Grey (55 page)

“I don't want you to go, either,” I answer, because it's the truth, and that feeling—that ominous, frightening feeling—is back, overwhelming me. The tears trickle down her cheeks once more. Gently I wipe away a falling tear with my thumb, and before I know it the words tumble out. “I've come alive since I met you.” I trace my thumb along her bottom lip. I want to kiss her, hard. Make her forget. Dazzle her. Arouse her—I know I can. But something holds me back—her wary, injured look. Why would she want to be kissed by a monster? She might push me away, and I don't know if I could deal with any more rejection. Her words haunt me, pulling at some dark and repressed memory.

You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.

“Me, too,” she whispers. “I've fallen in love with you, Christian.”

I remember Carrick teaching me to dive. My toes gripping the pool edge as I fell arching into the water—and now I'm falling once more, into the abyss, in slow motion.

There's no way she can feel that about me.

Not me.
No!

And I'm choking for air, strangled by her words pressing their momentous weight on my chest. I plunge down and down, the darkness welcoming me. I can't hear them. I can't deal with them. She doesn't know what she's saying, who she's dealing with—
what
she's dealing with.

“No.” My voice is raw with pained disbelief. “You can't love me, Ana. No. That's wrong.”

I need to set her right on this. She cannot love a monster. She cannot love a fucked-up son of a bitch. She needs to go. She needs out—and in an instant, everything becomes crystal clear. This is my eureka moment; I can't make her happy. I can't be what she needs. I can't let this go on. This has to finish. It should never have started.

“Wrong? Why's it wrong?”

“Well, look at you. I can't make you happy.” The anguish is plain in my voice as I sink deeper and deeper into the abyss, shrouded in despair.

No one can love me.

“But you do make me happy,” she says, not comprehending.

Anastasia Steele, look at yourself.
I have to be honest with her. “Not at the moment. Not doing what I want to do.”

She blinks, her lashes fluttering over her large, wounded eyes, studying me intently as she searches for the truth. “We'll never get past that, will we?”

I shake my head, because I can't think of anything to say. It comes down to incompatibility, again. She closes her eyes, as if in pain, and when she opens them again, they are clearer, full of resolve. Her tears have stopped. And the blood starts pounding through my head as my heart hammers. I know what she's going to say. I dread what she's going to say.

“Well, I'd better go, then.” She winces as she sits up.

Now?
She can't go now.

“No, don't go.” I'm free-falling, deeper and deeper. Her leaving feels like a monumental mistake. My mistake. But she can't stay if she feels this way about me, she just can't.

“There's no point in me staying,” she says, and gingerly climbs out of the bed still wrapped in her bathrobe. She's really leaving. I can't believe it. I scramble out of bed to stop her, but her look pins me to the floor—her expression so bleak, so cold, so distant—not my Ana at all.

“I'm going to get dressed. I'd like some privacy,” she says. How flat and empty her voice sounds as she turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I stare at the closed door.

This is the second time in one day that she's walked out on me.

I sit up and cradle my head in my hands, trying to calm down, trying to rationalize my feelings.

She loves me?

How did this happen? How?

Grey, you fucking fool.

Wasn't this always a risk, with someone like her? Someone
good and innocent and courageous. A risk that she'd not see the real me until it was too late. That I would make her suffer like this?

Why is this so painful? I feel like I've punctured a lung. I follow her out of the room. She might want privacy, but if she's leaving me I need clothes.

When I reach my bedroom, she's showering, so I quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt, I've chosen black—suitable for my mood. Grabbing my phone, I wander through the apartment, tempted to sit at the piano and hammer out some woeful lament. But instead I stand in the middle of the room, feeling nothing.

Vacant.

Focus, Grey!
This is the right decision. Let her go.

My phone buzzes. It's Welch. Has he found Leila?

“Welch.”

“Mr. Grey, I have news.” His voice grates over the phone. This guy should stop smoking. He sounds like Deep Throat.

“You found her?” My spirits lift a little.

“No, sir.”

“What is it, then?”
Why the hell have you called?

“Leila left her husband. He finally admitted it to me. He's washed his hands of her.”

This is news.

“I see.”

“He has an idea where she might be, but he wants his palm greased. Wants to know who's so interested in his wife. Though that's not what he called her.”

I fight my surging anger. “How much does he want?”

“He said two thousand.”

“He said what?” I shout, losing it. Why didn't he just admit earlier that Leila had walked out on him? “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What's his number? I need to call him. Welch, this is a real fuckup.”

I glance up, and Ana is standing awkwardly at the entrance to the living room, dressed in jeans and an ugly sweatshirt. She's all big eyes and tight, pinched face, her suitcase beside her.

“Find her,” I snap, hanging up. I'll deal with Welch later.

Ana walks over to the sofa, and from her backpack removes the Mac, her phone, and the key to her car. Taking a deep breath, she marches to the kitchen and lays all three items on the counter.

What the hell? She's returning her things?

She turns to face me, determination clear on her small ashen face. It's her stubborn look, the one I know so well.

“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” Her voice is calm but monotone.

“Ana, I don't want those things—they're yours.” She can't do this to me. “Please, take them.”

“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance, and I don't want them anymore.”

“Ana, be reasonable!”

“I don't want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.

She wants to forget me.

“Are you really trying to wound me?”

“No, I'm not. I'm trying to protect myself.”

Of course—she's trying to protect herself from the monster.

“Please Ana, take that stuff.”

Her lips are so pale.

“Christian, I don't want to fight—I just need that money.”

Money. It always comes down to the fucking money.

“Will you take a check?” I snarl.

“Yes. I think you're good for it.”

She wants money, I'll give her money. I storm into my study, barely holding on to my temper. Sitting at my desk I call Taylor.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”

I ignore his greeting. “How much did you get for Ana's VW?”

“Twelve thousand dollars, sir.”

“That much?” In spite of my bleak mood, I'm surprised.

“It's a classic,” he says by way of explanation.

“Thanks. Can you take Miss Steele home now?”

“Of course. I'll be right down.”

I hang up and take out my checkbook from my desk drawer. As I do, I remember my conversation with Welch about Leila's fucking asshole of a husband.

It's always about fucking money!

In my anger I double the amount that Taylor got for the death trap and stuff the check into an envelope.

When I return she's still standing by the kitchen island, lost, almost childlike. I hand her the envelope, my anger evaporating at the sight of her.

“Taylor got a good price…it's a classic car,” I mumble in apology. “You can ask him. He'll take you home.” I nod to where Taylor is waiting at the entrance of the living room.

“That's fine, I can get myself home, thank you.”

No! Accept the ride, Ana. Why does she do this?

“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”

“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” She gives me a blank look.

That's it in a nutshell—why our arrangement was doomed from the start. She's just not cut out for this, and deep down, I always knew it. I close my eyes.

I am such a fool.

I try a softer approach, pleading with her.

“Please, Ana. Let Taylor take you home.”

“I'll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces with quiet authority and leaves. Maybe she'll listen to him. She glances around, but he's already gone down to the basement to fetch the car.

She turns back to me, her eyes wider all of a sudden. And I hold my breath. I really can't believe she's going. This is the last time I'll see her, and she looks so sad. It cuts deep that I'm the one responsible for that look. I take a hesitant step forward; I want to hold her one more time and beg her to stay.

She steps back, and it's a move that signals all too clearly that she doesn't want me. I've driven her away.

I freeze. “I don't want you to go.”

“I can't stay. I know what I want, and you can't give it to me, and I can't give you what you need.”

Oh, please, Ana
—let me hold you one more time. Smell your
sweet, sweet scent. Feel you in my arms. I step toward her again, but she holds up her hands, halting me.

“Don't—please.” She recoils, panic etched on her face. “I can't do this.” And she grabs her suitcase and backpack and heads for the foyer. I follow, meek and helpless in her wake, my eyes fixed on her small frame.

In the foyer I call the elevator. I can't take my eyes off her…her delicate, elfin face, those lips, the way her dark lashes fan out and cast a shadow over her pale, pale cheeks. Words fail me as I try to memorize every detail. I have no dazzling lines, no quick wit, no arrogant commands. I have nothing—nothing but a yawning void inside my chest.

The elevator doors open and Ana heads straight in. She looks around at me—and for a moment her mask slips, and there it is: my pain reflected on her beautiful face
.

No…
. Ana. Don't go.

“Good-bye, Christian.”

“Ana…good-bye.”

The doors close, and she's gone.

I sink slowly to the floor and put my head in my hands. The void is now cavernous and aching, overwhelming me.

Grey, what the hell have you done?

WHEN I LOOK UP
again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.

They're right to look at me that way. She's gone. She's really gone. The best thing that ever happened to me. After she said she'd never leave. She promised me she'd never leave. I close my eyes, shutting out those lifeless, pitying stares, and tip my head back against the wall. Okay, she said it in her sleep—and like the fool I am, I believed her. I've always known deep down I was no good for her, and she was too good for me. This is how it should be.

Then why do I feel like shit?
Why is this so painful?

The chime announcing the arrival of the elevator forces my eyes open again, and my heart leaps into my mouth. She's back. I sit paralyzed, waiting, and the doors pull back—and Taylor steps out and momentarily freezes.

Hell. How long have I been sitting here?

“Miss Steele is home, Mr. Grey,” he says, as if he addresses me while I'm prostrate on the floor every day.

“How was she?” I ask, as dispassionately as I can, though I really want to know.

“Upset, sir,” he says, showing no emotion whatsoever.

I nod, dismissing him. But he doesn't leave.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asks, much too kindly for my liking.

“No.”
Go. Leave me alone.

“Sir,” he says, and he exits, leaving me slouched on the foyer floor.

Much as I'd like to sit here all day and wallow in my despair, I can't. I want an update from Welch, and I need to call Leila's poor excuse for a husband.

And I need a shower. Perhaps this agony will wash away in the shower.

As I stand I touch the wooden table that dominates the foyer, my fingers absentmindedly tracing its delicate marquetry. I'd have liked to fuck Miss Steele over this. I close my eyes, imagining her sprawled across this table, her head held back, chin up, mouth open in ecstasy, and her luscious hair pooling over the edge. Shit, it makes me hard just thinking about it.

Fuck.

The pain in my gut twists and tightens.

She's gone, Grey. Get used to it.

And drawing on years of enforced control, I bring my body to heel.

THE SHOWER IS BLISTERING,
the temperature just a notch below painful, the way I like it. I stand beneath the cascade, trying
to forget her, hoping this heat will scorch her out of my head and wash her scent off my body.

If she's going to leave, there's no coming back.

Never.

I scrub my hair with grim determination.

Good riddance.

And I suck in a breath.

No. Not good riddance.

I raise my face to the streaming water. It's not good riddance at all—I am going to miss her. I lean my forehead against the tiles. Just last night she was in here with me. I stare at my hands, my fingers caressing the line of grout in the tiles where only yesterday her hands were braced against the wall.