Fifty Shades of Fear - Chapter 2
Chapter One | Table of Contents | Chapter Three
Title: Chapter 2
Fandom: Fifty Shades
Word Count: 4,600
Summary: Anastasia "Stacy" Steele does a favor for a friend and ends up coming to the attention of the enigmatic millionaire Christian Grey. While flattered at first, she comes to realize that being the singular focus of such a man is definitely not a good thing...
Author's Notes: This is a canon-rewrite-spitefic that will (eventually) spin off into its own story. Thank you to Gehayi & Ket Makura for allowing me to "borrow" Stacy from the Fifty Shades sporking they're doing. Thank you to my betas - Jaid, Imouto, and Bel - for all of the wonderful feedback you've given me. ♥
Standard Disclaimer: I am not E.L. James, because if I was, a) I would've written Fifty Shades in a more realistic and significantly less craptastic way, and b) the porn wouldn't be horrendous. She owns her respective characters and plot what plot. This story is for entertainment purposes only, no money is being made, blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. TLDR: Not my universe.
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My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not careening to the floor again. I race for and through the wide glass doors, down the steps, and a ways down the sidewalk before I let myself just stop and be rained upon. I don't have an umbrella, but I'm okay, the recorder's in the satchel, the notebook's-
In my hand, getting wet. Cursing aloud, I quickly stuff the notebook into the satchel. I have no idea if these are the only copy of Kate's questions, and I ought to pretend they are. Only then do I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.
No man has ever affected me the way Christian Grey has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? Wealth? Power? Smarmy attitude? Yeah, I could've done with less of that. Something, anyway. I don’t fully understand my irrational reaction. But I breathe an enormous sigh of relief at being away from him. What in God's name was that all about? I don't appreciate subtext, and it seemed like there was a lot of that filling the room.
I shake my head to clear it before heading in the direction of my car, the rain falling softly all around.
As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed again as I replay the interview in my mind. All the bad points stick out like sharp barbs, but it's not those same points that have the butterflies ricocheting off my stomach lining. Well, not completely. Surely, I’m overreacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself - but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, he’s autocratic, and he's cold. And wanted to know more about me. Anyone else, I'm sure, would be thrilled to have such a man interested in her. But I just feel uneasy. And irritated that I didn't have a scrap of information to go on about him. You could have warned me, Kate.
While cruising along I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed so young. He wasn't a Mark Zuckerberg, that's for certain. And some of his answers were so cryptic - as if he had a hidden agenda. And Kate’s questions - ugh. My face heats again as I recall his reaction to me asking him if he was gay. That had to have been the stupidest question ever, and I really should not have asked it because it's no one's freaking business. I don't blame him for getting angry. Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment.
I check the speedometer. I’m driving slower than I would on any other occasion. And I know it's because of my anxiety that's causing me to be lighter on the pedal than anyone outside the far-right lane should be. I give myself another shake, and put my foot on the gas. Trusty Wanda responds dutifully.
Just forget it, Stacy. I decide that all in all, it's been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. For my own sanity if nothing else. I never have to see him again. I'm immediately cheered by the thought. I turn on the radio and let some classic rock distract me from my thoughts as I focus more on driving.
Kate and I live in one half of a small duplex in Vancouver, Washington, that's fairly close to the Wazzu campus. Kate's parents decided they would pay the rent for her in its entirety, along with giving her an allowance, so her job at the Evergreen is purely for the experience. I'm very lucky she took pity on me and offered me the spare room, and I pay peanuts for my "half" of the shared bills because I could only find a part-time job working in a hardware store in Portland. I have scholarship paying for my schooling and books, but it sure as hell doesn't pay for everything. And this apartment has been home for four years now. I'm going to miss it when we leave.
As I pull up, I start bracing myself for Kate's questions on how things went. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.
"Stacy! You're back!" Kate rasps happily when I open the door and step inside. The tissue snowfall has increased, I note, but she also has some textbooks and a notebook around her. She’s clearly been studying for finals, though she’s still in her pink flannel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits. She reserves these particular pajamas for the aftermath of breaking up with boy- and girlfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. Still, despite being sick as a dog she still manages to be pretty perky, her green eyes bright (though that could be the fever) and strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a tail. "I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner."
"Sorry about that. I forgot to call to tell you the interview ran over," I reply apologetically. I take the notebook from where I'd stuck it under my arm and hand that to her before retrieving the recorder from the satchel and giving that to her as well.
"Stacy, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?"
And here we go with the expected Kavanagh Inquisition. I take off my jacket to stall some. What can I say? "I'm glad it's over, and I don't have to see him again. He was rather intimidating, you know." I shrug, hang the jacket on the hook, and continue. "He's very focused, intense even - and young. Really young." Kate gives me her best innocent look, and I frown at her. "Don't you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research."
Kate purses her lips a moment, looking chagrined. "Aw, geez, Stacy, I'm sorry, I didn't think."
"I'll blame the fever currently burning out your brain. Shouldn't those meds be working by now?" I ask.
Her turn to shrug. "It's the flu, Stacy. One can only endure it and treat the symptoms."
"Yeah, well, it may not be the H1N1, but I still worry." I head off to my room to change. I have a chance of only being an hour late to my shift at Clayton's if I don't dawdle too much. Yes, I called out thinking I would be late and also tired from the drive, but the interview's left me rattled enough that I think a nice work shift would do wonders. I pick out a pair of jeans, a comfortable flannel shirt, and sneakers to wear. The formal clothes get tossed on my bed, the boots into my closet. My hair's fine, so I leave it alone. "Want me to get you anything while I'm up?"
"I was going to make some soup, but since you're offering..."
"Sure, I'll pop a bowl in for you." Hooray single-serving microwaveable soup bowls.
"So, anyway, Stacy - fill me in!" she insists.
"It's all on the recorder."
"But I want your personal thoughts and opinions," she continues. "It's always good to get another's perspective - he might've acted different around you than he would have around me."
Unseen by her in the kitchen, I scowl, the memory of falling coming back full force. "He was formal and slightly stiff - he acted like he was older than he looked. He doesn't really talk like the people we know." I pause. "How old is he, anyway?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Seriously?" Damn. I was right in guessing he's only six-ish years older than me. "He was something of a jerk, too. Got all snippy with me because I didn't know some basic facts about him, even after I explained that I was your stand-in."
"Again, sorry..." I can hear the wince in her voice.
"Don't take all the blame. He could've been less of a jerk," I tell her as I watch the bowl rotate in the microwave. Finally, it beeps, and I take the bowl out. I grab a spoon, stir the soup, and carry it out to her. "Here. Eat. Feel better. I'm heading to Clayton's."
"I thought you called out," she frowns. "And you just drove five hours on top of an interview."
"I'm fine," I assure her. "And I know I called out, but I just feel like going in would be better after all. So I have to go, now. Feel better, call me if you need me."
"Shall do."
I return home five hours later, drained and with aching feet, but the shift did what I wanted it to do: it kept me from thinking about the interview with Christian Grey. Closing shifts can suck, but today it was just relief. I'm only mostly surprised to find that Kate's still awake, and still on the couch. But then, once she gets focused on a story, it takes something like an act of God to get her to quit. And the flu apparently doesn't qualify. She's typing furiously, earbud in one ear. I can't tell if she's still transcribing or just re-listening. And I don't care. I simply slump over to the other side of the couch and fall onto the cushions, thinking instead about the essay I have to finish and the studying I have to do, that I couldn't do because of that stupid interview.
"You’ve got some good stuff here, Stacy. Well done," she says distractedly.
I snort. "Those were your questions, Kate," I remind her.
"Yes, but you did well on your delivery."
"Thanks." I sigh tiredly. "It didn't get onto the recorder, but he offered to show me around."
"What!" That gets her to lift her head from her laptop screen and stare at me, wide-eyed. "No, seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you take him up on it?" she demands.
"Why should I?" I retort grumpily. "He just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed."
"Oh, Stacy," Kate sighs. "Because then maybe he would have talked more about himself, or his company; either's good for the article, really. You missed a great opportunity."
I roll my eyes. "Whatever."
She shakes her head in disappointment at me, and returns to her laptop's screen. "I do see what you mean about formal, though. I wish you had taken notes while you were there."
"Kate, I'm not the journalism major here! How was I supposed to know to take notes, on top of the recording? Besides, he kind of creeped me out," I admit. "His eyes were just so intense."
"They are, aren't they?" Kate agrees.
I frown. "I'm not being sappy. There's something off about this guy."
She glances at me again, her expression focused. "Why do you say that?"
And now I'm being the one interviewed. "I don't know. It's just the vibe I got from him. I mean, how many interview subjects want to know more about their interviewer?"
"Maybe he likes you," Kate says slyly.
"Pffft. Yeah, right," I reply. "I just know I wanted to get away from him. He's very driven, controlling, arrogant - scary really."
One strawberry-blonde eyebrow arches at me. "Yet you sound interested in him."
"He's interesting, sure," I wearily sigh. "But... I don't know. I'm just glad I won't have to see him again."
"You do realize he's going to be at commencement, right?" she says.
I cringe. Right, even he had said that before the interview started. "Aww, Kate, why'd you have to remind me. I could've kept happily telling myself that I won't have to see him again!"
She gives me a small, sympathetic smile. "It'll be okay, Stacy. It will."
"Uh, huh." I give her a level look. "Why did you want to know if he was gay, anyway? Because I sure couldn't figure out how it matters."
"Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date."
What? That-what? "...I thought you were interested in serious journalism, not yellow rag."
Kate rolls her eyes. "Unfortunately, gossip is what's needed to reel them in to try and read the objective stuff. That's why the news is so sensationalized. Pity I don't have any original pictures to help draw attention to the article," she adds as an afterthought.
"Spare the lecture on sensationalism, I've heard it before," I tell her before she can get started. "Look," I continue as I get to my feet, "I've still got to work on my essay before I can pass out. Remember that you're sick and don't stay up the rest of the night, okay?"
"Sayeth the one who drives five hours then works five more. Careful you don't end up with this bug, too."
"Yeah, yeah. 'night."
Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. All of us are rushed off our feet: Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, the owner-managers, and John and Patrick, the other two employees who work while I'm on morning shift. But then there's a lull around lunchtime, much to our relief. Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till, discreetly eating my bagel. I’m thoroughly engrossed in the task of checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, my eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check that the entries match, when something makes me glance up.
Right into the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who's standing at the counter, calm as can be but for the eyes staring hard at me.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.
What the hell is he doing here? My jaw drops, and I can't locate my brain because a frozen mass has take its place. "Mr. Grey," I manage, my voice a whisper.
There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke. He's not dressed in his suit and tie, but rather in a chunky-knit sweater and jeans. "I was in the area," he says by way of explanation, "and I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele."
I grope hard for what wits I can manage. My heart is pounding, and his scrutiny's making me flush. Just what is he finding so interesting about me? He's making me feel all sorts of self-conscious. "Uhm," I cough, "how, er, what can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"
He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. Yet some traitorous part of my brain can't help but notice how handsome he looks in casual clothes. I take a deep breath and put on my professional face. I've worked in this shop a long time now, and I've dealt with many a customer in my life who have made me wish I could walk quickly away, instead. This is just another of those times. Really.
Still, I don't buy his "in the area" excuse. The man's organization is based over two hours from here. He's rich enough to have underlings doing his bidding, and he personally comes here to Portland? To the store I'm working in? This is not adding up!
"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his gray eyes cool but amused.
O...kay... "We stock various lengths," I say. "Shall I show you?" I'm glad my voice only wavers a little, but even to my ears, it sounds thin. Get a grip, Stacy. Yeah. I can always flip out later in the privacy of the restroom.
Grey frowns, his brow slightly furrowed. "Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele."
I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet as my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. "They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." I wince inwardly. To compensate for the slightly skeevy feelings I have, my voice is way too bright.
"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me - because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth - I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton’s? I wonder again. The unbidden thought that he's here to see me sticks hard despite all attempts to dismiss it. I'm making things up. It's nothing, really. Unless he's a stalker. No, I'm sure it's nothing. "Are you in Portland on business?" I ask. I attempt to sound smooth but it's painfully obvious I'm nervous.
"I was visiting the Wazzu Extension in Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he answers matter-of-factly.
That doesn't explain why you're in Portland. It may only be something like a ten-minute drive between the two, but that doesn't much matter. Still, he's a customer, and I'm paid to make nice with them. "All part of your feed-the-world plan?"
"Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half-smile.
Thankfully we reach the selection of cable ties, which I indicate to him before stepping slightly back so as not to crowd him. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away a moment. When I look back, he's bending over to select a packet. "These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile.
I try to swallow my nervousness. "Is there anything else?"
"I'd like some masking tape."
Y'know, both of these can be found at Wal-Mart, I snipe mentally. Don't most out-of-towners prefer the big box stores anyway? Instead, I nod. "This way. Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."
"Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and I swear I can feel twin holes boring into my skull.
"Four years," I reply as we reach our goal. To give myself something to do, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
"I'll take that one," Gray says softly, pointing to the wider tape.
I pass it to him, and our fingers brush very briefly. I jerk my hand back. "Anything else?" I ask. I want this man gone.
"Some rope, I think."
What-don't even try to imagine what he needs these items for. Eccentric rich guy. Just help him the fastest you can, I tell myself. "This way." I move away quickly so I can lead the way to the rope section. "What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope; twine, cable cord..." I make the mistake of glancing back at him, a habit of customer service, and his expression and darkened eyes pretty much kill my voice.
"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."
Quickly and with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Geez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my retractable knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut the rope and coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I've managed to not remove a finger with my knife.
"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, lips curled in amusement as I give him his rope.
"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey." Shut up shut up shut up, I scold myself.
He arches an eyebrow at me. "What is your thing, Anastasia?" he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile back.
I swallow again. "Books," I answer quietly. What's it to him? Why would he care?
"British and American classics, correct?" He's still smiling as he touches his long index finger and his thumb to his chin. Either he's being contemplative or my answer is just that boring.
"Anything else you need?" I desperately want to change the subject.
"I don't know. What else would you recommend?"
Uh...for what? "For a do-it-yourselfer?" I hazard. He nods, silver eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush without reason as I wrack my brain. My eyes stray to his feet. He's wearing walking boots. Nice ones. "Coveralls," I reply as it's the first thing to come to mind. "You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." I gesture vaguely to his outfit.
"I could always take them off," he smirks.
"Um." The image of him sans clothing balloons up quite unbidden, and I swear my face could explode from the roaring rush of blood to my cheeks. Get away from him. Somehow. NOW.
"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he adds dryly.
Glad for the excuse to be moving away from him (even if he's following), I go to where the coveralls are and let him choose his size. "Do you need anything else?" I squeak. Please no. Please go away.
He ignores my inquiry. "How's the article coming along?"
At least it's a question I can answer without worrying about an aneurysm? "I don't know. Kate's writing it, not me. But she seems happy with it, considering she hated that she couldn't do the interview herself." It comes out in a rush, and I gasp for some air. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photos of you." ...Why did I add that. Why. I want him gone, not talking to me.
"What sort of photos does she want?"
O...kay, I hadn't thought he'd actually bother to respond. I shake my head, because I haven't a God-damn clue.
"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps...," he says, trailing off.
I blink. "You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" Kate, you owe me so hard for this. "Kate will be delighted, if we-if she can find a photographer." José immediately pops to my mind as a prospect. He's a good friend who does great photography. The pleasure of being able to help my friends allows me to smile.
Grey's lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and it's his turn to blink. Why's he look lost? He recovers quickly, though. "Let me know about tomorrow." He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and opens it. "My card," he says. The wallet goes away, out comes a pen. He turns the card over and scribbles something on the back before handing the card to me. "My cell number. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."
"Okay," I nod as I take the card. Kate will be thrilled.
"STACY!"
I jerk and look off to the side. Paul, Mr. Clayton's much-younger brother, has materialized at the other end of the aisle. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting him to show up at the store today. "Er, excuse me, Mr. Grey." Grey frowns as I turn away from him.
Paul has always been a buddy since I started working here. He got accepted to Princeton two years ago, so I haven't seen much of him since. In this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, incredibly hot yet still creepy Grey, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Paul hugs me hard. "Stacy, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes.
"Hello, Paul," I smile. "How are you? You home for your brother's birthday?"
"Yep. You’re looking well, Stacy, really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been overly familiar.
When I glance up at Grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his gray eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else - someone cold and distant. The urge to scurry off to the safety of the women's restroom returns. I shiver, and I feel Paul's arm tighten in response.
"Er, Paul, this is Christian Grey," I begin, deciding at the last moment to make some introductions. "Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." And because I'm apparently not through being rash, I add, "Paul's visiting from Princeton where he's studying business administration."
"Mr. Clayton." Christian holds his hand out, his look unreadable.
"Mr. Grey," Paul returns coolly, and the two shake hands. "Wait - not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings Incorporated?" Paul goes from wary to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Paul doesn't seem to notice. "Wow. Is there anything I can get you?"
"Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." Grey's expression is impassive, but his words… It's like he's saying something else entirely again.
Paul gives me a look that asks if I'm okay, and I reluctantly nod. "Cool," he says, and drops his arm from my shoulders. "Catch you later, Stacy."
"Sure, Paul." I watch him disappear to the back of the store, and wish desperately I was going with him. Instead, I have to finish helping Mister Grey. "Anything else, Mr. Grey?"
"Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool.
Damn, just what crawled up his ass and died? I take a deep breath and head for the till. I ring up all of his items, glad for the counter between us. "That will be forty-three dollars and forty-two cents." I look up at Grey, and wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, his eyes intense and smoky. It's just another unnerving apple on the unsettling tree. He hands me his credit card. "Would you like a bag?" I ask as I run the card through.
"Please, Anastasia." He caresses my name with his tongue. My heart's thudding in my ears and I can hardly breathe. Quickly, I put his items into a plastic bag. "You'll call me if you want to do the photo shoot?" he continues, all business now.
I nod, unable to speak, and hand back his credit card.
"Good. Until tomorrow perhaps." He turns to leave, pauses, and looks back. "Oh, and Anastasia, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." He smiles before striding out of the store with renewed purpose, the plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
I, meanwhile, am a quivering mass of anxiety and (I'll be honest) hormones, but there's more anxiety than hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet Earth. I really, really, want to get John or Patrick's attention so I can flee from the register, but neither of them is in sight.
Jesus.
...I think he likes me. In a weird way, I... think he likes me.
Though for some reason, the thought isn't very comforting.
Chapter One | Table of Contents | Chapter Three