Freed

by James, E L

  Elena purses her lips as the waitress returns. We both sit back and watch as she uncorks our wine and pours a sample into my glass. “I’m sure it’s fine.” I wave in Elena’s direction and the waitress fills each of our glasses in turn.

  “Enjoy,” she says brightly, leaving us with the bottle.

  Elena reaches for her glass and raises it. “To old friends.” She smirks and takes a sip.

  I snort, feeling some of my tension leave my shoulders. “Old friends.” I raise my glass and gulp down a few mouthfuls of wine, not tasting it. Elena frowns and presses her lips together but says nothing, her eyes not leaving mine.

  I sigh. She wants me to fill the silence. I’m going to have to say something. “How’s the business?”

  “Good. It was generous of you to gift it to me. Thank you for that.”

  “It was the least I could do.”

  She glances down at her glass as the silence between us expands. Eventually, she breaks it. “As you’re here, I think I should apologize for how I behaved at your parents’ house.”

  Well, this is a surprise. It’s not like Mrs. Lincoln to apologize for anything. Her mantra has always been “never apologize, never explain.”

  “I said several things that I regret,” she adds quietly.

  “We both did, Elena. It’s in the past.”

  I offer her more wine, but she declines—her glass is still half full, while mine is empty. I pour myself another.

  She sighs. “My social circle is considerably diminished. I miss your mother. It hurts that she won’t see me.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea for you to get in contact with her.”

  “I know. I understand. I never meant for her to overhear us. Grace was always most fearsome when it came to protecting her brood.” She looks wistful for a moment. “We shared some good times, though. Your mother knows how to party.”

  “I don’t wish to know that.”

  Elena laughs. “You’ve always placed her on such a pedestal.”

  “I’m not here to talk about my mother.”

  “What are you here to talk about, Christian?” She cocks her head to the side and runs a scarlet nail around the rim of her glass, icy blue eyes on mine.

  I shake my head and take another long draft of the pinot.

  “Has she left you?”

  “No!” I snap. If anything, it was me who walked out.

  What kind of man walks out on his pregnant wife?

  Hell. Maybe my father was right.

  His words come back to haunt me. It’s about you. You living up to your responsibilities. You being a trustworthy and decent human being. You being husband material.

  Maybe I’m not husband material.

  I shake off the thought as Elena gazes at me, and I know she’s trying to work out what’s wrong. “You miss it? The lifestyle? Is that it? The little woman not giving you what you want?”

  Fuck you, Elena.

  I don’t have to listen to her bullshit.

  I start to slide out of the booth.

  “Christian. Don’t go. I’m sorry.” She reaches for my hand, then changes her mind, so her outstretched hand becomes a fist on the table. “Please. Don’t go,” she pleads.

  Two apologies from Mrs. Lincoln in such a short time.

  I settle back in my seat. Warier.

  “I’m sorry,” she says once more, for emphasis. Then tries a different tack. “How is Anastasia?”

  “She’s good,” I answer, eventually, and hope that I haven’t given anything away.

  Elena narrows her eyes; she doesn’t believe me.

  I exhale and confess. “She wants children.”

  “Ah,” Elena says, as if she’s solved the riddle of the Sphinx. “This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Though I will say she’s a little young to be producing your spawn.”

  “Spawn?” I scoff, because she’s said the last word with such malicious invective. Elena’s never wanted children. I suspect she doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

  “Baby Grey,” she muses. “That will put an end to your predilections.” She looks amused. “Or maybe they’ve come to an end already.”

  I scowl at her. “Elena. Shut up. I’m not here to discuss my sex life with you.” I drain my glass and pour more wine for us both, finishing the bottle. The pinot noir is beginning to work its magic. I’m already feeling hazy around the edges. It’s not a sensation I normally enjoy, but right now, I welcome the oblivion that beckons from the bottom of my glass. I signal the waitress for another bottle.

  “Has she done something specific to upset you? I haven’t seen you drink like this in years.” Elena sounds most disapproving. But I don’t give a fuck.

  “How’s Isaac?” I ask, to move the focus to her lover and away from my wife. My marriage is none of her business.

  She half smiles and folds her arms. “Okay. I get it. You really don’t want to talk.” She pauses, and I know she’s waiting for me to spill my guts. But my secrets are mine. Not hers.

  “Isaac is fine,” she continues, finally. “Thank you for asking. In fact, we’re really good at the moment.” She launches into a tale of their latest sexual escapade, but to what end, I don’t know. I half listen and half let the wine carry me away.

  “So, is it the business? Is that your issue?” she asks when I don’t react.

  “No, it’s going great. I bought a shipyard.”

  She nods, impressed, I think, and I refill both our glasses from the latest bottle, and give her a rundown of what I’ve been doing at work: the solar-powered tablet, the fiber-optic business takeover, Geolumara, and of course the shipyard.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Always.”

  “So, you’re talkative about your business, but not your wife.”

  “And?” Is this a problem?

  “I knew you’d come back,” she whispers.

  What?

  “Why are you drinking so much?”

  “Because I’m thirsty.” And I want to forget how I behaved two hours ago.

  She regards me through half-closed eyes. “Thirsty?” she breathes. “How thirsty?” She leans in and reaches over, taking my hand. I tense as her fingers slide under my palm, and beneath the cuffs of my jacket and shirt. Her fingernails digging into my flesh over my pulse. “Maybe I could make you feel better? I’m sure you miss it.” Her breath is stale, not sweet like Ana’s. Her hand tightens around my wrist, and from nowhere the darkness circles my chest and starts spiraling into my throat. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced for a while, and now it’s back, amplified, echoing through my body and screaming for release.

  “What are you doing?” I squeeze the words out.

  It’s tightening its hold on me.

  Don’t touch me.

  This was how it was.

  Always.

  Me fighting my fear as she laid her hands on me.

  “Don’t touch me.” I withdraw my hand from hers.

  She pales and frowns, her eyes on mine. “Isn’t this what you want?”

  “No!”

  “That’s not why you’re here?”

  “No, Elena. No. I haven’t thought about you like that for years.” I shake my head, wondering how she could have so badly misread my intentions, but my thoughts aren’t as clear as they should be. “I love my wife,” I whisper.

  Ana.

  Elena studies me, her formerly pale cheeks reddening with wine or embarrassment or both. She frowns and looks down at the table. “I’m sorry,” she mutters.

  Apology number three.

  My cup runneth over.

  “I don’t know…what came over me.” She laughs—but her laughter is loud, forced. “I have to go.” She gathers her purse. “Christian, I wish you and your wife well.” She stops and looks me squar
ely in the eye. “I miss you, though. More than you know.”

  “Good-bye, Elena.”

  “The way you say that has a finality about it.”

  I don’t answer her.

  She nods. “It would be difficult. I get it. I’m glad you came to see me. I think we’ve cleared the air.”

  Have we? Cleared the air about what? Us? There is no us.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Lincoln.” I know it’s the last time I’ll ever say these words to her.

  She nods. “Good luck, Christian Grey.” She slides out of the booth. “It was good to see you. I hope whatever it is that’s bothering you sorts itself out. I’m sure it will. If it’s about being a dad, you’ll do great.” She tosses her sleek hair over her shoulder and exits the bar without a backward glance, leaving me with a half-empty bottle of pinot noir and an uneasy feeling of guilt.

  I want to go home.

  To Ana.

  Shit.

  I put my head in my hands. Ana will be mad as hell when I get home.

  Grabbing the bottle and my glass, I head toward the bar to settle my tab. There’s a stool free, so I sit down and replenish my glass.

  Waste not, want not.

  I nurse my drink. Slowly.

  Hell. I hate it when Ana’s mad at me. If I go home now, I may say something else I’ll regret. Besides, I’ve had too much to drink, and I don’t think Ana’s ever seen me drunk. Of course, I’ve seen her drunk—that first night I slept with her at The Heathman, and the night of her bachelorette party…

  Her words float through my slow, intoxicated brain.

  Are you going to punish me?

  Punish you?

  For getting so drunk. A punishment fuck. You can do anything you want to me.

  Stop. Grey.

  I wonder when she got pregnant.

  On our honeymoon? In our bed? In the Red Room?

  Fuck…

  Junior.

  We’ll need a fucking minivan.

  Will he have Ana’s blue eyes? My temper? Shit. My glass is empty. I refill it, finishing the bottle.

  There will be hell to pay if Ana ever finds out I’ve had a drink with Elena. She loathes Elena.

  Christian—if that were your son, how would you feel?

  Oh, Ana, Ana, Ana.

  I don’t want to think about that.

  Not now. It’s too raw and too painful.

  I need oblivion.

  I want to forget who I am, and how I’ve behaved.

  The way I used to…before…everything.

  Before Mrs. Robinson.

  The barman looks my way.

  “Bourbon, please.”

  Wednesday, September 14, 2011

  We’re here.” The driver turns and flashes me a wide big-toothed grin.

  “Wha?” I’m in a car… A cab. My face is pressed against cool glass. My head is spinning. Shit. Closing one eye, I squint up at the building we’re parked outside. The brass lantern beckons bright in the darkness.

  “Escala?” the driver says.

  “Oh. Yeah.” From my inside pocket I fumble for my wallet and paw through the notes. I hand one to the cabdriver and hope it’s enough.

  “Wow! Thanks!”

  I open the car door and fall onto the sidewalk.

  “Fuck.”

  “You okay?” he calls.

  “Yeah.” I lay there for a second, staring up at the night sky, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It’s clear and there are a few stars shining down, winking at me. It’s peaceful.

  I’m lying on the sidewalk.

  Get up, Grey.

  A man looms over me, blotting out the light from the lantern, and for a moment a chill grips my heart. “Here.” He offers me his hand.

  Oh, he’s here to help… Cab guy? Maybe. He hauls me to my feet.

  “One too many, eh?”

  “Yeah. More than one. I think.” I make a half-assed attempt to brush myself down, and the driver climbs back into his car. Turning around, I start to sway and use forward momentum to stagger into the building and over to the elevator. I’ll be okay if I can just get to bed. The elevator doors open and I stumble inside. I punch in the code…the elevator doesn’t move.

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  Hell.

  One more time.

  I close one eye and jab at the buttons. That does the trick! The doors slide shut and the elevator hums, indicating some movement on its part… Wait, no—everything is moving. I lean against the wall and close my eyes to stop the spinning. The ping sounds. I’m here! I open my eyes and stumble out into the foyer.

  Fuck. I bump into something.

  Who the hell moved the foyer table?

  “Shit!” Placing my hands on the table, I steady myself, but it fucking moves again, the scraping sound grating on what’s left of my nerves.

  “Shit!” I make it to the double doors.

  “Christian, are you okay?”

  I look up, and there she is, dressed like a goddess on the silver screen.

  Ana. My own Aphrodite. My wife. My heart fills with love and light. She’s so beautiful. “Mrs. Grey.” The doorjamb holds me up. “Oh, you look mighty fine, Anastashia.”

  Suddenly she’s closer and I have to squint to bring her into focus.

  “Where have you been?” She sounds worried.

  Oh, no. I mustn’t tell her. She’ll be mad as hell. I bring my fingers to my lips. “Shh!”

  “I think you’d better come to bed.”

  Bed. With Ana. There is nowhere I would rather be. “With you.” I give her my best smile, but she’s frowning.

  “Let me help you to bed. Lean on me.” She wraps her arm around my middle, and I lean against her, catching the scent of her hair.

  Nectar. “You are very beautiful, Ana.”

  “Christian, walk! I am going to put you to bed.”

  She’s so bossy! But I want her happy. “Okay.” We move. Together. Down the corridor. One slow step at a time. And then we’re in our bedroom. “Bed.” It is a most welcome sight.

  “Yes, bed,” Ana says. Her face is a blur. But it’s still lovely. I hold her to me.

  “Join me.”

  “Christian, I think you need some sleep.”

  Oh, no. “And so it begins. I’ve heard about this.”

  “Heard about what?”

  “Babies mean no sex.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families.”

  Mrs. Grey has an answer for everything, with her smart mouth. “You’re funny.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Yes.” Very.

  To forget.

  There you are, you little shit.

  “Come on, Christian,” Ana says. Gentle, compassionate Ana. “Let’s get you into bed.”

  Suddenly I am on the bed.

  It’s so comfortable.

  I should just stay here.

  She stands over me, dressed in silk or satin, as tempting as Eve herself. I hold my arms out to her. “Join me.”

  “Let’s get you undressed first.”

  Hmm… Naked. With Ana. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Sit up. Let me take your jacket off.”

  “The room is spinning.”

  “Christian. Sit up!”

  I smile up at her. “Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing.”

  “Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up.” She places her hands on her hips. She’s trying to look stern…I think. But she just looks lovely.

  My wife.

  My beloved wife.

  Slowly, I wrestle with the bed, to sit up.

  I win.

  She grabs my tie.

  And I think she’s trying to undress
me. She’s close. So close. I drink in her unique scent. “You smell good.”

  “You smell of hard liquor.”

  “Yes. Bour. Bon.” Oh shit—the room is a carousel again. To keep myself anchored to the bed, I rest my hands on Ana, and the spinning slows. Her nightgown is warm and soft, augmenting her body heat. “I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia. You should always be in satin or silk.”

  Of course. It’s not just her now. I jerk her closer. I want to talk to Junior. We need to set some ground rules. “And we have an invader in here. You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?”

  Ana’s hands are in my hair. I raise my face up to her. My Madonna. Mother of my child. And in that moment, I tell her my darkest fear. “You’ll choose him over me.”

  “Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she.”

  “A she. Oh God.”

  A girl?

  A baby girl?

  No. The room won’t stop spinning and I fall back on the bed…

  Baby Mia, with her shock of dark hair and watchful dark eyes. Ana holds her. There’s a light breeze on my face. It’s cooling in the sunshine. We’re in the orchard. Ana’s face radiates with love as she smiles down at Mia, then aims sad eyes to me. She walks away, not turning back to look, as I stand watching her. She doesn’t look back. She continues and disappears into the garage at The Heathman. She doesn’t look back. Every sinew, every bone, every atom of my marrow is aching. No. I want to call out. But I can’t speak. I have no words. I’m curled on the floor. Bound. Gagged. Aching. Everywhere. The clip of red heeled stilettos echoes off the flagstones. So, you got drunk. Again. Elena’s wearing a strap-on and wielding a long, thin cane. No. No. This will be hard to take. I’m sorry. I didn’t say you could speak. Her tone is clipped. Formal. I brace myself. Digging deep. She trails the cane down my spine, and suddenly it disappears from my skin, offering me a brief respite before she strikes me across my back. I take a deep breath as I embrace its fiery bite across my skin. She pokes the tip of the cane at my skull. Pain radiates through my head. The door crashes open and his bulk fills the frame. Elena screams. And screams. And screams. The sound splitting my head in two. He’s here. And he hits me, a good left hook to my jaw, and my skull explodes with pain. Shit.

  My eyes crack open, and light slices through my brain like a scalpel. I shut them immediately. Fuck. My head—my throbbing, aching head.