She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday."
As she stares at me, blinking slowly, I watch her face go pale, and the sight of it alarms me. At the same time, it gives me some sort of sick satisfaction.
Yes, Ana. Do you see now? You or I, I don't know, are in real danger.
"That means she can just buy a gun," she breathes after a moment.
Oh, shit. Maybe I shouldn't have told her. Maybe this is too much. I only wanted her to see how serious this is; I didn't want to frighten her, did I?
"Ana," I put my hands on her shoulders, tugging her closer, "I don't think she'll do anything stupid, but-I just don't want to take that risk with you..."
"Not me... What about you?" she breathes, and her eyes are so limpid, so full of concern, anxiety and some other unspoken emotion, it makes my heart twist in my chest.
I crush her hard to my front, her face in my chest, holding her there for a long moment, as the emotions riot through me, trying to make sense of them.
"Let's get back," I finally say, planting a kiss in her hair.
She shifts away from me and takes my hand, and we walk back to her apartment in silence.
She packs a small rolling suitcase and, much to my pleasure, puts the Macbook, Blackberry, the iPad and the deflated Charlie Tango balloon-which elicits a small smile-in her backpack.
"Charlie Tango's coming too?"
She nods, and I grin at her. I don't know what it is about that damn deflated helicopter balloon, but I love that she feels the need to take it with her. Like a security blanket of sorts, inspired by me.
"Ethan is back Tuesday," she says now, softly.
"Ethan?" Who the hell is that?
"Kate's brother. He's staying here until he finds a place in Seattle," she explains.
I try to guard my anger from her. God forbid he's anything like the photographer...
"Well, it's good that you'll be staying with me. Give him more room."
"I don't know that he's got keys. I'll need to be back then," she continues.
I say nothing, but I'll be finding someone else to deliver the keys, if that's the case.
"That's everything," she says now.
I grab her suitcase for her, and we head down to the car.
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