This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Season 5 Episode 7
I can’t and won’t force Mare to go to the doctor as a requirement of going on the Las Vegas trip, especially since I fucking need her there, but I have a better way to convince her to see the doctor.
We’re sitting in my sparsely furnished GEH office down the hall from Christian’s when I decide to broach the subject with her.
“I don’t mean to make someone else’s phobias your responsibility, but I’m going to share something with you that normally, I wouldn’t, but under the circumstances, I don’t think he would mind.
“It’s public knowledge that Christian is adopted. We’ve both seen what kind of life he had with Grace and Carrick. What the public doesn’t know is what his life was like before he was adopted. Without betraying too much confidence, I can tell you that the first four years of Christian’s life were terrible. He lived in poverty and squalor, and he was often very, very hungry. From the way that he lived, I often wondered how he didn’t die of starvation.”
“Oh, my God,” Marilyn replies, covering her mouth. “I had a vague inclination… hints every now and then that his life wasn’t… ideal before he was adopted, but I had no idea.” I nod solemnly.
“We all know that he can be a bit bossy, but when he pesters you about eating, it’s more out of concern. He intimately knows the feeling of extreme hunger, and he has severe issues with wasted food and people not eating because he knows there are people out there who don’t have food. I would venture to say that my husband would feed the world’s hungry if he could. Most of our leftover food—and anything that’s about to expire when we restock the pantry—goes to food banks.
“Jesus,” she says, shaking her head. “That explains a lot.”
“You should’ve seen Mia’s reception,” I say. “As big as the Grammy’s and four or five choice gourmet meals for every person in attendance. She had a cake that, I think, was two and a half times her height, and she and Ethan cut it with a sword.”
“Oh, dear God. There’s no way you guys ate all that food. Christian must’ve had a cow.”
“Almost,” I say. “Mia had already arranged for all of the leftover food to go to homeless shelters, but my husband certainly had a huge problem before he discovered that.” Marilyn sighs heavily and deflates a bit.
“I just don’t want you to think that we’re treating you like a child,” I say. “You don’t look well at all, and if I’m concerned, I know that Christian is climbing the walls. Seeing you not eating or barely eating when you do isn’t helping.”
“Ana, I’m not doing it on purpose,” she excuses softly. “I actually miss eating some of my favorite foods, but my stomach just won’t let anything stay down.”
“Then, we need to start with a visit to your doctor and then to a nutritionist to see if we can work you into eating something more. Whatever is causing you not to be able to eat is going to have to stop, or you’re going to cause yourself some serious physical harm… and my husband is going to have a stroke trying to feed you.” She laughs somberly.
“Well, we don’t want that, but I’ve been to the doctor. She says there’s nothing wrong with me,” she says.
“Well, we’re going again,” I say, “and we’ll let her know what we think about the nutritionist, then we’ll go from there.”
Marilyn agrees, and I can tell that it’s reluctantly, but she has to know that things are only going to get worse before they get better if she doesn’t start eating soon.
Since the trip is next week, Marilyn manages to secure an appointment to go in to see the doctor on Wednesday. I ask if she minds if I go, too, and she allows me to go with her. I sit in the lobby while she’s being examined, but we both go into the office to talk to her doctor once the exam is complete.
“Well, Marilyn, there still aren’t any complications from the termination, but I can see why your family and friends are concerned. You’ve lost about twenty pounds since the procedure.” I turn a surprised gaze at Marilyn. Twenty pounds is a lot when you’re something like three percent body fat if that.
“I was thinking that we could get her in to see a nutritionist to help her to eat the right foods to put the weight back on,” I suggest desperately.
“In theory, that’s a good idea, but a nutritionist isn’t going to be much help if she doesn’t eat,” the doctor says. “I’m prescribing Pedialyte and Ensure just so that you can start getting some nutrients into your body…”
“Pedialyte?” Marilyn gasps. “Isn’t that for babies?”
“You’re not eating,” the doctor retorts. “You’ve got to get something into your body, no excuses. And Marilyn, this is prescribed, that means that you have to do it.” The doctor looks over at me and I nod.
“You can also do protein-rich smoothies, then work your way into lighter foods to get your stomach accustomed back to digesting more. You’re currently at risk of developing refeeding syndrome if you haven’t already since your body has been severely malnourished for the last few weeks. That could affect all of your major organs and, if not treated properly, it could even be fatal.”
That gets her attention.
“I can’t force my body to hold food down, Doc,” she complains. “What am I supposed to do?”
“It’s going to be trial and error,” the doctor tells her. “You’ll do the meal replacements that I suggested, and then you start introducing lighter foods into your diet to see what you can tolerate. Your only other option is to be hospitalized and put on a feeding tube.” Marilyn rolls her eyes.
“Okay,” she says with a heavy sigh. “I’ll do my best.”
“Nobody’s telling you to eat a five-course meal,” the doctor advises. “That could actually do more harm than good right now. Do the meal replacements—try others if you like, Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, even the protein bars are good. Introduce food slowly, but introduce food, Marilyn. That’s probably why you can’t keep anything down—you’re trying to move too fast. And yes, you still have a nervous stomach brought on by stress. I know it’s easier said than done to remove stressful situations from your life, but you need to get started on it. Do some yoga or meditation. Seek out therapy or religious guidance…” Oh, fuck, wrong word.
“Okay, thank you, doctor,” I say, standing to my feet immediately to rescue Marilyn from having to hear about religious guidance. “Just for my own knowledge, she’s safe to travel, isn’t she?” Marilyn and the doctor both look at me.
“Did you have any reason to think that she wasn’t?” the doctor asks. Uh-oh, time to play dumb.
“Hey,” I say with a shrug, “I’m an M.D., too, and you just threw a term at me that I’ve never heard. I know that malnutrition and starvation can be very detrimental, but I’ve never heard of that refeeding thingy situation you were just talking about. You see that my solution was to take her to a nutritionist.”
“Oh, that,” the doctor says. “She should be fine. I can’t say what flying will do to her stomach in terms of motion sickness, but traveling won’t hurt her any. Just make sure that she gets her meal replacements—and at least a light soup of some kind—when she gets to where she’s going.” I nod.
“Is there anything that I—or we—should know about that refeeding thing? What to do or not to do?” I ask.
“Besides keeping an eye on her, I would say no. Honestly, the very best thing for her would be to take it easy—rest and try to recuperate from whatever has her in this state.” Yeah, tried that, didn’t work.
“Would some type of vitamin supplement help right now?” I press. The doctor ponders the thought.
“A women’s multivitamin would help,” she says. “Maybe even a prenatal vitamin. You want to look for something with magnesium, calcium, potassium… I also recommend sports drinks with high electrolytes, like Gatorade. If you find yourself weak, fatigued, light-headed, having trouble breathing or swallowing, you need to get to the hospital immediately.” Marilyn nods and stands to her feet.
“Thank you, doctor,” she says. “I’ll do everything you said.” The doctor nods and we leave the office.
“No knowledge of refeeding syndrome,” Marilyn says when we get back to the car. I frown.
“What?” I ask.
“You said that you had no knowledge of refeeding syndrome,” she says. “You’re a doctor, and if I remember correctly, your boyfriend-now-husband starved himself for five days when you two were fighting. You starved yourself for four when you were kidnapped. How is it that you have no knowledge of refeeding syndrome?” That’s an easy answer.
“I don’t remember a lot of the details, Mare, but I do remember that both times that we were rehydrated and refed, we were in the hospital. We were both on IV’s for at least 24 hours, and we both had soup as our first meal the moment the doctor said that it was okay to eat. Neither of us were on voluntary or involuntary starvation for two months, and as soon as the following day, we were both eating solid food with no problem keeping it down. There was no need for anyone to explain refeeding syndrome to us because we were directly under a doctor’s care, and no—I’m not familiar with every disease and syndrome there is out there. I’ve never heard of refeeding syndrome, but it does explain why you can’t keep all of your food down.” I can still tell that she’s looking at me skeptically.
“None of this had anything to do with being concerned if I could go to Vegas or not.” It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m not prone to lying.
“Truthfully, yes,” I reply without taking my eyes from the road. “It’s no secret that I’m concerned about your health, so you shouldn’t be surprised. And I already told you about Christian’s food issues and your visible loss of weight—20 pounds, Marilyn? For Christ’s sake! I know from my own weight that you’re not much over 100 to begin with and you lost 20 pounds! Jesus! The last thing any of us needs is for you to be stuck in one of the oh-so-loving facilities in fabulous Las Vegas! I don’t know if they’ve improved at all, but they were pretty shitty when I was in residence, and I was in a suburban hospital. Had she said anything different, I would have quickly put the kibosh on your trip to Vegas, which would have pissed both of us off, so hate me later.”
I’m suddenly lost in thought about why we’re going to Las Vegas and my horrible experience at the hospital—wanting to die and wondering why my mother didn’t want me, why any of this had to happen to me.
I’m concentrating on the road, but I honestly don’t know how I got from point A to point B, and I forgot Mare was in the car until she just said my name. I feel the tears on my face, and I realize that I’m in no condition to drive. I don’t know if I blinked out for just a moment or for several minutes, but I immediately pull over to the side of the road and put the car in park.
“You have to drive,” I say as I release my seatbelt and leap from the driver’s seat. I can only imagine the panic going through Chuck’s and Carol’s mind as they watch us switch seats while traffic is whizzing by, but in no time flat, we’re back on the road.
“It’s not that serious, Ana,” Mare says. “Well, it is that serious for me, but I’ll be okay.” I go fishing through my glove box for napkins or tissue and find one of Christian’s handkerchiefs in there.
“I’m very fond of you, Mare, but that’s not why I’m crying,” I say, wiping my face and my nose. “I’ve done everything possible to carry on with my life without thinking about that place and now, in less than a week, I’m going back—back to the horror; back to face those awful fuckers who did this to me. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I just know that I have to.”
“And in the meantime, you’re trying to take care of me,” she says, without looking over at me.
“You’re my friend,” I say. “You need me as much as I need you. I can’t lose you now.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Bosslady,” she says.
I’m white-knuckle gripping Christian’s hand as the GEH jet lands at McCarran Airport on Sunday afternoon. This is the last place in the world that I want to be, and to make a bad matter worse, the Paparazzi is here.
“Don’t worry, Butterfly,” Christian says. “The limos are coming right to the private hanger.” I nod, but don’t reply. Sure enough, a few minutes later, limos are lined up outside of the jet.
As we descend the stairs, I can see various members of the “press” off in the distance trying to get a shot of us. It gives me the willies and I nearly run down the stairs to the nearest limousine. Christian has to struggle to keep up. These are not rented limos; they’re directly from the Waldorf Astoria. Jason will secure our cars once we’re settled at the hotel.
There are several people in our party—my dad and Mandy, Al and James, Christian and myself, Vee, Marilyn, and various members of our security staff. Josh is holding down the fort at GEH, handling any PR questions or situations that may arise, but Vee is here with us to head off the press as this is an open case and none of us can say anything to them.
We’re here. We’re actually here. After all these years, it’s finally happening. Will I be able to tell my story in front of a jury? An audience? The people who attacked me? Dear God, give me strength.
“You alright, Sunflower?” my father asks, taking my hand from across the limo. I close my eyes and nod.
“I will be, Daddy,” I say, lacking the conviction of my words.
Mandy tries her best not to look awestruck as we travel down the Strip. No matter the time of day or night, it’s always Saturday afternoon on the Strip. I didn’t come down here a whole lot when I lived here, but whenever I did for whatever reason, it was always the same. Some little odd job or something would have me taking the Deuce down Las Vegas Blvd to downtown or to Fremont St, and I would have to sit in gridlocked traffic, watching the throngs of tourists walking across the street testing the cars and pretending that their bodies are made of “some other metal than earth.”
You know the theory that if you hate something, your friends are all supposed to hate it, too? I think everyone on this trip is trying to maintain that chain of thought. “Ana hates this place and we’re here on business, so we all have to hate it, too. Boo! Hiss!”
The car is eerily silent and out of respect to my utter abhorrence of this place, my family are all looking straight ahead—neither left nor right—some of them vainly attempting to ignore the splendor that is Las Vegas. I lay my head on my husband’s shoulder and close my eyes. I don’t have the strength to be “grown up” right now.
We pull up to the Waldorf Astoria to only a bit of press. I know they’ll be more before the week is out, probably before the night is over.
“How did they know where we were staying?” I ask in dismay.
“The limos,” Christian replies. “You know the drill, baby. They would have found out anyway.” I sigh. I want to cry.
“Yes, I do,” I say before donning my Jackie O’s. Christian squeezes my hand.
“Okay, so here’s the drill,” Vee says when the limos cruise to a halt. “Waldorf has agreed to keep the press out of the hotel during our duration. With the size of our party, the caliber of our rooms, and the reason for our stay, they were only too happy to oblige. As such, the Waldorf is Switzerland. You can go wherever you want inside the hotel, but if you leave the building, you must take security with you. Each of you will have your own detail and 24-hour access to them for when you would like to go somewhere.
“We’re all here to support Ana, and we all know how she feels about this place. With her permission, I can tell you all that she’s okay with it if you all decide that you want to go sightseeing or see a show or something. Once again, I just ask that you’re sure to take security with you when you do. Not only are we all strangers in a strange land, but as Ana’s support system, we all have proverbial press targets on our backs.”
Mandy shivers a bit at the analogy.
“Al is having the same conversation with James and Marilyn in the other limo if he hasn’t already. Ray, do you have a pair of sunglasses?” Daddy shakes his head.
“The sun has never bothered my eyes,” he says. She pulls a pair of Raybans from her purse.
“You’re going to need them here,” she says. “This is desert sun, it’s a whole different breed. Not only that, but the press can smell fear and curiosity and they’ll zero right in on you. It’s easier if you just hide your eyes.” She hands the glasses to Daddy and he scoffs.
“Young lady, I’m a Marine,” he says. “Two tours in the Gulf and I’ve dealt with the press before, but I won’t be difficult. I’ll wear your glasses.” He takes the glasses from Vee and puts them on.
“Thank you, Ray,” she says kindly. “No one—no one—speaks to the press but me. They’re going to say things to push your buttons, to try to elicit a response from you. You’ve got to tune them out. This is an open case and we can’t say anything about it—nothing. So, I have prepared responses and my own security detail if I have to be a decoy.”
While Vee was briefing us, security has flanked both cars and is waiting for us to exit. On Vee’s signal, they open the doors and create a wall between us and the press. The cameras are flashing and they’re all clamoring, so I can’t hear what anybody is saying, which is a blessing to me. Without looking left or right, and in the protective grasp of my husband, I walk into the hotel.
I breathe a sigh of relief once we’re inside, happy that I’m safe behind these doors from the prying questions of the press. Apparently, I deflate a little more than I intended because Christian catches me around the waist and quickly leads me to a seat.
“Annie?” I hear my dad’s concerned voice.
“I’ll get some water,” Mare says from off to my right. Jesus, am I going to be able to do this?
“Grey, party of 16,” I hear Jason say at the counter.
“Baby? Are you okay?” Christian’s voice now floats through the voices and I raise my head to gaze at him through my sunglasses.
“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I just got a little light-headed for a minute, that’s all.”
“Give her some air,” Vee says, and my family all part like the Red Sea. “Jason is collecting keys. Why don’t you all go over there and see which rooms are yours? Christian?”
Christian looks up at her like she has two heads. I touch his hand and he looks back down at me.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I just need to catch my breath. Get everybody situated. The sooner, the better.”
He looks at me uncertain and nods. Then he throws a glare back at Vee.
“Go,” she says, shooing him off. “If she swoons again, do you want her to be sitting here in the chair? Get things going!”
Reluctantly, he and my father walk towards the counter.
“I’ll go see what’s keeping Marilyn and that water. You’re okay?” Vee says.
“I’m fine. I’ll just stay here…” I look at all the security standing around me, “… with Agents K, C, B, and R.” I drop my head in my hand again in an attempt to stop the spinning. I’ve got to get a grip on this. I can’t be swooning and girly in court. I want to get these fuckers.
“Excuse me, aren’t you…”
I’m lifting my head to see who dares invade my space, but before I even make eye-contact, one of the security detail steps in front of me.
“Move on, please, ma’am,” he says in a completely official capacity. I hear the woman scoff, but I just put my head back down.
“I was just going to say ‘hello,’” she says affronted. I don’t have the strength to raise my head to greet her.
“Please, ma’am,” security says again, “move on.” He’s being as polite as he can be, telling her to move along and leave me be.
“Well!” she says, and finally moves on. A few moments later, Marilyn comes back with a bottle of water. I drink it down even though it doesn’t do much.
“What do you need, Bosslady?” she asks.
“I need to lie down,” I say, my voice low.
“Coming right up,” Christian says. “I’ve got our key.” He holds his hand out to me and I rise from my seat. I blindly follow him to the elevators, and I assume everyone else is getting their keys as well. Chuck rides with us all the way up to one of the upper floors—I don’t see which—and Christian leads me out of the elevator. Soon, Chuck is opening the door to the room and Christian leads me in.
Beautiful, as usual. I wouldn’t expect less.
The lobby was an elegant statement in marble, various textiles, and abstract decorations. Even in my compromised condition, I could appreciate the splendor.
Our suite is huge, decorated in black and white like a fancy condo, with sleek lines, luxurious textures, and geometric accents, complete with a baby grand piano. It has a large living room area, a large dining area, a huge bathroom with a sunken and jetted tub, hanging lamps, full open kitchen, a wet bar, a fitness room, and an enviable view of the strip. Home away from home, I guess. Right now, I’m only interested in that king-sized bed…
Christian wakes me in time to meet the family for dinner. I could do without it right now, but we need to go over the game plan, and I need to see Marilyn and make sure that she has gotten her Pedialyte, Ensure, soup, and Gatorade.
I lay in the bed, trying to find the strength to rise and face my family. I have no freaking idea how I’m possibly going to get through this. I was all gung-ho to nail these bastards to the wall, and now, knowing what’s ahead of me and with it being so close, I just want to run. I just want to go back home.
“God…” My voice is so squeaky that I barely recognize it. “I know that we haven’t had any intimate conversations lately, and I’m sorry about that. I know that when things go well, we often forget to pray. I think that should be the time that we pray the most because hell isn’t falling into our laps and we should be thanking You for peace. So… thank You for peace. Thank You for a wonderful life, and beautiful children, and a supportive family, and for having everything that I need. Thank You for all of my blessings and forgive me for not being more thankful more often.”
This is starting to sound like a speech.
“I’m having some trouble, God,” I continue. “I need Your help. I know in Your omnipotent wisdom that you will allow things to proceed as You see fit, but God, I need strength. I’m falling apart. I don’t know if I can do this.”
I begin to weep.
“All this time, this has been something in the future… something that I’ve been looking for and waiting for, and now it’s here. A few hours away, it’s in my face. I can’t chicken out now, but I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I need Your help. Please, I can’t do this without You. Give me strength to face these monsters and not cower in front of them. Please, don’t let me digress into this attack so far that I can’t function. Please, God, give me strength to say the right things and do the right things so that these bastards get what’s coming to them…”
Did I just say bastards while praying?
“Just… don’t let me fall apart, please? I appreciate it. Amen.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and sit up on the edge of the bed. I see that my phone is blinking with a notification from Facebook Messenger. It has to be Laura since I don’t have any other friends on Facebook yet. I open my messenger.
I didn’t know you were already in Vegas. I hope everything goes well. Keep me posted as much as you’re able.
You’re in the tweets, by the way—some good, some bad as you would expect, but I thought you might want to see this one about a certain lady who approached you this afternoon.
Oh, shit. I haven’t even been here for three hours yet and somebody’s already tweeting about me. Not totally sure if I should, I click the link to see the bad news.
There’s a picture of me looking like someone just shot my dog. It’s a profile and my head is down. I’m wearing my Jackie O’s and seriously, my face says that I’m just ready to climb under a rock and die. The caption, however, from sassyvelmalou is very insensitive.
Here sits Queen Anastasia Grey. She’s staying at the Waldorf in Vegas. She’s a snotty elitist who thinks she’s too good for the rest of us. I was only trying to speak and her security pushed me away like I was a panhandler begging for a dollar.
Now, I don’t know about Twitter at all or how to comment or follow comments or anything else, but this does nothing for that whole falling apart thing I was just praying about, until I see that Laura has linked some responses:
@sassyvelmalou Look at her, you insensitive twit. Don’t you know why she’s here? She’s here about that assault case when she was a kid. She probably wants to be anywhere else in the world and here you come acting like she’s here for your entertainment. Some people, I swear!
@sassyvelmalou She looks like somebody died. Leave her alone, for fuck’s sake!
And a third:
@sassyvelmalou Have you been living under a rock? Haven’t you been watching the news at all? Would you feel like sitting and chit-chatting with a stranger if you had to come to town rehash a to brutal and vicious beating? Go out and buy a clue, you idiot!
I must admit, I didn’t expect anyone in Vegas or the surrounding areas to be sympathetic to me. It’s refreshing to see, even though I know that there are just as many—if not more—who feel the same way as the invasive bitch who wrote the first tweet.
I’ve got enough on my plate to contend with to have to deal with some hateful bitch who’s angry that I didn’t take time out of my misery to say, “Hi!” You want to see a snotty elitist, bitch, you’re about to see one.
I screen shot the picture of me along with her Twitter handle. I click on her handle to see if she has a profile picture. Oh, goody! Her handle doesn’t only have a picture, but it also has a name. I didn’t get a chance to look at the woman, so I don’t know if this is really her, but we’ll find out soon enough.
I forward all the information to Christian with specific instructions. Then, I stand and find something comfortable to change into for dinner. By the time I come from the en suite from washing my face…
“What the fuck is this?” he says as he walks into the room with his phone in his hand. I begin to get undressed.
“That’s a picture of me in the lobby downstairs,” I say as I remove my travel clothes. “A woman was trying to speak to me while I was having that episode and security politely asked her to move on—emphasis on the politely. I lay down, I take a nap, I wake up, and Laura sends me this.” His expression hardens.
“Laura saw this?” he asks, appalled. “Australia Laura?”
“It’s on Twitter, Christian,” I say. He shakes his head.
“I don’t know anything about social media,” he says.
“That’s okay. You don’t need to. I’m not on Twitter and I saw it.” I remove my pantyhose and put on a red sarong skirt.
“I want you to find out her real name and if she’s staying in the hotel, have her kicked out. I don’t want to run into her again.”
Of course, Christian put his Amex Black on file. We’ve booked two penthouse suites with one bedroom, four Presidential suites with two bedrooms and three beds, and one Presidential suite with one bedroom—and we’re booked indefinitely. These people are at our fucking beck and call.
“Really?” he says. He almost sounds excited.
“Really,” I say once I tie my sarong and pull on a black crop top that crisscrosses at the abdomen with extra-long sleeves. “If it’s a problem, and only if it’s a problem, offer to pay for her room, but she has to go tonight. I’m not spending one evening in a hotel with that woman! She took a picture of me while I was trying to compose myself. Look at me! I look like hell—there’s clearly something wrong with me. Then, she posted it on Twitter with a derogatory caption!”
I begin to brush the sleep kinks out of my hair.
“Isn’t this exactly why we paid extra not to have the press in here? This is worse! This is personal! She called me an elitist because I felt like shit and my security told her to leave me alone. They don’t owe her an explanation. I don’t even know her.”
I retrieve my tinted moisturizer.
“If she doesn’t go, we go—us and all eight of our high-priced rooms, and you can make that clear. The Aria is right behind us. I’m sure they’ll be glad to take our money.” He’s fucking giddy.
“Your wish is my command, Your Highness!” he says, and he’s tapping into his phone as he’s leaving the room. For some reason, I don’t so much mind when he calls me that.
I cover my face with my moisturizer before I retrieve my lip gloss from the dresser and coat my lips. I slide into a comfy pair of black Jimmy Choo wedges and spritz on some perfume before I go into the living room.
“Perfect,” he says into the phone. “Take Jason with you, Mac. Meet us at Twist when it’s all done.” He ends the call.
“That was Vee?” I ask.
“She saw the tweet before you did,” he says. “She was trying to do damage control. As it turns out, the fact that we paid extra to assure that we wouldn’t be bothered by the press is a perfect reason to have her thrown out, not to mention the threat of losing eight premium rooms for an indefinite period of time. She did warn me, however, that this does in fact make us look elitists and that we may find that we are untouchable in some establishments.”
“Right now, Christian, that’s fine with me,” I retort. “I’m just trying to get through this damn trip. If I was here on vacation, traipsing happily through Sin City, I could understand her thinking I was elitist in having my security tell her to leave me alone. I’m here to testify in a case that involves a crime where I almost died, and an unborn child was killed. It’s not my fault that people are out of touch and she should have done some research before she tweeted that shit. If people are going to deem us untouchable because I don’t want to be bothered because I feel like I’m in hell, so be it. For every one establishment that won’t touch us, ten more will take our very green money and you know that I’m right.”
I march around him and head to the door, and he mocks an angry cat meow behind me.
Jason and Vee join us shortly after we’re seated at Twist, and Christian informs us that we’ll probably be having nearly everything on the menu. Twist is a themed restaurant built around the chef. So, that means really small servings that are meant to be tasted by everyone. Hence, there’s going to be a lot of food at the table tonight.
Marilyn barely picks at some of the food, taking very small tastes to appear to be eating. I know better, but I also know why.
“She’s still not eating,” Christian whispers.
“We talked about this, Christian,” I remind him. “She’s doing the best she can.”
He looks at me, then down at the food and continues to eat.
Small talk goes around the table through dinner and desert—and Marilyn’s nibbling—and once coffee is served, Christian takes the floor… or the table, so to speak.
“First, Butterfly and I would like to thank each of you for making this trip. I know that it means so much to her for you all to be here, and that means that it means a lot to me, too.
“Some of you haven’t experienced the kind of publicity and scrutiny that Butterfly and I have. You’ve seen it, but you haven’t experienced it. To that end, we definitely have a game plan for our stay here.
“Please, keep your room keys with you at all times. They’re not only your identification, but they’re also your keys to any services in the hotel—any services, and for what I’m paying these people to maintain our comfort and privacy, trust me—they’re like gold. If you lose a key or misplace it, let Jason know immediately. Also, if you have any excursions or shows that you want to see while you’re here, let Jason know. He’ll get it set up for you. Each of the rooms has a tranquility day pass, so ladies—and gentlemen, if you wish—the spa is at your disposal.
“We’re all here to support Butterfly. She needs each of you here in one way or another. So, please, don’t nitpick about the price of anything. Whatever you want to do, whatever show you want to see, wherever you want to go, please let Jason know. When we’re not tied up in that horrible trial, Vegas is your playground. My only request is that you don’t go out and get stone-cold pickled drunk and not be able to be in court in the morning. That is, ultimately, why we’re all here. We have to be in court by 9:00am every morning. The cars will be ready to leave at 8:00am each morning because we have to contend with the traffic on the Strip and the rush hour traffic on the I-15. Please govern yourself accordingly.
“Butterfly and I plan to be here indefinitely—from trial to sentencing. It’s our understanding that once the verdict is handed down, the sentencing will be very shortly thereafter. As we don’t have a timeframe for this, if anyone needs to get back to Seattle on short notice, let me know. If you give me at least 24-hours-notice, I can get the jet out here. If not, we can get you the soonest commercial flight. Depending on the length of our trip, Butterfly and I will be flying back some weekends to see our children. Anyone is welcome to fly back with us.”
By our children, I’m certain that he means Minnie and Mikey… and GEH.
“You already know not to speak to the press. Mac, how did that situation go?”
“As planned,” she says. “It will be executed upon her return to the hotel.” Al looks at me, then at Christian.
“What happened?” he asks succinctly.
“Someone took a picture of Butterfly in the lobby earlier and Twittered that she’s a snobby elitist because she wouldn’t talk to them while she was indisposed,” Christian replies.
“Tweeted, Christian, tweeted,” Vee says. “I can’t believe you’re this ignorant to social media.”
“I have no use for it,” he excuses. “I have you.” She just rolls her eyes.
“Each of you have a security detail for when you decide to go off on your own. Even if you go to the bathroom in the courthouse, someone’s going to follow you to the door. If you’re approached by the press or anyone else, please do not engage. I can guarantee you that they’re all looking for information, especially when they discover that you’re with us. They can be vicious, and they will try to egg you on.
“To give you an example, I saw a clip a long time ago where Rebecca Romijn Stamos was leaving the airport. The paparazzi was trying to get her attention, and when she didn’t respond, one of the reporters yelled out that it was no wonder John Stamos divorced her. I only remember that because I thought it was pretty shitty, and I use it to remind myself that reporters—and anyone trying to get a story—can be real fucking assholes.”
Jesus, that was cold.
“So, if someone gets too pushy or aggressive, lean to your security. That’s what they’re there for,” Christian adds.
“Good grief. This is going to be an adventure,” Mandy says. Ray takes her hand protectively.
“Are there any questions?” he asks. No one speaks up. I think they’re all a little shell-shocked. This isn’t Marilyn’s first time at the dance, but I don’t think Al has had this much exposure and I’m sure that Mandy and James haven’t. Daddy’s had a taste, but probably only as much as Al.
“I have a question. If I may ask, I’m just curious… how many different names does she have?” Vee asks, pointing to me. Everyone looks at each other.
“Butterfly… or Anastasia,” Christian says. He better not mention Pussycat!
“Annie or Sunflower,” Daddy says.
“Jewel,” Al chimes in.
“Ana,” James says, with a shrug. “Sorry, not very original.”
“Bosslady,” Mare says, and everybody looks at her. “It was my choice I like it!” she says all in one breath. “I heard this girl call her boss Bosslady on a sitcom once and it just stuck.”
“No need to explain it, Mare,” Al says.
“I like it, too,” I chime in quietly.
“Her Highness,” Jason says, and I groan. “You started it.” I roll my eyes at him.
“I don’t call her Her Highness,” Chuck clarifies. “I only do it when they make me.”
“That’s a lot of names,” Vee says.
“Val calls me Steele; Mia calls me Anakins; Elliot calls me Montana… That’s all I can think of right now.”
“That’s enough!” Vee says. “I only have Vee and Mac. I feel deprived.”
The table breaks into some much-needed laughter.
“Well, campers, tomorrow is day one. We set the stage for how the week is going to go. I’m going to take my girl back to the suite to unwind and get some rest. I have wake-up calls set for everyone at six. If you need a different time, call down to the front desk and change it. Just be mindful of the 8:00 meeting time. We’ll see you all in the morning.”
As we’re passing the front desk on our way to the elevator, we hear a bit of a commotion.
“What do you mean I can’t stay here tonight? I have a convention to attend in the morning! I can’t find anywhere to stay on such short notice!”
It’s Velma. She has just been informed that she won’t be welcome at the Waldorf Astoria, and she’s kicking up some dust! She’s being told that she violated the privacy of one of the guests and that’s against the policy of the hotel. My wife suddenly detours from the elevator, to my surprise, and goes over to the seat where she was sitting earlier, and she now has a bird’s eye view of the front desk and can hear the entire conversation.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she nearly screeches. “So, her money says that she can stay, but I can’t?”
“No, ma’am,” the night manager says. “Your money is as green as hers and I resent the implication. Your behavior says that you can’t stay here and making a scene isn’t going to change that.”
“I’m calling the corporate offices! This is ridiculous! You can’t just throw me out! Where will I find another room this late?” She’s on the verge of having a conniption. Butterfly crosses her legs, leans her chin on her hand, and turns purposefully towards the front desk to watch the show. I perch on the arm of her chair and Chuck stands protectively behind us.
“Feel free to call the corporate offices, ma’am. They’re closed right now, so you’ll have to call them in the morning. In the meantime, hotel security will accompany you to your room to collect your things.”
“I have nowhere to go!” she says, bursting into tears. I almost want to tell the manager to let her stay the night… almost.
“Las Vegas Blvd is full of hotels, ma’am. I’m certain that you’ll be able to find somewhere else to stay,” the manager contends.
“I’m not leaving!” she says, folding her arms. “You can’t just put me out like this!”
“That’s your choice, ma’am, but if you refuse to leave, I’ll be forced to call the authorities.” I can see her face pale from here.
“You would have me thrown in jail?” she asks, appalled.
“I don’t know what the authorities would do, ma’am, but I would be forced to call them to have you removed,” he says calmly.
“Get your boss on the phone right now! My company spends just as much money at this hotel as she does, and I’ll make sure that you’ll lose all of their business!” she threatens.
“And who is your company?” the manager asks unfazed.
“Bolding Industries,” she announces proudly. I scoff involuntarily. Butterfly looks at me.
“One of yours?” she asks. I shake my head.
“No, but I have a bit of influence with them. She’s giving me so much more information than I could have found on Twitter.” I fold my arms.
“Well, ma’am, we would hate to lose Bolding’s business, but nonetheless, you have to leave.” He turns to hotel security. “Please escort Ms. Hearns to collect her things.” Velma folds her arms again. The night manager is done talking and picks up the phone.
“Yes, this is Stannis Barley at the Waldorf Astoria on Las Vegas Blvd. I have a guest here who has been ejected and she refuses to leave… Yes, sir, in front of the Aria… She’s making a terrible scene and I’ve asked her several times to leave…”
Velma huffs and heads to the elevator with hotel security close behind her. She doesn’t look left or right as she walks to the bank of cars and never sees me and my wife sitting in the main lobby. When she boards the elevator, I walk over to the night manager, who’s still talking to the police.
“Please come,” he says. “She’s uncooperative and I don’t expect her to leave without incident… thank you.” He ends the call and turns to me. “I apologize for that, sir. How can I help you?” I pull out my business card and slide it to him.
“I doubt that you’ll have any problems with Bolding Industries, but if you do, please call my office.” He looks at the card.
“Oh!” he says. “You’re Mr. Grey?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you for taking care of that. My wife was devastated to see that ridiculous post.”
“No problem, Mr. Grey. The police are on their way and Ms. Hearns will definitely be escorted off the premises. I don’t know who you called, but this order came straight from corporate. So, if she calls them like she said she would, she’s going to be disappointed.”
Mac is getting a raise.
“Thank you, Mr. Barley. You have a good night.”
Butterfly is in a good mood when we board the elevator, but her mood plummets the moment we get to the suite. The reason for our visit must have hit her again like a wrecking ball.
She walks to the bedroom like she’s going to the gallows. I enter behind her as she has started undressing.
“Do you need to talk?” I ask. “It’s been one hell of a day.” She shakes her head.
“No,” she says, and it sounds like she’s about to say something else, but she doesn’t. She’s lost, and I can tell. I hate when she’s like this and I can’t do anything to help her.
I watch as she strips down to her underwear and removes her bra. When she’s standing there in nothing but her panties, I stand behind her and put my arms around her. I kiss her neck and gently cup her breasts. She smells divine, and I can tell that she’s still very tense. I take her hand and lead her to the bed. She dutifully lies on her back looking up at me. I bend down and kiss her gently on the lips before looking into her eyes.
“This is for you… not for me,” I say softly. Her brow furrows a bit and she looks at me questioning. I kiss her again and move to her neck, then the valley of her chest. I unbutton my shirt and move to her breast, suckling the nipple gently. A very small amount of milk seeps from her nipple and turns me on. She hasn’t been producing as much milk since she stopped breastfeeding a week ago, and I must admit that I’m going to miss it, but I won’t aggravate it since she has agreed to stop.
I remove my shirt as I move to the other nipple and remind myself that this is not for me. This is for her, to help her relax.
I move down her body to her taut belly and trace the lines of her abs, amazed that she’s still so fit after giving birth to twins. I toe out of my shoes as I run my tongue above the elastic line of her panties. She gasps as her stomach quivers slightly, and I move further down and settle between her legs. I delight in the feel of the skin of her thighs on my biceps taking what joy I can from this skin-to-skin contact.
I place my nose directly over her core and sniff deeply through her panties. Dear God, I don’t know how I’m going to do this without wanting her. I’ll take care of her, then go rub one out in the shower when I’m done.
I lick the surface of her pretty little nylon panties and she nearly erupts. Oh, yeah, she’s wound really tight. If I’m not careful, she’s going to blow in 30 seconds.
“Relax, baby,” I coach. “I’ve got you.”
Her body is still quivering, and her chest is heaving slightly. I lick her pussy through her panties again… and again. She mewls as I lick her and I’m trying to prepare her for when I lick her raw, but I see that nothing’s going to prepare her for it, so… why wait?
I lift the crotch of her panties from her core and press my thumb through the seam. The threads give way easily and I rip the seam up to the top of her pussy, effectively creating crotchless panties and exposing her entire delicious cunt. I pull the sides of the panties open and her clit pops out anxiously, plump and wet and ready for action.
I run the stiff tip of my tongue from the bottom of her inner lips, up and over her clit. She yelps, so I do it again… and again. I can see her grabbing the pillow over her head as I torment her, taking a break for about a second between each lick so that she doesn’t rise too fast.
“Christian… yes…” she breathes, and although I adore the taste of her, I’m so happy that she’s finally loosening up. I lick a few more times before I change my rhythm. Still using the stiff tip of my tongue, I flicker over the same area—inner lips to clit. She begins to rise higher, of course, now squirming underneath me and moaning deeply in pleasure, calling to God every few flicks. It sounds a bit strange to me as I heard her praying earlier, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking of the same “God” as she calls out in pleasure that she does when she calls out in prayer.
Focus, Grey. I know you’re trying not to come while you’re salivating on this hot, delicious pussy, but this train of thought is ridiculous. Back to the pussy…
She’s settling into the rhythm of the flicker. It’s time to change again before she comes too soon. I move from a flicker to a circular motion over the same area, this time inside the inner lips and around to just underneath her clit and back. The flicker gave her so much stimulation over the tip of her clit that if I circle over it, she might detonate before I’m ready. An orgasm that comes too quickly may relieve the need to come, but it does nothing for stress.
Her hands have moved down to her sides and are now clutching the duvet. Her body is convulsing a bit and she’s anxious to come. I’m anxious for you to come, baby, but not yet.
I want this to be deep and hard for her, so after a few minutes of the circular cooldown, I move back to the flicker with a combination of the bottom-to-top lick that I started with. The stiff tongue is merciless; it concentrates stimulation right where you want it instead of spreading it across the entire pussy. She’s calling out to God again as I hold that pussy open and that tender flesh effortlessly reaches out to my tongue. Her body is starting to stiffen, and her legs have just the slightest tremble. Not too much, Grey, not just yet.
I go back to the circular motion, but this time, I lick deep inside the inner lips, up, under, and over her tightening clit. I know that it’s maddening, but she still won’t come just yet. This is just enough pleasure to keep her burning. I don’t torment her for long with that move, just a minute or two before I move on to my final rhythm.
Up and down and up and down, stiff tongue over and under that clit—up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down…
“Christian! Oh, God!” she’s panting hard now, signaling me that she’s about to come. I wait and continue my rhythm… up and down and up and down and up and down…
Her legs stiffen, her mons hardens, and her clit is starting to pebble, but still not yet… up and down and up and down and up and down…
Her head drops back, her hands are gripping the duvet with a fury, and her pelvis stiffens. She’s quiet—no more calling to God. She’s preparing for the explosion. That light sheen shows up on her torso.
Now, she’s ready.
Just when I’m sure that she can’t take anymore, I clamp down on her pussy with my entire mouth, devouring her core like a starving man, my tongue still firm and manipulating her clit. Almost instantly, she grabs my hair violently and howls out her orgasm, her body bowing forward into me and her juices nearly gushing into my mouth.
I have to hold her down and her howls become whimpering cries as her orgasm seeps out of her, and when it’s too tender for her to bear, she begs for me to stop my ministrations. I gently kiss her inner thighs, causing her to shiver and protest softly. Her hair is wild, and her chest is heaving madly as she tries to catch her breath. I remove what’s left of her panties and drop them on the floor, then I remove the rest of my clothes and drop them with her panties. I crawl into bed next to her and gather her in my arms.
“Are you cold?” I ask. “Do you want to get under the covers?”
“Make love to me, Christian,” she simpers, “please…” I pause.
“Are you sure?” I say, my brow furrowed. “I meant it when I said this was only for you.”
“Yes,” she breathes, “please…”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I say as I roll over on top of her. She thrusts her hands into my hair and kisses me hungrily. Shit, she’s on fire, and I’m rising very quickly. She wraps her legs around me before I even have a chance to get inside of her.
“Please… please…” she begs against my lips, and her pleas go straight to my already hard dick. I pull my hips back and she’s already wide open and so wet that my head slips right inside of her.
“Jesus!” I hiss and she gasps, pushing her hips forward onto me. Son of a bitch, she’s fucking hot.
“Ana… baby… slow down,” I warn. I have the vision of her pussy in my head and the taste of it on my tongue. She’s wrapped around me, pulling me into her and she’s gobbling my mouth like she’s trying to suck her flavor from my tongue.
“I can’t… please… I need you…” Shit, I’m at her mercy. With the perfect angle and her pussy sopping in cum and her newly heightened arousal, I slide right into her balls deep.
“Aw, fuck, Ana,” I lament. “This is gonna be quick.”
“Please, please…” she beseeches as if she didn’t even hear me. I’m blind with pleasure. This hot, gorgeous, sexy nymph wrapped around me and riding me from beneath—I have to thrust only slightly to get full penetration because she’s pumping so hard onto me that I can feel everything, all her insides everywhere! I thrust my tongue into her mouth and lap hungrily, succumbing to the passion as I grasp her shoulders, holding her as close to me as I can. She matches my fervor as she holds handfuls of my hair, lapping my tongue just as wildly and pulling every bit of pleasure from me imaginable.
I bend my knee for leverage so that she doesn’t push me away when she pumps up onto my cock. We’re both lost in the moment, the only sound in the room is our feverish breathing. God, she’s so sexy and so beautiful and she feels so good…
She screams into my mouth only a few minutes after I enter her, never breaking our kiss. The tortured sound coupled with the insane clamping on my dick, our unbelievable closeness, and the fact that she’s still fucking me like a goddamn racehorse sets me off so violently that my knee buckles and I fall onto her with my full weight. This doesn’t hinder her, though. Somehow, with my entire body weight pressed onto her, she’s still fucking me, crying out her orgasm and drawing every bit of semen involuntarily out of my balls.
I dare not move my mouth until she stops. She’s stuck in one of the longest, single orgasms I’ve ever seen her have and my cock is giving it his best fight. Her pussy is clamped so tight onto me that even if I was flaccid, she could still get results. My balls are empty, though, popping and tender, and my dick sighs its own sigh of relief once my wife’s body falls limp on the bed.
We’re both panting and sweating, trembling and nearly crying. I didn’t intend to have sex with her. I just wanted her to come so that she could relax… but then she begged me, and dear God! I can’t even move.
How are we going to get under the covers now?
A/N: “Some other metal than earth”—Beatrice’s character in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing says that she would not fall in love until God made men out of “some other metal than earth,” meaning never. She ended up falling in love with Senior Benedict, by the way.
“The Deuce” is the name of the bus that travels down the Las Vegas Strip from the south end at the Las Vegas Premier all the way downtown and back.
Yes, that incident with Rebecca Romijn Stamos really happened. I think I saw it on TMZ.
Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/grey-continued-misadventuresseason-v/
Pictures from the trip to Las Vegas can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/grey-continued-las-vegas/
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