Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey as Told by Christian Read online

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Spill the Beans

  Date: June 2 2011 10:32 EST

  To: Christian Grey

  You are a cad and a scoundrel—definitely no gentleman.

  So, what did I say? No kisses for you until you talk!

  Oh, this could run and run…

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Sleeping Talking Beauty

  Date: June 2 2011 10:35 EST

  To: Anastasia Steele

  It would be most ungallant of me to say, and I have already been chastised for that.

  But if you behave yourself, I may tell you this evening. I do have to go into a meeting now.

  Laters, baby.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Cad & Scoundrel, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  With a broad grin I slip on my tie, grab my jacket, and head downstairs to find Taylor.

  JUST OVER AN HOUR later, I’m winding up my meeting with the Savannah Brownfield Redevelopment Authority. Georgia has a great deal to offer, and the team has promised GEH some serious tax incentives. There’s a knock at the door and Taylor enters the small conference room. His face looks grim, but what’s more worrying is that he never, ever interrupts my meetings. My scalp prickles.

  Ana? Is she okay?

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he says to all of us.

  “Yes, Taylor,” I ask, and he approaches and speaks discreetly in my ear.

  “We have a situation at home concerning Miss Leila Williams.”

  Leila? What the hell? And part of me is relieved that it’s not Ana.

  “Would you excuse me, please?” I ask the two men and two women from the SBRA.

  In the hallway, Taylor’s tone is grave as he apologizes once more for interrupting my meeting.

  “Don’t worry. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Miss Williams is in an ambulance on the way to the ER at Seattle Free Hope.”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Yes, sir. She broke into the apartment and made a suicide attempt in front of Mrs. Jones.”

  Fuck. “Suicide?” Leila? In my apartment?

  “She slashed her wrist. Gail went with her in the ambulance. She’s informed me that the EMTs arrived in time and Miss Williams is not in any immediate danger.”

  “Why Escala? Why in front of Gail?” I’m shocked.

  Taylor shakes his head. “I don’t know, sir. Neither does Gail. She can’t get any sense out of Miss Williams. Apparently, she only wants to talk to you.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly, sir,” Taylor says without judgment. I scrape my hands through my hair, trying to grasp the magnitude of what Leila has done. What the hell am I supposed to do? Why did she come to me? Was she expecting to see me? Where’s her husband? What’s happened to him?

  “How’s Gail?”

  “A little shaken.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I thought you should know, sir.”

  “Yes. Sure. Thanks,” I mumble, distracted. I can’t believe it; Leila seemed happy when she last e-mailed, what, six or seven months ago. But there are no answers for me here in Georgia—I have to go back and talk to her. Find out why. “Tell Stephan to ready the jet. I need to go home.”

  “Will do.”

  “Let’s leave as soon as we can.”

  “I’ll be in the car.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taylor heads toward the exit, raising the phone to his ear.

  I’m reeling.

  Leila. What the hell?

  She’s been out of my life for a couple of years. We’ve shared the occasional e-mail. She got married. She seemed happy. What’s happened?

  I head back into the boardroom and make my apologies before stepping outside into the stifling heat, where Taylor is waiting in the Suburban.

  “The plane will be ready in forty-five minutes. We can head back to the hotel, pack, and go,” he informs me.

  “Good,” I respond, grateful for the car’s air-conditioning. “I should call Gail.”

  “I’ve tried, but her phone goes to voice mail. I think she’s still at the hospital.”

  “Okay, I’ll call her later.” This is not what Gail needs on a Thursday morning. “How did Leila get into the apartment?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Taylor makes eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, his face apologetic and grim at once. “I’ll make it a priority to find out.”

  OUR BAGS ARE PACKED and we’re on our way to Savannah/Hilton Head International when I call Ana, but frustratingly, she doesn’t answer. I brood, staring out the window as we cruise toward the airport. I don’t have to wait long for her to return my call.

  “Anastasia.”

  “Hi,” she says, her voice breathy, and it’s such a pleasure to hear her.

  “I have to return to Seattle. Something’s come up. I am on my way to the airport now. Please apologize to your mother—I can’t make dinner.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “I have a situation that I have to deal with. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send Taylor to meet you at Sea-Tac if I can’t come myself.”

  “Okay.” She sighs. “I hope you sort out your situation. Have a safe flight.”

  I wish I didn’t have to go.

  “You, too, baby,” I whisper, and hang up before I change my mind and stay.

  I CALL ROS AS we taxi toward the runway.

  “Christian, how’s Savannah?”

  “I’m on the plane coming home. I have a problem I have to deal with.”

  “Something at GEH?” Ros asks, alarmed.

  “No. It’s personal.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  “Positive. But I had to cut it short. Let’s see what they put in writing. I might prefer Detroit just because it’s cooler.”

  “The heat’s that bad?”

  “Suffocating. I’ve got to go. I’ll call for an update later.”

  “Safe travels, Christian.”

  ON THE FLIGHT I throw myself into work to distract me from the problem waiting at home. By the time we’ve touched down I’ve read three reports and written fifteen e-mails. Our car is waiting, and Taylor drives through the pouring rain straight to Seattle Free Hope. I have to see Leila and find out what the hell is going on. As we near the hospital my anger surfaces.

  Why would she do this to me?

  The rain is lashing down as I climb out of the car; the day is as bleak as my mood. I take a deep breath to control my fury and head through the front doors. At the reception desk I ask for Leila Reed.

  “Are you family?” The nurse on duty glowers at me, her mouth pinched and sour.

  “No.” I sigh. This is going to be difficult.

  “Well, I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “She tried to open a vein in my apartment. I think I’m entitled to know where the hell she is,” I hiss through my teeth.

  “Don’t take that tone with me!” she snaps. I glare at her. I’m not going to get anywhere with this woman.

  “Where is your ER department?”

  “Sir, there’s nothing we can do if you’re not family.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find it myself,” I growl, and storm over to the double doors. I know I could call my mother, who would expedite this for me, but then I’d have to explain what’s happened.

  The ER is bustling with doctors and nurses, and triage is full of patients. I accost a young nurse and give her my brightest smile. “Hello, I’m looking for Leila Reed—she was admitted earlier today. Can you tell me where she might be?”

  “And you are?” sh
e asks, a flush creeping over her face.

  “I’m her brother,” I lie smoothly, ignoring her reaction.

  “This way, Mr. Reed.” She bustles over to the nurses’ station and checks her computer. “She’s on the second floor; Behavioral Health ward. Take the elevators at the end of the corridor.”

  “Thanks.” I reward her with a wink and she pushes a stray lock behind her ear, giving me a flirtatious smile that reminds me of a certain girl I left in Georgia.

  As I step out of the elevator on the second floor I know something is wrong. On the other side of what look like locked doors, two security guards and a nurse are combing the corridor, checking each room. My scalp prickles, but I walk over to the reception area, pretending not to notice the commotion.

  “Can I help you?” asks a young man with a ring through his nose.

  “I’m looking for Leila Reed. I’m her brother.”

  He pales. “Oh. Mr. Reed. Can you come with me?”

  I follow him to a waiting room and sit down on the plastic chair that he points to; I note it’s bolted to the floor. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

  “Why can’t I see her?” I ask.

  “The doctor will explain,” he says, his expression guarded, and he exits before I can ask any further questions.

  Shit. Perhaps I’m too late.

  The thought nauseates me. I get up and pace the small room, contemplating a call to Gail, but I don’t have to wait long. A young man with short dreads and dark, intelligent eyes enters. Is he her doctor?

  “Mr. Reed?” he asks.

  “Where’s Leila?”

  He assesses me for a moment, then sighs and steels himself. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “She’s managed to give us the slip.”

  “What?”

  “She’s gone. How she got out I don’t know.”

  “Got out?” I exclaim in disbelief, and sink onto one of the chairs. He sits down opposite me.

  “Yes. She’s disappeared. We’re doing a search for her now.”

  “She’s still here?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m Dr. Azikiwe, the on-call psychiatrist.”

  He looks too young to be a psychiatrist. “What can you tell me about Leila?” I ask.

  “Well, she was admitted after a failed suicide attempt. She tried to slash one of her wrists at an ex-boyfriend’s house. His housekeeper brought her here.”

  I feel the blood draining from my face. “And?” I ask. I need more information.

  “That’s about as much as we know. She said it was an error of judgment, that she was fine, but we wanted to keep her here under observation and ask her further questions.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “I did.”

  “Why did she do this?”

  “She said it was a cry for help. Nothing more. And, having made such a spectacle of herself, she was embarrassed and wanted to go home. She said she didn’t want to kill herself. I believed her. I suspect it was just suicidal ideation on her part.”

  “How could you let her escape?” I run my hand through my hair, trying to contain my frustration.

  “I don’t know how she’s gotten away. There’ll be an internal investigation. If she contacts you, I suggest you urge her to come back. She needs help. Can I ask you some questions?”

  “Sure,” I agree, distracted.

  “Is there any history of mental illness in your family?” I frown, then remember that he’s talking about Leila’s family.

  “I don’t know. My family is very private about such matters.”

  He looks concerned. “Do you know anything about this ex-boyfriend?”

  “No,” I state, a little too quickly. “Have you contacted her husband?”

  The doctor’s eyes widen. “She’s married?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not what she told us.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll call him. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

  “But I have more questions for you—”

  “I’d rather spend my time looking for her. She’s obviously in a bad way.” I rise.

  “But, this husband—”

  “I’ll get in touch with him.” This is getting me nowhere.

  “But we should do that—” Dr. Azikiwe stands.

  “I can’t help you. I need to find her.” I head to the door.

  “Mr. Reed—”

  “Good-bye,” I mutter, hurrying out of the waiting room and not bothering with the elevator. I take the fire escape stairs two at a time. I loathe hospitals. A memory from my childhood surfaces: I’m small and scared and mute, and the smell of disinfectant and blood clouds my nostrils.

  I shudder.

  As I step out of the hospital I stand for a moment and let the torrential rain wash that memory away. It’s been a stressful afternoon, but at least the rain is a refreshing relief from the heat in Savannah. Taylor swings around to pick me up in the SUV.

  “Home,” I direct him, as I get back in the car. Once I’ve buckled my seatbelt I call Welch from my cell.

  “Mr. Grey,” he growls.

  “Welch, I have a problem. I need you to locate Leila Reed, née Williams.”

  GAIL IS PALE AND quiet as she studies me with concern. “You’re not going to finish, sir?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Was the food okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” I give her a small smile. “After today’s events, I’m not hungry. How are you bearing up?”

  “I’m good, Mr. Grey. It was a total shock. I just want to keep busy.”

  “I hear you. Thanks for making dinner. If you remember anything, let me know.”

  “Of course. But like I said, she only wanted to speak to you.”

  Why? What is she expecting me to do?

  “Thanks for not involving the police.”

  “The police are not what that girl needs. She needs help.”

  “She does. I wish I knew where she was.”

  “You’ll find her,” she says with quiet confidence, surprising me.

  “Do you need anything?” I ask.

  “No, Mr. Grey. I’m fine.” She takes the plate with my half-eaten meal to the sink.

  The news from Welch about Leila is frustrating. The trail has gone cold. She’s not at the hospital, and they’re still mystified as to how she escaped. A small part of me admires that; she was always resourceful. But what could have made her so unhappy? I rest my head in my hands. What a day—from the sublime to the ridiculous. Soaring with Ana, and now this mess to deal with. Taylor is at a loss as to how Leila got into the apartment, and Gail has no idea, either. Apparently, Leila marched into the kitchen demanding to know where I was. And when Gail said I wasn’t there, she cried out “He’s gone,” then slashed her wrist with a box cutter. Fortunately, the cut wasn’t deep.

  I glance at Gail cleaning up in the kitchen. My blood runs cold. Leila could have hurt her. Perhaps Leila’s objective was to hurt me. But why? I scrunch my eyes, trying to remember if anything in our last correspondence might give me a clue as to why she’s gone off the rails. I draw a blank, exasperated, and with a sigh I head into my study.

  As I sit down my phone buzzes with a text.

  Ana?

  It’s Elliot.

  Hey Hotshot. Wanna shoot some pool?

  Shooting pool with Elliot means him coming here and drinking all my beer. Frankly, I’m not in the mood.

  Working. Next week?

  Sure. Before I hit the beach.

  I’ll thrash you.

  Laters.

  I toss my phone onto the desk and pore over Leila’s file, looking for anything that might give me a clue as to where she is. I find her parents’ addres
s and phone number, but nothing for her husband. Where is he? Why isn’t she with him?

  I don’t want to call her parents and alarm them. I call Welch and give him their number; he can find out if she’s been in touch with them.

  When I switch on my iMac there’s an e-mail from Ana.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Safe Arrival?

  Date: June 2 2011 22:32 EST

  To: Christian Grey

  Dear Sir,

  Please let me know that you have arrived safely. I am starting to worry. Thinking of you.

  Your Ana x

  Before I know it, my finger is on the little kiss she’s sent me.

  Ana.

  Sappy, Grey. Sappy. Get a grip.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Sorry

  Date: June 2 2011 19:36

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Dear Miss Steele,

  I have arrived safely, and please accept my apologies for not letting you know. I don’t want to cause you any worry. It’s heartwarming to know that you care for me. I am thinking of you, too, and as ever looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I press send and wish that she was here with me. She brightens up my home, my life…me. I shake my head at my fanciful thoughts and look through the rest of my e-mails.

  A ping tells me there’s a new one from Ana.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: The Situation

  Date: June 2 2011 22:40 EST

  To: Christian Grey

  Dear Mr. Grey,

  I think it is very evident that I care for you deeply. How could you doubt that?

  I hope your “situation” is under control.

  Your Ana x

  P.S.: Are you going to tell me what I said in my sleep?

  She cares for me deeply? That’s nice. All at once that foreign feeling, absent all day, stirs and expands in my chest. Beneath it is a well of pain I don’t want to acknowledge or deal with. It tugs at a lost memory of a young woman brushing out her long, dark hair…