Fifty Shades of Fear - Chapter 5
Chapter Four | Table of Contents | Chapter Six
Title: Chapter 5
Fandom: Fifty Shades
Word Count: 4,655
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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**TRIGGER WARNING**
Instance of sexual assault happens in this chapter.
It's very quiet. There's enough light that it filters annoyingly through my eyelids, and I bury my head more into my pillow, pulling the blanket more securely around me. My head is throbbing dully, and my mouth is tacky and dry. Ugh. Conscious is not where I want to be.
I stay put, just letting my brain slowly acclimate itself to my being awake. The bed, while it feels good beneath my body, feels a little off. And the air smells odd. Not bad, but it's unfamiliar. Almost like it's too clean. Kind of like how hotels smell.
That thought has me snapping my eyes open-
"GAH!"
-only to instantly regret it as the window blinds across from me were not drawn enough to block all the light. Ow. I carefully shift until I'm rolled over on my other side and can look around without sunlight stabbing me in the eyeballs.
I don't recognize the large bed I'm in. Or the chair on the other side of it. I push myself up a little and look around more, my head swimming slightly. I'm definitely in a hotel room, by the looks of things. A very expensive hotel room to judge by the size of the bed at the very least, though the large flatscreen TV is another giveaway. A glance back behind me has me looking at a headboard topped with wavy sunrays. Where am I?
I pull the covers off me so I can get out of the bed, and I feel a slight draft as I sit up. Confused, I look down at myself and my heart lurches in my chest in a panic. I'm only wearing my camisole and underwear. A quick check confirms that yes, I do still have my bra on. But where are my shirt and my jeans? Hell, my socks and shoes for that matter!
My sloshy brains rather sharply remind me that fast thoughts and fast movements are a bad thing, so I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms bracing me as I duck my head and focus on breathing normally and evenly. My toes curl into the plush carpet. I don't... I don't think anything happened. I mean, my memory of before now is spotty at best, but, I'm pretty sure I wasn't... God, I don't even want to think the word. It's too terrifying. Especially because I can recall José with his arms around me, and trying to kiss me, and me telling him to stop... The memory makes me shudder and my stomach roll.
When my world has stopped spinning and I'm no longer feeling queasy, I slowly lift my head again to give my surroundings a better look. On the night table on my side of the bed is a glass of orange juice and a pair of tan pills on a napkin. Closer inspection identifies the pills as being Advil. Well. That should help something with the throbbing headache. I take the pills and chase them down with the orange juice. Which is warm. Ugh. While the juice is a liquid, it's also sticky and doesn't take away the yucky feeling in my mouth and throat. But I suppose it's better than nothing?
A knock on wood has me about jumping out of my skin. I look to the direction of the knock. Christian Grey has pulled a set of double sliding doors open. He's in gray sweat pants that hang off his hips and a gray tank top that is dark with sweat, and a short towel draped behind his neck.
Well, at least one question's answered. I'm in Grey's suite. But this doesn't look like the Literary Arts Suite. Am I even in the Heathman?
"Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?"
I swallow and clear my throat, snatching up the blanket to at least cover myself from the waist down. "I'm, I'm guessing the word is hungover," I reply.
He reaches to the side where I can't see, and when he brings his hand back he's carrying a large shopping bag. The bag gets placed on the chair by the bed, and when I look to his face he's staring at me, eyes dark and expression unreadable.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"The Heathman in Portland. This is their Symphony Suite." A faint smirk touches his lips for a scant moment. "The Literary Arts one was unfortunately taken." He comes and sits at the edge of the bed on my side. He's close enough for me to touch.
My hands tighten on the blanket at my waist. "How did I get here?"
"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car by taking you all the way to your apartment. Here was closer."
My face flushes furiously. So who knows how many people in this swanky place saw me, passed out, being carried by Grey. I can only imagine Twitter going nuts if anyone got pictures. Jesus. I run a hand through my hair. "Did I throw up again?"
"No."
"Who undressed me?" I hope he'll say I surfaced from unconsciousness long enough to undress on my own.
"I did."
I stiffen, clenching hard at the blanket. "We... you... we didn't..."
Grey rolls his eyes. "Anastasia, you were nigh comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," he says dryly.
"Oh." The relief I feel is huge.
"It was a very interesting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while."
I rub my face with one hand. Me, neither, I think as more bits and pieces of cloudy memory slowly come into sharper focus. The memory standing out the most (besides José) is me throwing up all over some flowering plants. Oh, my God. I swear I am never going to get drunk again.
"Did you eat last night?" His tone has gone from bland to accusatory without warning. I slowly shake my head. His jaw clenches, but otherwise his face remains impassive. "You need to eat before you binge. That's why you were so ill. Honestly, Anastasia, it's drinking rule number one." He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.
"Are you going to keep scolding me?" I retort.
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"Do you prefer bitching? Because that works too."
His expression darkens a tad. "You're lucky I'm just scolding you."
"Excuse me?" My eyebrows shoot up.
"Well, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn't eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk." He closes his eyes, dread etched onto his face, and he shudders slightly. "If I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and as I recall you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit," he adds acidly.
I goggle at him. This is absurd. "Okay, first off, José came onto me. He was way out of line," I snap.
"Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners."
"And you consider yourself to be the disciplinarian?" Because personally? Right now I feel I should be the first one to kick José in the balls. Then Kate can have a turn. Then maybe Grey.
"Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea." His eyes narrow, and then he grins wickedly. It's a bit bewildering, the abruptness of it. "I'm going to have a shower. Unless you'd like to shower first?" He cocks his head to one side, still grinning. Even if sweaty, he's still gorgeous when he smiles. His grin widens, and he reaches over to run his thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip. My breath catches in my throat. "Breathe, Anastasia," he whispers before rising. "Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished." And with that he walks away from me and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
I let out the breath that I've been holding, and have the sudden irrational thought that I want to go ahead and join him in the shower. I shake my head, not caring how much it hurts to do so. Okay, maybe I do care how much it hurts, because I have to sit down while the world tilts sharply again. Never. Drinking. Again.
I lay back down and roll onto my side, making sure to keep my lower half covered by the blanket. My skin still tingles from where his thumb had touched me. 'If you were mine.' Well, I'm not his. And he said he doesn't do the whole girlfriend thing. Then what does he do? More importantly, why do I care? I'm irritated that I'm unable to answer that question to any kind of satisfaction. Okay, yes. Fact: the man is hot. Fact: he's antagonizing, too; he's difficult, complicated, and confusing. First he warns me away with a Tess quote while at the same time sending me fourteen-thousand-dollar books; he rescues me from José and then bitches at me for getting drunk in the first place.
Danger in men-folk, indeed.
I finally roll up out of the bed so I can start searching for my clothes when he emerges from the bathroom. He's still wet and glistening from the shower, still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist. And there I am wearing nothing but a camisole and panties. Jesus, can this get more awkward? I grab for the blanket to cover myself.
"If you're looking for your shirt and jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." His eyes are dark with some emotion I can't guess. "The jeans were spattered with vomit and your shirt reeked of beer."
"Oh." I flush hard in embarrassment.
"I sent Taylor out for some clean clothes and shoes. They're in the bag on the chair."
I would prefer to have my actual clothes available, but that apparently isn't an option right now. I certainly didn't want to keep a blanket wrapped around me for however long it would take to get my clothes back. "Um... I guess I'll take that shower, then," I mutter. "Thanks." Walking with the blanket around my waist is awkward, and, let's be honest. He's already seen me without it. I drop the blanket with a sigh, move quickly to grab the bag from the chair, and dash into the bathroom to get away from the unnerving proximity of a mostly-naked Christian.
In the bathroom, it's all hot and steamy from where he's been showering. I strip off my clothes, put my hairtie on the counter, and turn on the water, making sure it's still hot before I get into the shower. The water cascades over me, calming me, and I lift up my face into the welcoming torrent. Between the steam and the water and the gentle lighting of the bathroom, I can almost, almost forget about what happened last night.
I hug myself as I remember instead. I knew José liked me romantically. I thought I'd also made it clear I liked him as a friend, nothing more. I thought he'd accepted that. But apparently he hadn't. I can't believe he tried to kiss me. More, I can't believe that he'd refused to let me go when I'd shoved him and told him to stop. If Grey hadn't shown up...
The warm wet in my eyes isn't from the shower head. I feel so betrayed. José was my longtime friend. I trusted him. And then he tries that stunt while I'm drunk? I gulp back a sob and reach for the shampoo. I feel dirty and I want to be clean. I lather up my hair with a vengeance, because José had had his fingers in it. After my hair's rinsed clean, I scrub myself down with bodywash and a wash cloth.
There's a knock at the door that interrupts my thoughts while I rinse. "Breakfast is here," Grey calls.
"O-okay!" I call back. I finish rinsing and turn off the water. Opening the curtain, I grab the nearest towel and start drying myself. My hair I save for last, wrapping it up in a poor attempt at a turban to keep it at least off my skin while I investigate the contents of the shopping bag. Not only are a new pair of jeans and a pale blue shirt in the bag, but socks, panties, a bra, and shoes. It's the undergarments that really get my attention. They're pale blue, lacey, and satiny to the touch, and something about them screams money. Feeling a little perturbed-who buys someone they barely know intimate apparel?-I check the sizes on the bra and panties. A bit of a chill goes down my spine before my face flames with indignation. The undergarments are my size, exactly. The only way Grey could've known that was if he had checked my bra and panties for their sizes. Unless the tags with the sizes on them were hanging out? That argument sounded weak even to me. My panties were the tagless kind, anyway.
I dress quickly into the new clothes, but I am sure to put my white camisole on under the shirt. I want to be wearing something of my own.
I look around for a hairbrush, but only find a comb. And if there's a hair dryer in this bathroom, I can't see where. I groan inwardly; my hair's too thick for a comb to be useful, especially while my hair's still very damp. So I squeeze out my hair inside the towel as much as I'm able, then unwrap the towel and hang it up. My hair will simply have to air-dry.
I take a deep breath. Time to face Grey again.
I'm relieved to find the bedroom area empty. I hunt quickly for my purse, but it's not in here. Frowning, I enter the living area of the suite. It's big. There's a couch and more chairs, a coffee table, a study area with a closed laptop on it, and an enormous plasma screen TV on the wall. Grey is sitting at a food-laden, glass-topped dining table, reading a newspaper.
Newspaper.
"Oh crap, Kate!" I exclaim. Oh man, she's going to be so worried!
Grey peers up at me. "She knows you're here and still alive. I texted Elliot," he says with just a trace of humor.
I blank for a moment, then I vaguely recall Kate dancing with some guy who wasn't Levi.
Grey stares at me imperiously. He's wearing a white linen shirt with the collar and cuffs undone, and gray slacks. "Sit," he commands, pointing to the chair opposite him. I sit as directed. "I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu." He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.
"That's very kind of you," I reply. I'm not really hungry, though the food smells wonderful.
"Yes, it is." He sounds guilty. Why?
I opt for the fruit bowl. That looks manageable. Christian tries to hide a smile as he folds up the newspaper and returns to his omelet. I eat the honeydew slowly.
"Tea?" he asks.
"Yes, please."
He passes me a small teapot, then a cup and saucer. There's a bag of English Breakfast tea on the saucer alongside the cup. I thank him, and proceed to prepare my tea.
"Your hair's very damp," he scolds.
And we're back to being bitchy. "I couldn't find the hair dryer," I reply. He presses his mouth into a hard line, but he doesn't say anything. So I do. "Thank you for getting me the clothes." Because, well, otherwise I'd be sitting here in my freaking underwear.
"It's a pleasure, Anastasia. That color suits you."
I look down, tucking some hair back behind my ear.
A quiet sigh from him before he speaks again. "You know, you really should learn to take a compliment," he says, tone castigating.
"I'll pay you back for these clothes." Somehow. Even if I have to beg the money off Kate and promise to do all the household chores for however long it takes.
He glares at me like I have offended him on some level. I hurry on. "You've already given me the books, which I can't accept. But these clothes, please let me pay you back." I smile tentatively at him.
"Anastasia, trust me. I can afford it."
Obviously. "That's not the point. Why should you buy these for me?"
"Because I can," he answers, eyes flashing with a wicked gleam.
"Just because you can doesn't mean that you should," I reply quietly. He arches an eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling, and just like that, the subtext is back. I shake my head to dispel that line of thought. "Why did you send me the books, Christian?"
He puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion. "Well," he began, "I thought I owed you an apology for the conversation at the Tea Court, and a warning." He runs his hand through his hair. "Anastasia, I'm not a hearts-and-flowers kind of man. I don't do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me." He closes his eyes as if in defeat. "There's something about you, though, and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you've figured that out."
Then Clayton's was deliberate. And the creepy factor just goes up, because I hadn't told him where I was working. Which... Holy shit, was he stalking me? My fork's frozen above the fruit bowl.
"What are your plans for the next few days?" he asks, his voice low.
"I'm working today, closing shift."
"What about tomorrow?" He has his elbows on the table, and his chin is resting on his long steepled fingers. I'm reminded of Mr. Burns about to release the hounds.
"Kate and I are going to start packing," I say, a little desperately. "We're moving to Seattle next weekend, and I'm still working at Clayton's all this week."
"You have a place in Seattle already?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Shit. "I, I can't remember the address. But it's in the north Queen Anne area." God damn it, Stacy! Keep. Your trap. Shut!
"Not very far from me," he comments, his lips twitching up in a half-smile. "So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?"
I put the melon piece into my mouth and chew, giving myself an excuse to swallow while the butterflies careen around in my stomach. "I've applied for some internships. I'm waiting to hear back."
"Have you applied to my company as I suggested?"
I glance away for a moment. "Uhm... no."
"And what's wrong with my company?"
"Your company or your Company?" I return.
He smiles slightly. "Are you teasing me, Miss Steele?" He cocks his head to one side, and I think he looks amused, but it's hard to tell. I look away again, eyes returning to my unfinished breakfast. I don't want to look him in the eye when he is using that tone of voice. "I'd like to bite that lip."
I look up sharply and immediately stop chewing my lower lip. This is not the sort of thing I want to be hearing presently, even from a man I may or may not have a crush on. Not when I'm still reeling from José.
"But I'm not going to touch you, Anastasia. Not until I have your written consent to do so." His lips hint at a smile.
I don't know what I am more - confused or relieved. Confusion wins out. "What does that mean?"
"Exactly what I say." He sighs and shakes his head at me, amused, but exasperated too. "I need to show you, Anastasia. What time do you finish work this evening?"
"I close, so, late," I remind him.
"Mmm. Well, we could go to Seattle tomorrow or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I'll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours."
I shake my head. "Why can't you just tell me now?"
"Because I'm enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you're enlightened, you probably won't want to see me again."
Yeah, you're not helping your own case, pal. I'm already feeling fairly "enlightened," and I'm pretty sure I don't want to reach your Nirvana. "I-I'll think about it."
He arches an eyebrow at me. "Why can't you just tell me now?" he throws back at me.
I flush. Jesus. For a guy who claims to be good at judging people... "Tomorrow," I blurt out. God. Whatever gets him off my back.
He smiles. "Excellent. When do you get off of work?"
Once again, I get the feeling that lying wouldn't go over well. "Uhm, I'm working morning shift, so, two."
He nods. "You should finish your breakfast. And then I'll drop you home. I'll pick you up from your apartment tomorrow at eight, then we'll fly up to Seattle."
I blink at him rapidly. "Fly?"
"Yes. I have a helicopter."
I gape at him. From coffee to helicopter rides. Damn he goes to extremes fast. "We'll go by helicopter to Seattle?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He grins wickedly as he pulls out his smartphone. "Because I can. Finish your breakfast." I start poking at my fruit while he makes a phone call. "Taylor. I'm going to need Charlie Tango."
C.T.? I translate automatically. What's that?
"From Portland, tomorrow, at say twenty-thirty. ... No, standby at the Escala. ... All night."
All night!?
"Yes. On call Monday morning. I'll pilot from Portland to Seattle. ... Standby pilot tomorrow from twenty-two-thirty." Then he puts the phone down. No please or thank you.
"Do people always do what you tell them?"
"Usually, if they want to keep their jobs," he says, deadpan.
"And if they don't work for you?"
"Oh, I can be very persuasive, Anastasia."
Somehow, that doesn't bode well.
"Eat," he says a little sharply when my fork remains still. "Anastasia, I have an issue with wasted food. Eat."
"I can't eat all this." My voice is low with anxiety.
"Eat what's on your plate. If you'd eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon." His mouth is set in a grim line. He looks angry.
I lift my fork again and try to eat, but the fruit that had been appetizing before now chokes me, and I have to chase each bite with tea. But I eat, and remember what he said about taking me home after I've finished.
"Good girl," he praises. "I'll take you home when you've dried your hair. I don't want you getting ill."
You son of a bitch; you-argh. I get up from the chair, though I have a fleeting thought that I should've asked for permission. The idea's immediately dismissed. Sounds like a dangerous precedent to set. My eyes stray to the area next to him on the sofa, but I spot no evidence of blankets or sheets. Which meant in addition to undressing me, the man had slept in the same bed as me instead of giving me the courtesy of sleeping off my drunkenness alone.
Once back in the bathroom, I do a thorough hunt until I find the hair dryer. Belatedly I realize I still haven't found my purse, but I want to delay another conversation with him as much as I can. When I've finally finished drying my hair and am re-tying it into as perfect a tail as a comb and my fingers can manage, I look around for a spare toothbrush. There is none. I eye his toothbrush a moment before giving a shudder. Using someone else's toothbrush is just disgusting. So I swish my mouth out with some water from the faucet instead.
I grab my bra and panties from yesterday and put them in the shopping bag that had contained the clothes I now wear. I go back to the living area to search for my purse. Grey was just hanging up his phone. "Ready to go?" he asks.
"Uh, what about my jacket and purse? And my phone?" I reply. "Where are they?"
"In my car. Oh, don't worry," he continues when I blanch, "all of my vehicles have excellent security." He slips on a navy jacket, picks up his car keys, and heads for the door. "After you, Miss Steele," he murmurs, opening the door for me.
Clutching the bag a little hard, I head out the door. Why me? I don't understand. His words come back to me. 'There's something about you.' Well the feeling is entirely mutual. Only I think we have different ideas on what the something is.
We walk in silence down the corridor toward the elevator. When we get there, Grey presses the call button before I can, he looks at me with those intense gray eyes. I smile nervously and his lips twitch.
When the elevator arrives, we step in. We're alone. Suddenly and for some inexplicable reason, possibly due to our proximity in such an enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes. The tension's bad enough, but the anticipation in the air just makes my stomach twist more. I try to keep my breathing normal while my heart thumps painfully. My eyes stay riveted to the door as I chew my lower lip, except when I flick my eyes momentarily in Grey's direction.
"Oh, fuck the paperwork," he growls. He lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. It happens so fast I can only gasp in shock, the shopping bag falling from my fingers. Before I know it, he's got both of my hands in one of his in a vise-like grip above my head, and he's pinning me to the wall using his hips. No! His other hand grabs my ponytail and yanks painfully, forcing my chin up, and his lips are on mine. I open my mouth to try and get the air to tell him to stop but he just uses that chance to shove his tongue into my mouth. I try to protest, to move my head even just a little, and he grabs my chin to hold me in place. I'm helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and his lips restraining me, so I just submit to this while I wail inside my head.
After an eternity, he pulls back - just barely. "You are so sweet," he murmurs against my mouth.
The elevator stops, the doors open, and he pushes away from me in the blink of an eye. Three men in business suits look at both of us with expressions ranging from puzzled to annoyed as they step into the elevator. My heart rate is through the roof, my skin is crawling, and I just hug myself. I want to sit and curl up into a ball, but there's no room. I want to cry, but not in front of him.
I can't look at him. I can still feel him pressed up against me, and I hate it. And I'm trapped, trapped in this elevator with him, and I'm going to be trapped in his car with him. Oh Kate, I wish you were here!
The businessmen exit on the second floor, and my panic spikes at being alone with Grey. But he keeps his hands to himself, praise God.
The doors open at the ground floor. He picks up the shopping bag from where I'd dropped it. Then he grabs my hand and pulls me out. "What is it about elevators?" he mutters, more to himself than to me as he strides across the lobby. I struggle to keep pace with him because my wits have been thoroughly, royally, utterly scattered all over the floor and walls of the elevator in the Heathman Hotel.
Chapter Four | Table of Contents | Chapter Six