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“Again, sir?” Taylor asks, as we slowly cruise past, and the apartment disappears from view.
“No.” I exhale; I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing. As we head back to Escala I sift through my e-mails and texts, hoping for something from her…but there’s nothing. There’s a text from Elena.
You okay?
I ignore it.
IT’S QUIET IN MY apartment; I’d not really noticed before. Anastasia’s absence has accentuated the silence.
Taking a sip of cognac, I wander listlessly into my library. It’s ironic I never showed her this room, given her love of literature. I expect to find some solace in here because the room holds no memories of us. I survey all my books, neatly shelved and cataloged, and my eyes stray to the billiard table. Does she play billiards? I don’t suppose she does.
An image of her spread-eagled over the green baize springs to my mind. There may not be any memories in here, but my mind is more than capable, and more than willing, to create vivid erotic images of the lovely Miss Steele.
I can’t bear it.
I take another swig of cognac and head out of the room.
TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 2011
* * *
We’re fucking. Fucking hard. Against the bathroom door. She’s mine. I bury myself in her, again and again. Glorying in her: the feel of her, her smell, her taste. Fisting my hand in her hair, holding her in place. Holding her ass. Her legs wrapped around my waist. She cannot move; she’s pinioned by me. Wrapped around me like silk. Her hands pulling my hair. Oh yes. I’m home, she’s home. This is the place I want to be…inside her…
She. Is. Mine. Her muscles are tightening as she comes, clenching around me, her head back. Come for me! She cries out and I follow…oh yes, my sweet, sweet Anastasia. She smiles, sleepy, sated—and oh so sexy. She stands and gazes at me, that playful smile on her lips, then pushes me away and walks backward, saying nothing. I grab her and we’re in the playroom. I’m holding her down over the bench. I raise my arm to punish her, belt in hand…and she disappears. She’s by the door. Her face white, shocked and sad, and she’s silently drifting away…The door has disappeared, and she won’t stop. She holds out her hands in entreaty. Join me, she whispers, but she’s moving backward, getting fainter…disappearing before my eyes…vanishing…she’s gone. No! I shout. No! But I have no voice. I have nothing. I’m mute. Mute…again.
I wake, confused.
Shit—it’s a dream. Another vivid dream.
Different, though.
Hell! I’m a sticky mess. Briefly I feel that long-forgotten but familiar sense of fear and exhilaration—but Elena doesn’t own me now.
Jesus H. Christ, I’ve come for Team USA. This hasn’t happened to me since I was, what? Fifteen, sixteen?
I lie back in the darkness, disgusted with myself. I drag my T-shirt off and wipe myself down. There’s semen everywhere. I find myself smirking in the darkness, despite the dull ache of loss. The erotic dream was worth it. The rest of it…fucking hell. I turn over and go back to sleep.
He is gone. Mommy is sitting on the couch. She is quiet. She looks at the wall and blinks sometimes. I stand in front of her, but she doesn’t see me. I wave and she sees me, but she waves me away. No, Maggot, not now. He hurts Mommy. He hurts me. I hate him. He makes me so mad. It’s best when it’s just Mommy and me. She is mine then. My Mommy. My tummy hurts. It is hungry again. I am in the kitchen, looking for cookies. I pull the chair to the cupboard and climb up. I find a box of crackers. It is the only thing in the cupboard. I sit down on the chair and open the box. There are two left. I eat them. They taste good. I hear him. He’s back. I jump down and I run to my bedroom and climb into bed. I pretend to be asleep. He pokes me with his finger. Stay here, you little shit. I’m going to fuck your bitch of a mother. I don’t want to see your fuck-ugly face for the rest of the evening. Understand? He slaps my face when I don’t reply. Or you get the burn, you little prick. No. No. I don’t like that. I don’t like the burn. It hurts. Got it, retard? I know he wants me to cry. But it’s hard. I can’t make the noise. He hits me with his fist—
Startled awake again, I lie panting in the pale dawn light, waiting for my heart rate to slow, trying to lose the acrid taste of fear in my mouth.
She saved you from this shit, Grey.
You didn’t relive the pain of these memories when she was with you. Why did you let her leave?
I glance at the clock: 5:15. Time for a run.
HER BUILDING LOOKS GLOOMY; it’s still in shadow, untouched by the early-morning sun. Fitting. It reflects my mood. Her apartment is dark inside, yet the curtains to the room I watched before are drawn. It must be her room.
I hope to God that she’s sleeping alone up there. I envisage her curled up on her white iron bed, a small ball of Ana. Is she dreaming of me? Do I give her nightmares? Has she forgotten me?
I’ve never felt this miserable, not even as a teenager. Maybe before I was a Grey…my memory spirals back. No, no—not awake as well. This is too much. Pulling my hood up and leaning against the granite wall, I’m hidden in the doorway of the building opposite. The awful thought crosses my mind that I might be standing here in a week, a month…a year? Watching, waiting, just to catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be mine. It’s painful. I’ve become what she’s always accused me of being—her stalker.
I can’t go on like this. I have to see her. See that she’s okay. I need to erase the last image I have of her: hurt, humiliated, defeated…and leaving me.
