Can I do this?
I’ve never tolerated this kind of behavior from any submissive; what’s more, none of them have been this petulant.
But I hate it when she’s angry with me.
“You used to take your subs there?” she asks, and I don’t know if it’s a rhetorical question or not. I chance a reply.
“Some of them, yes.”
“Leila?”
“Yes.”
“The place looks very new.”
“It’s been refurbished recently.”
“I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs.”
“Yes.”
“Did they know about her?”
Not in the way you’re thinking. They never knew about our D/s relationship. They just thought we were friends. “No. None of them did. Only you.”
“But I’m not your sub.”
“No, you most definitely are not.” Because I certainly wouldn’t indulge this behavior from anyone else.
She stops suddenly and whirls around to face me, her expression bleak. “Can you see how fucked up this is?” she says.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know she was going to be there.
“I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven’t fucked either the staff or the clientele.” Her voice is hoarse and she’s on the verge of tears.
Ana.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She turns to go.
“You’re not running. Are you?” Panic starts to well inside me. This is it. She’s out before we’ve even had a second chance.
Grey, you’ve blown it.
“No,” she shouts, exasperated. “I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and I can forget about all this baggage that accompanies you.”
She’s not leaving me. I take a deep breath. “I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place,” I offer.
“She’s very attractive.”
Christ. Not this. “Yes, she is.” So what? Give it up, Ana.
“Is she still married?”
“No. She got divorced about five years ago.”
“Why aren’t you with her?”
Ana! Let it go. “Because that’s over between us. I’ve told you this.” How many times do I need to tell her? My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I hold my finger up to stop her tirade and answer my phone. The caller ID says it’s Welch. I wonder what he has to report.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Welch.”
“Three things. We’ve tracked Mrs. Leila Reed to Spokane, where she’d been living with a man named Geoffrey Barry. He was killed in an auto accident on I-90.”
“Killed in a car crash? When?”
“Four weeks ago. Her husband, Russell Reed, knew about Barry but still won’t disclose where Mrs. Reed has gone.”
“That’s twice that bastard’s not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?” I’m staggered that her ex could be so heartless.
“He has feelings for her, but they’re certainly not matrimonial.”
“This is beginning to make sense.”
“Did the psychiatrist give you anything to go on?” Welch asks.
“No.”
“Could she be suffering a kind of psychosis?”
I agree with Welch that this might be her condition, but it still doesn’t explain where she is, which is what I really want to know. I look around. Where are you, Leila? “She’s here. She’s watching us,” I mutter.
“Mr. Grey, we’re close. We’ll find her.” Welch tries to reassure me and asks if I’m at Escala.
“No.” I wish Ana and I weren’t so exposed here on the street.
“I’m considering how many people you need for your close protection team.”
“Two or four, twenty-four-seven.”
“Okay, Mr. Grey. Have you told Anastasia?”
“I haven’t broached that yet.” Ana’s watching me, listening. Her expression is intense but inscrutable.
“You should. There’s something else. Mrs. Reed has obtained a concealed-weapons license.”
“What?” Fear grips my heart.
“The details came up in our search this morning.”
“I see. When?”
“It’s dated yesterday.”
“That recently? But how?”
“She forged the papers.”
“No background checks?”
“All the forms are faked. She’s using a different name.”
“I see. E-mail the name, address, and photos if you have them.”
“Will do. And I’ll organize the additional security.”
“Twenty-four-seven, from this afternoon. Establish liaison with Taylor.” I hang up. This is serious.
“Well?” Ana asks.
“That was Welch.”
“Who’s Welch?”
“My security adviser.”
“Okay. So, what’s happened?”
“Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
“The asshole shrink should have found that out. Grief, that’s what this is.”
Damn. That hospital could have done a better job.
“Come.” I hold out my hand and Ana takes it without thinking. Then, just as abruptly, she snatches her hand away.
“Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion about ‘us.’ About her, your Mrs. Robinson.”
“She’s not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place.”
“I don’t want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!” she yells.
I take my phone and call the salon. Greta answers immediately.
“Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey.” She puts me on hold for a nanosecond. “That’s fine. He can be there at one.”
“Good.” I hang up. “He’s coming at one.”
“Christian!” Ana glares at me.