Grey Continued: Episode 22—It’s Time For Letting Go

PLOT EXPLANATION—In Carla and Wendy’s defense (OMG, she’s defending Carla? Yes, just this once), you can turn over a new leaf and become a better person. You just can’t go back and undo the things that you did. So, Carla has decided, “I’m a shit person, I need to change,” and she did… but that didn’t help Ana at all. When she could help Ana, she was that shit person, and she stayed that shit person for a long time and that’s all Ana knows. Since we see the story through Ana’s eyes, that’s all we know. 

Wendy met Carla after she shed the shit person, so she doesn’t know the shit person. She knows the “wonderful” person that Carla is now, that everybody else knows. Think about it—how many people pre-Stephen Morton are still in Carla’s life? How many people really know what type of person she was?

Think about if you meet someone and they have a wonderful spirit and wonderful characteristics. You get to know them, you like them a lot, you become friends. Then they tell you, “I used to be a really bad person,” and they proceed to tell you all the horrible things they did before they changed including alienating a child. You may say, “Wow, you did all that?” But, if you’re human, you’ll then say, “It’s a good thing you turned your life around.” This is the view that everyone post-Stephen Morton has of Carla. Ana’s camp is pre-Stephen Morton (as are all of us) and that shit ain’t flying with us.

I’m only saying that to say this. Be angry at Carla—we all are, but don’t be angry with Wendy. Wendy doesn’t know the same Carla that we do. Carla told Wendy about her past and Wendy chose to gauge her on her present instead of judging her on her past. She only brought it up to Ana once and told her that Carla was sorry. Ana told Wendy that she wasn’t going to discuss it, and Wendy respected that and never brought it up again. However, Wendy still loves the friend that she knows, just like Ana (and we) despises the woman that she (and we) knows.

I hope this sheds a little light on the subject.

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…

Episode 22—It’s Time For Letting Go

ANASTASIA

We decide to have dinner at a French restaurant called the Picasso in the Bellagio Hotel. As it turns out, they have a dress code and almost turned Sophie away because of her sandals. I wasn’t going to argue. Anyone who doesn’t want my green money, I can take it elsewhere, but Chuck sees the disappointment on Sophie’s face, and speaking of green money…

He leans in to the host and whispers, “C’mon man, she’s 13.” I see him discreetly slide something to the host and when he takes a closer look at it, his eyes sparkle.

“Well,” he says, “I guess we can make an exception just this once.”

I know that Christian doesn’t carry anything smaller than $100 bills in his pocket. I wonder if it’s the same with his security, because I know a twenty wouldn’t have elicited that kind a sparkle.

For kicks, I ask Sophia what she would like. She studies the menu for a moment and then announces that she would like the Menu Dégustation without the Sommelier’s wine pairing. I raise a brow at her.

“What’s on the Menu Dégustation?” I ask. She twists her lips.

“Aunt Ana are you testing me?” she asks.

“Kinda,” I admit. She looks at the menu.

“The Chef’s feature—Jamón de Bellota, Iberico, Cinco Jotas—is ham, like prosciutto. The first course, lobster salad, easy enough. The second—pan seared scallop with jus de veau, that’s veal broth. The third—Foie Gras—that’s liver, probably duck, but they’ll have to hold the honey caramel cognac from mine. And for the main course, we already had Wagyu at Once and the halibut seems plain, so I’ll be choosing the roasted tournedos loin of Colorado lamb.” She puts the menu down and awaits my response.

“Wow,” I say. “I’m equally impressed and appalled.” She frowns.

“Why are you appalled?” she asks.

“You’re 13,” she says. “I speak French—that’s why I knew what those things were. You know way more about international foods than I do, and I’ve been to France. That means you’ve had quite a bit of time on your hands.” She shrugs again.

“It happens,” she says, nonchalantly. “We all know about Mom and how I started watching cooking shows.”

“What about school and friends?” I ask.

“School’s fine, but boring. I catch on to everything kind of fast, so… And my friends, they’re cool. We talk on the phone and stuff, hang out at school, but some of the stuff they like I don’t like… and none of them are really interested in cooking.”

“Do you still feel left out?” I ask.

“Only when they start talking about boys they like,” she admits before dropping her head. “I don’t like any of the boys at my school. I’ll probably never have a boyfriend.”

That’s because you’re too busy pining over Marlow, but I don’t say that out loud.

“You never know what the future holds, Sophie,” I tell her. “You’re still so young. You’ve got your whole like ahead of you. Wonderful things could happen.” She fakes a faint smile.

“Yeah, I know,” she says dismissively, and that’s my cue to change the subject.

“Okay, enough of this depressing crap. What did you think of the show?”

And now, her eyes are alight with excitement. She can’t stop talking about “O” all the way through dinner. Even though we could see the changing of the stage from solid to pool, she was still mesmerized by the transformation of the floor to accommodate the different scenes. She pays so much attention to detail that she was the most astonished by the fact that whenever the performers went slowly in and out of the water, their facial expressions didn’t change. They didn’t take deep breaths to prepare for submersion; they didn’t close their eyes—they just came out and went back in like the water wasn’t even there.

And the Marlow crisis is averted.

As Sophie sleeps in the Romper Room suite with the twins and Keri, Gail and Jason take the suite that Daddy had for a little privacy for the evening. I check on my babies and kiss them Goodnight, then check in on Marilyn, who gives me a brief update of all things Helping Hands and Seattle before I head back to my husband and our suite.

“Did you get any rest?” I scold when I see him in the office portion of the suite.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking up from the computer and removing his glasses, “not a lot, but some. You know I can’t really sleep without you, but I was beat.” He walks over to me and kisses me quickly on the lips. “How was the show?”

“Phenomenal!” I tell him. “The performers were unbelievable. Their control and precision were outstanding. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life!”

“Not even Moulin Rouge?” he baits.

“Christian, not even Moulin Rouge. This show was a completely different setting and caliber. I wouldn’t even know how to compare it to Moulin Rouge, but on content alone—better, much better.”

“Wow,” he says, “I’m a little jealous that I didn’t go, but you were right. I was exhausted. As riveting as the show may have been, I most likely would have fallen asleep, and that wouldn’t have made you happy.” I chuckle.

“No, it wouldn’t. Anything new on the home front? How’s GEH?”

“Same old, same old,” he says going back to his computer. “The new initiatives we put in place are working like a charm. People are finally beginning to value their jobs again.”

“Good, because while I love the whole power couple thing, I don’t want to do it as a full-time job,” I say following him back to the office area. “I realize I can’t just drop the ball and run, but I do have Helping Hands to be concerned about. Mosele, however, has one more time to pull that sideways shit on me that he did and I’m going to bounce him out on his ass on GP!” He chuckles.

“I’m surprised you haven’t done it before now,” he says, “but giving him a day or two off was enough to scare him straight. In case he is bounced out on his ass, he knows he’s going to have a record of insubordination. That doesn’t fare well for him.”

“His mouth doesn’t fare well for him,” I respond, stretching my neck. “I take it Jason and Gail are still enjoying Vegas.”

“I think they are,” he says.

“They needed it,” I say with a yawn.

“And you need some rest,” he says. I stretch.

“Christian, my mother is exhausting me,” I admit. He stands from the chair again.

“That’s it—bath, then bed, and if you don’t go to sleep, I’ll eat you to sleep.” I sigh.

“Christian, I can’t possibly have sex tonight,” I protest.

“I didn’t say I’d fuck you to sleep, I said I’d eat you to sleep. Come on, let’s go…”

As much as I would have liked it, I didn’t need the cunnilingus. I fell asleep in the bathtub and had to be carried to the bed.

*-*

Wendy’s there when we get there. I have the sneaking suspicion that she never left, even though I don’t remember if she was wearing the same clothes. She tells me that my mother has had several visitors, but that it’s done very little for her spirits. Wendy pulls me out to the hallway to talk to me.

“She’s extremely depressed,” she says, “as I would expect her to be for finding out that she can’t walk. It’s going to take a lot of therapy to bring her out of this, and not just the physical kind. One of her greatest joys was being able to help the people at the rehab center. Now, she may very well be one of the people at the center.”

“Do you think she would want to do rehab at the place where she worked?” I ask.

“Honestly, I don’t know, I was speaking metaphorically,” she points out, “but, no, I don’t think she would want that…”

“Wendy!”

Wendy turns to the man who’s walking towards her with purpose.

“For the love of God, it took you long enough,” she says and embraces the man warmly. I’m assuming he’s a brother or something. The embrace was more familial than romantic.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been here,” he scolds her. “I was out of town for the last two days, so don’t give me any of your lip.”

“Well, get in there,” she says, shoving him towards the door. He moves to go into my mother’s room, then looks at me and does a double take.

“You’re Anastasia,” he says, and now I examine him a bit. He’s an older, attractive gentleman, a little older than Chuck maybe… maybe Jason’s age.

“Yes?” I say, questioning.

“She hasn’t told you about me. That’s discouraging.” Who is this guy?

“She hasn’t had much time to tell me anything at all,” like key details of the accident, for instance. He extends his hand to me.

“I’m Abramio Cicci. You can call me Abe.” I cautiously take his proffered hand.

“Abe.” I’m still full of questions why I should know who this guy is.

“I’m—for lack of a better word—dating Carla.”

Dating Carla? He’s dating my mother?

“You know she’s my mother, right?” I ask. He laughs.

“Yes, Ana, your mother is seven years my senior,” he replies, answering my unasked questions.

“You also know that we don’t speak,” I continue. “I’m only here to make sure she’s squared away.” He nods sadly.

“Yes, I know the whole story,” he confesses. “I was hoping that this whole situation—the accident and the trial—would have changed some of that. I’m sure that she was hoping, too, though she won’t admit it.”

“It’s a bit too complicated to discuss with someone I barely know,” I say dismissively.

“I understand,” he says, sadly, then turns to Wendy, who just purses her lips. “I’m going to go in now.” Wendy nods and he goes in.

“Hm, my mother has a boyfriend,” I say.

“Of sorts,” Wendy says. I turn to her, but I say nothing. “She won’t let him get too close. He clearly adores her, but she handles him with a long-handled spoon.”

“Well, maybe that’ll change now,” I say. “She needs all the support she can get.” Wendy raises her brow at me, and her eyes say what I know her mouth won’t.

And yet, she doesn’t have yours.

I’m not moved by her internal judgment. I got past it the day I cried off the nurses talking about me at the nurses’ station. In fact, Christian was summoned to the administrative office to speak to someone about their behavior as soon as we got to the hospital this morning… and none of those nurses are on duty now. It could be that they’re not on shift anymore, but I don’t care.

“You really don’t know your mother that well,” she says, matter-of-factly. “She’ll probably push him away more now than she did before.” I raise my brow at her.

“Why?” I ask.

“She doesn’t want to lean on anyone. She’s only begrudgingly allowing me to help her. She thinks Abe is only with her out of gratitude and when that wears off, he’ll be gone. My guess is that now, she’ll push with all her might to keep from getting hurt.”

She doesn’t stay to explain. She just walks away down the hall to parts unknown. I’m certain that she’s not leaving. She’s probably just giving my mother and Abe some privacy. I look in the window at them and Abe is sitting on the bed facing my mother, gently cupping her cheek.

I stand there for a moment and watch what appears to be a tender exchange between the two of them for about five minutes before I decide that I want to know more about this guy and their relationship. I open the door a bit to come inside and hear my mother doing exactly what Wendy said she would do.

“It’s no use, Abe. I’m already too old for you and now, I’m a paraplegic. This would be the sum-total of your life if you stayed with me. I can’t do that to you. You’re young, attractive, and you still have many good years ahead of you. It’s not fair. I can’t do that to you, Abe. I can’t…”

“Don’t you get it yet?” he asks, his voice beseeching. “I’m not going away, Carla. I’ll never leave you. I love you.”

“Abe… you’re a wonderful man. Don’t make me send you away. Will you just go willingly, please?” Her voice is cracking. He sighs and stands.

“I’ll leave right now, Carla,” he says. “I’ll give you a little time and a little space, but not much. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, no matter what you say.” He leans over and kisses her gently on the cheek and then the hand before he throws a longing gaze at her and heads towards the door. He nearly bumps into me as he’s leaving, his eyes glassy and reddening with unshed tears. He says nothing as he scurries past me out the door and down the hall.

My mother apparently doesn’t know I’m standing in the door just as her suitor leaves.

“Oh, Steve. We’ve fucked up everything,” she sobs. “Why can’t I just let you go?”

She weeps bitterly into her hands and when I see that she’s just not going to stop, I enter her room. When she looks up and sees me, she reaches for a tissue to clean her face. She’s so waterlogged that the tissue does nothing more than turn to wet balls of cotton on her cheeks. I go to her en suite and wet a clean washcloth with cold water. When I return to her bedside, she’s still unsuccessfully trying to wipe her face with the tissue. I hand her the cloth and she buries her face in it, her sobbing continuing.

“Would you please give me a minute?” she asks, her voice muffled under the cloth.

“Why?” I question. They’re just tears.

“Just… please? Can I have a minute?” Now, you don’t want to show any weakness around me? Cut the crap.

“Why won’t you let that man love you?” I ask candidly. She raises puffy, bloodshot eyes to me. Boy, she looks like shit when she cries. Do I look this bad?

“You’ve never lost the man you love, Dr. Grey,” she says, her voice pained. “Yes, he was shit. He was shit all the way around. He was a horrible person—he was selfish and self-centered, self-serving, any ‘self’ word you could think of, that was Steve. But he was never unkind to me, and I loved him. I still do.” I shake my head.

“How could you love someone like that and hate Daddy?” The question is rhetorical; I don’t think I really want the answer.

“Something wrong in the belfry, I guess,” she says, gesturing to her head, “and I never hated Ray. I resented that he couldn’t give me what I thought I should have had, and I thought Steve would, but I never hated Ray. He was a good man. He always has been. He just… wasn’t meant for me.” I’ll say.

“He’s happy now,” I tell her. “He’s happier than I think I’ve ever seen him, except when you two were together in the beginning.” I fold my arms and examine my mother. “You have no one, Carla,” I say. “As far as you know, I’m walking out of this room one day with no intentions of coming back. Why won’t you let that man love you?”

That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’m going to make sure that she has all the medical care that she needs and then I’m leaving. I’m not staying here trying to reconcile with her. I don’t hate her anymore, but I still don’t want to be around her. I still can’t see her as part of my life.

“You have this man that genuinely loves you, who genuinely wants to be with you and care for you, even now, and you’re pushing him away. Why?”

“Because it’s not fair to him!” she wails. “I still love Steve!”

“And you’ll probably love him until the day you die, but he’s not coming back! Why not find happiness with the living…?”

Then it hits me.

Shit.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

This is the second husband my mother has lost to death. Even though she expected Stephen to die, she still wasn’t ready for him to go. She’s a professional fucking widow. Now, she’s tried to kill herself, and she’ll most likely do it again. She’s finally accepted the horror of what she did to me, and her life really isn’t worth anything to her anymore.

“Do I need to have you committed?” I ask. “Do you really want to die?”

The scary part about that is that she didn’t even flinch.

“I’m useless,” she says with no malice or emotion. “I’m hopelessly in love with a man that I’ll never see again because I don’t believe in that whole I’ll see you in heaven thing. If anything, I’ll see him in hell and it won’t be a loving and tender reunion, so there’s that. I found some kind of comfort and redemption in my miserable existence in taking care of other people—in being a health aide and helping those who couldn’t care for themselves. Now, I can’t even do that. I can’t walk. I can’t even do any of my volunteer work. You saw it long before now—the legs have nothing to do with it. I’m worthless.”

At one time, I really believed that. I don’t know what changed. I haven’t had this great epiphany like she’s suddenly a wonderful human being and we’ll live happily ever after, but something has definitely changed. I sigh.

“I’m going to make some arrangements for you to go to an inpatient program,” I tell her. “You’re a danger to yourself right now, so you’re going to need intense therapy. You’re going to need physical rehabilitation, too.” She doesn’t raise her eyes to me.

“Why bother?” she says, just above a whisper, and I don’t think it was meant for me to hear.

“Because I’m your last surviving relative and you’re my responsibility, and this is what I say you’re going to do.” She doesn’t respond. “I have to ask you this because I can’t wrap my mind around the answer that you gave me three years ago and I still can’t wrap my head around it now.” She raises her gaze to me.

“You once told me that Daddy was too small for you,” I say, “that you left him because you wanted more, yet the life that you lived with Daddy had more substance than the life that you lived with Stephen. I was there for three years—I saw it. You had the house and the furniture, but you couldn’t afford it. You couldn’t afford to live the way that the people around you lived; they didn’t like you; they talked badly about you; they wanted nothing to do with you.

“With Daddy, I was happy, we had friends, we both fit in as much as we could. Even now, you maintain that Daddy was too small and you don’t regret it. You don’t regret ripping our lives apart—repeatedly—and you never got this big life that you expected to get. Stephen Morton died, leaving you in worse shape than you ever would have been with Daddy! You had his medical bills; he couldn’t work; he left you nothing. How can you still contend that Daddy was too small for you? That he wasn’t for you?” She shakes her head.

“You may never get this, Anastasia,” she begins, “but I loved Ray as a result of marrying him. I married Steve as a result of loving him. Many of my decisions were butt-ass stupid and selfish and I get that. I accept that. I’ve paid for them more times than you’ll ever know, and it appears that I’m still paying for them now. Don’t misunderstand, Anastasia, I don’t feel sorry for myself and I don’t expect you to, either. In fact, I’m surprised that you’re even here. But if you want the real answer to that question, Stephen. Was. My. More! Alcoholic, lying, scheming, gambling, money-sucking, debt-ridden parasite that he was, he was my more!

“I loved him more than I can ever explain to you. Maybe that’s my penance for the horrible person that I am and the horrible things I did—the way I treated you, the way I treated Ray, the whole kit and caboodle! I fell for the ‘donkey,’ hook, line, and sinker. And I still love him now. And maybe you can’t understand that—hell, I can’t understand it sometimes, but it’s the truth. I would have followed him anywhere. I would have done anything he told me to do—and did! And no matter what you or anybody thinks of me, I’d sell my soul to the non-existent devil today to have him back!”

As odd as it sounds, I do understand how she feels. I’d live with Christian in a cardboard box…

But no way in hell would I sacrifice my children.

I don’t respond. I just leave the room and go to the nurses’ station.

“Yes, ma’am?” the young nurse says to me.

“Is Dr. Lee still on duty?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but I can page him and see,” she replies.

“Please?” I request and she nods. She dials some numbers on the phone and sends the page. “Can I tell him what it’s concerning when can responds?”

“Yes. Please tell him that there’s been a development with Carla Morton.”

*-*

“Dr. Grey, this is a very serious accusation, as I’m sure you know. Are you certain about this?” he asks.

“I’m about as certain as a psychiatrist who is this closely related to the patient can be,” I reply.

“But you said yourself that you haven’t had much contact with your mother,” he retorts. “No offense to you, doctor, but I have to be certain that we’re doing what’s in the best interest of the patient.” I nod.

“I see,” I say, “and notwithstanding the fact that before she was even conscious, I put my Amex Black down—which is still on file—and told you to give her the best care possible, you’re thinking that I’m not wanting what’s in the best interest of the patient because I’ve been estranged from her for several years and I’m not all warm and fuzzy right now? Is that it, Dr. Lee?”

I can tell by his expression that’s exactly what he thinks even before he opens his mouth to say my name.

“I’ll tell you what, Dr. Lee,” I say, interrupting him. “You’re obviously not going to listen to me, my suggestions, or what I feel is best for my mother. So, she’s in your care now. You do what you feel needs to be done for her since you’re convinced that I don’t care, but while you’re sitting on that ‘God’ horse, consider this.

“I just told you that I think that woman is suicidal; that she drove her car off that bridge and it was not an accident; that she feels that she is no use to anyone anywhere especially since she’s paralyzed and even in that condition, I think she’s a danger to herself. I have given you my professional opinion as a doctor sworn under the same oath you took, and I have made a personal request as her daughter and next of kin. You can get her the psychiatric evaluation that she needs to determine if she’s in any imminent mental or emotional danger, or don’t, if you choose not to do so. Either way, if she hurts herself, it’s on you. And if she really drove her car off that overpass, you can believe that she’s going to hurt herself. Trust me, I’m a professional,” I add sarcastically.

“Let me know what you decide.” I turn and walk away down the hall towards the elevators without another word.

---

CHRISTIAN

“I understand your concern, Mr. Grey.”

I’m sitting at the side of a conference table with members of the hospital board as well as a patient advocate—more like a patient’s family advocate. She’s here on my behalf. The gentleman speaking right now is Milton Banks, CEO. I’ve explained the behavior of the nurses and the doctor in the ICU and many of them are appalled by their behavior. One or two sit silent and stoic.

“I agree that no one should be treated that way while seeing to the care of a family member,” he continues.

“It’s deplorable, Mr. Banks,” the advocate points out. “Whatever Dr. Grey’s relationship may be with her mother, no one can say that she hasn’t acted in Carla Morton’s best interest since she entered this hospital. Since when are family members required to behave in a manner that’s acceptable to staff in order to be treated with respect?”

“They aren’t, Mrs. Riddick,” he replies.

“Well, someone clearly forgot to tell the nurses on the second floor!” she retorts. “I’m not sure you know who the Greys are, but they are very powerful people…”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Riddick, the fact that they’re powerful doesn’t entitle them to any extra privileges.” This statement comes from one of the stoic, silent women at the end of the table.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Mrs. Riddick says, throwing a pointed glare at the woman before continuing. “As I was saying, the Greys are very powerful people, but they’re not asking for any special treatment. They’re only asking for the respect that you would give any other family member of a patient in this hospital. Are they entitled to that?”

She asks the last question so firmly that the bitch at the end of the table shuts her mouth and doesn’t say another word.

“Mr. and Dr. Grey were already in Nevada dealing with a horridly taxing situation only to discover that Dr. Grey’s mother had been involved in a near-fatal accident in the midst of it, one that left her paralyzed and comatose, thereby requiring constant attention from Dr. Grey while she’s still dealing with this original issue. She’s already dealing with that wretched trial—of which, by the way, she was the victim and the defendant was found guilty, for anyone who might be concerned—and then she had to come to the hospital and deal with the scrutiny of a bunch of supposed professionals who should already know a thing or two about bedside manner and family treatment.

“Now, after informing this room that he has to listen to his emotionally fragile wife come home and cry nearly every day, Mr. Grey has to sit here and listen to the powers that be tell him that his family isn’t entitled to any special privileges when your staff didn’t even extend them the general respect that they were entitled to!

“She’s been in this hospital nearly every day seeing to the care and condition of her mother, and they’re putting her in judgment because she’s not crawling on the floor in concern and contrition? They have no idea what that relationship is like or, evidently, what Dr. Grey is going through and quite frankly, it’s none of their business! Their only concern is to provide quality care to Mrs. Morton and to show respect and professionalism to Dr. Grey, who is the next of kin and decision-maker in this case. Are you suggesting that because they’re powerful, they’re not entitled to that?”

Go, Mrs. Riddick!

She glares at the sow that made the statement, who still sits mute at the end of the table.

“Of course, that’s not what we’re saying, Mrs. Riddick,” Mr. Banks says, glaring at the same woman before turning back to the patient and family advocate. “I assure you that we will look into this matter and the staff members involved will be thoroughly reprimanded. I guarantee you that this behavior is completely contrary to the goals and mission of this hospital. Mr. Grey, you have my sincerest apologies for how your wife was mistreated. I’m deeply sorry about all this.”

“Thank you,” I reply with sincerity. “I truly appreciate it, but I want more than that,” I say.

“Here it comes,” the other silent, stoic bitch says. I ignore her… for now.

“I think there needs to be some kind of sensitivity training for situations like this,” I continue. “My wife’s mother could’ve died and that would have released a whole other can of worms, believe me. No one knows the turmoil my wife is going through inside. Her sanity and grace are balancing on the head of a pin and you have nurses on the floor that are caring for her mother and coming in contact with my wife every day that think it’s okay to treat her this way. Nobody should be treated that way—nobody! Not a bum off the street who comes in for back pain or a billionaire who can buy this hospital right out from under your asses!” I fix my glare on the two bitches at the end of the table.

“And once your organization has developed this sensitivity training that will help your staff to treat people like real live human beings, especially those who may be experiencing some kind of mourning, stress, or trauma of which you have no idea, you two should be required to take it, too!” I point at them both to emphasize the statement. The entire room has turned and is staring at them as they sit cowering under the uncomfortable gazes of their colleagues.

“That’s actually a very good idea, Mr. Grey,” Banks says soberly, still staring at the Stoic Sisters before turning back to me. “We’ll implement a training class and we’ll all take it. Some of us may not need it, but others clearly do!” He glares at the Stoic Sisters again before turning back to me.

“That’s all I ask,” I say standing to my feet and Banks stands with me. “I’ll be honest and tell you that I’m usually a heads will roll type of guy, but all I want is for the patients’ families to be treated with respect and for no one to have to go through the ordeal that my wife went through for simply trying to care for her mother.”

“Understood, Mr. Grey,” he says, proffering his hand to me. I accept his hand and shake firmly.

“I trust that you’ll keep Mrs. Riddick up-to-date on the progress and completion of the training?” I ask, so that she can keep me up to date.

“We will,” he says. I turn to Mrs. Riddick, who stands and walks out with me. I don’t even look at the Stoic Sisters on my way out.

When we clear the door, I see my wife sitting on a bench down the hall a bit. Before Mrs. Riddick starts talking, I guide her to my wife.

“Are you okay?” I ask, noting her appearance.

“Tired,” she says, “you know this place drains me.” I take her hand and turn to Mrs. Riddick.

“This is my wife, Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey,” I say. Mrs. Riddick proffers her hand.

“Riana Riddick,” she says. “I’m the family and patient advocate here. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Grey.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Riddick. Likewise,” Butterfly says, accepting her hand.

“You have my card,” she says to me. “I’ll be in touch. Mr. Grey, Dr. Grey,” she says with a nod.

“Thank you,” I say before she leaves.

“Why will she be in touch?” Butterfly asks.

“Because there’s going to be some sensitivity training for the staff as well as disciplinary action for the harpies that treated you like shit, and I want the hospital to stay on top of it and make sure that it gets done. Riddick will be my eyes and ears. She’s good at this—I think she likes her job. She’s almost as good a debater as Allen.”

“Mmm,” she replies disinterested.

“Okay, what happened?” I ask.

“Not here,” she says, worrying her scar. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”

Home. Yeah, we need to hurry up and get you out of here if you’re calling this place home.

*-*

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this just keeps getting better and better!” I bark while we’re driving home. “It’s a good thing I demanded sensitivity training. It looks like this asshole Lee needs it, too!”

“Don’t even get your undies in a wad, Christian. I’ve told him to make his decision and call me once he does. I’m not going back to the hospital until he does and when I do, I’m going to start signing responsibility over to someone else. I can’t take this anymore.”

“We’ll still be financing it?” I ask.

“Yeah, I still want to make sure she gets the best care. I just don’t want to make the decisions anymore.”

“You got it,” I say. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Right now, fuzzy pajamas, chocolate, and old movies…”

I get my wife set up with pajamas, old movies, and every chocolate thing I can order from room service. At the moment, she’s happily lost in a Cary Grant marathon, and I’m busy putting some things into motion.

She already knew that she would soon be sharing her yoga room with the children as a playroom. I’m making arrangements for everything that was purchased for the Romper Room Suite to be shipped back to Seattle when we return, with the exception of the cribs and bedding and the highchairs. We have those things at home, and we won’t be needing more any time soon. My Amex decked that suite out, and I want that stuff to return with us, especially since the children have become accustomed to playing with those things.

I send an email to Audrey Law, my travel agent, and cc Jason that we are planning our trip to Italy sometime this summer and to begin to prepare for an extended trip. I also contact the real estate agent that sold me the Villa to get me detailed blueprints and current pictures of the property with precise measurements so that my wife can begin thinking about how she wants to decorate it. Unless World War III breaks out and Europe sinks into the ground before we get onto that plane, we’re going to Italy this year.

Jason will have to make sure that the weapons for the security team are properly registered as well as each member properly certified with the authorities. I also ran the idea by him of Gail and Sophia coming out for a couple of weeks like Butterfly suggested. After hearing the truth about Sophie’s burn scar, he’d pull the moon down and give it to her if he could. So, I think he’s already on the ball about getting her passport.

I remember my trip to Rome with my family. I think it was our first… no, our second trip to Italy as a family. Although being abroad always appealed to me, I wasn’t very interested in the things that interested my family—the Altar of the Fatherland, the Villa Borghese… No, I was more interested in the Colosseum and the Pantheon; only slightly interested in the Trevi Fountain, but I tossed a coin in there anyway. I knew I would be back.

My most memorable moment in Rome was just outside of Circus Maximus. Being very sensitive to touch, I knew the moment someone was trying to “feel me up.” So, I turned around just in time for some bastard to try to make off with my phone. I confronted him and told him to give my phone back, but he handed it off to some other guy and thought I didn’t see him. I snatched the other guy by his jacket just as he was trying to make off with my phone. Elliot grabbed the first guy.

Mom and Dad were having a fit the entire time and Mia was just stunned as I’m fighting to pry my phone from the guy’s fingers. I ended up actually having to break his hand to get my phone back from him, then showed my parents that it was indeed my phone. The first guy tried to knee Elliot in the balls to get away. Elliot clocked him square in the jaw and the guy dropped right where he stood, unconscious.

We asked Dad what we should do. Once Dad saw that we were right and only trying to get my phone back, he told us to do nothing. The guys were pickpockets, and even if we called the police, they would only get a summons to appear which would most likely result in a small fine and no jail time. So, we left them there for all to see—one guy with a broken hand and the other guy out cold on the concrete. I’d say their tag team pickpocketing was done for the day… at least six weeks for one of them. He’ll have to depend on his fellow criminals for financial support for a while.

I’ll have to caution Butterfly against taking a purse or backpack while we’re wandering various cities, and I’ll have to remember to bring my money belt. I hate using that thing, but in certain areas, it’s utterly necessary.

Andrea has sent me some information that I asked her to gather about caring for a paraplegic. I’m completely in the dark here and I don’t want to depend on Butterfly for all the answers. I want to be of some help to her if she asks my opinion and I want us to be able to make some solid decisions about her mother’s care. Wendy’s right—there are several resources available to help her. She just has to be willing to put in the legwork—for lack of a better word—to apply for the resources and follow-up on the application process until she gets approved. She can even apply for disability since she’s unable to do the work she’s trained to do.

I go through as much of the information as I can until I’m suffering from MEGO, then I go to the bedroom to join my wife.

She’s sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” I say, climbing into the bed behind her. She sniffles and points at the television. She’s watching An Affair to Remember, and Cary Grant has just found out that Deborah Kerr is the lady in the wheelchair who wanted his painting. They’re both crying on screen and my wife is blubbering right along with them.

“You’re such a sap,” I say, pulling her into my arms and spooning her. “How many times have you seen this movie?”

“I don’t… know,” she sniffle-stutters, “a… couple… hundred… I think…”

“Yeah, you and every other sappy female,” I say. I roll her onto her back as the credits roll and begin to dry her cheeks with my handkerchief. She has used an entire box of the hotel tissues. She looks so sweet and vulnerable, looking up at me with her glassy eyes and blotchy cheeks. I kiss her eyelids and her cheeks to make her stop crying, then her lips… then again.

God, her lips are so soft when she’s been crying.

I kiss her over and over, so many times that I lose count. Her breath quickens and she moves my hand from her face to her breast.

“Make love to me,” she whispers, “please…”

So much for the fuzzy pajamas.

I squeeze the breast that she guided my hand to, then quickly unbutton her pajama shirt revealing her beautiful tits. God, she’s gorgeous. Her breath quickens as I take one nipple in my mouth and suck gently, grazing it with my teeth to make it taut. She whimpers and thrusts her hands into my hair. I move over her and pinch her other nipple between my fingers, causing her to cry out. She’s getting very hot very fast.

“Sit up,” I instruct her, moving away just enough to allow her to rise. She sits up and I push her pajama shirt off her shoulders and toss it onto the floor. I quickly pull my T-shirt over my head, tossing it aside before I lean in and kiss her again. She runs her hands up my arms to my shoulders and then my face as I push her back down onto the bed.

My mouth and hands travel down her body once more, to her breasts and then her navel as I push my hands into the elastic. She raises her hips for me, and I pull her pajama pants down her legs and off her feet. I open my fly and pull my boxer briefs down just enough to free my cock, and her pussy is wet and staring at me.

Fuck!

I crawl back onto the bed, still in my bottoms, and settle into the sweet core. She gasps and arches into me when I lick her outer lips, forcing them apart with my mouth so that I can taste the sweet meat inside.

“Christian…” she mewls, thrusting her hand into my hair again and her pelvis rhythmically into my mouth. She tastes so fucking good, and I groan as I devour her juices. I try not to eat until I get my fill because I know she’ll come if I do, but I can’t help it. She’s so hot and she smells so good and tastes so sweet…

“Christian!” she squeaks as her body starts to stiffen.

Fuck! Not yet… not yet, beautiful.

I pull back and allow her orgasm to wane, but I can’t wait any longer to be inside of her. I kiss her belly as I make my way back up her body, using the bed to push my pants and boxer briefs off as my cock is so damn hard, it’s zeroing in to her core like a fucking homing beacon.

Slow the fuck down, Grey. She asked you to make love to her…

Make love. Shit, this is going to be hard.

I’m holding one leg up with one hand on her side still kissing her stomach and kicking off my damn pants when she starts to beg…

Please…
Please…

I crawl up her body and as my mouth reaches hers, my cock finds its counterpart without any guidance, which wasn’t a difficult task with her legs on my shoulder. I try not to gasp in her mouth, but she gasps into mine and I’m completely blinded by the pleasure when I sink into her.

I try to keep still and let us both enjoy the moment of the initial entry, but I can’t. She’s kissing me hungrily and my dick wants more of her.

I allow her legs to fall down to my hips and I continue to thrust into her, deep and steady—not too fast and not too slow. I hold the back of her neck and her nape in my hands as I kiss her lips hungrily and nip at her neck, shoulders, and chest. Her sex sounds are maddening—like she hasn’t eaten in weeks and she’s starving and gobbling up every morsel I’m giving her. It’s making me fucking primal and I thrust deeper into her, both our bodies moving steadily against the bed.

She’s keening again, and I hold her neck up and thrust deep so that I can look at her, admire her beauty while I have her captured in passion, my shaft burning inside her as she gets tighter… and hotter…

“Open your mouth,” I breathe, “and give me your tongue.”

I know that she’s going to come soon, so I press my body against her so that each long and deep thrust ends with a grind. Then I hold her neck steady so that her head isn’t as mobile, and I suck her tongue and lathe it passionately with my own while it’s hanging helplessly out of her mouth. When she shrieks with her first orgasm, I fight to keep the rhythm of my hips and tongue until she rides it out. The sound of her cries alone is enough to push me over the edge, let alone that pussy tightening insanely on my cock.

I have to breathe through her aftershocks as I sit back on my calves, still thrusting deeply into her as I caress her breasts. She’s sweating a bit now. That pre-orgasmic sheen has given way to full-on perspiration, and our intermingling sweat is beginning to fuck with the Neanderthal in me.

I thrust into her again and again, her legs rising on my hips with each thrust, still clutching her breasts as I do. Her eyes are closed, and her hair is splayed wildly on the bed. Her mouth is open like she’s trying to say something, but she’s keening again, her hands grasping my thighs as I fuck her…

Make love to her…

NO, now, I’m fucking her!

My cock is burning, digging, pushing deep into that body, and it wants to come. I kiss her with abandon, and when she roughly grasps a handful of my hair, I can’t take it anymore.

“Oh, fuck, baby!” I groan. I cover her body with mine and plunge deep inside her, over and over. We’re pouring in sweat, and she holds her legs up and steady, thighs open as I stroke deeper and harder until I fucking see stars.

“Baby, shit, fuck!” I cry as my cock thumps and explodes inside of her. Oh, shit, it feels so fucking good. So fucking good, I can’t fucking see. Goddammit, that was so hard that my cock fucking hurts, but I can still feel her walls thumping against me. She was on her way to number two.

Your wish is my command.

I slide out of her and kiss her softly on the lips, giving my cock a few moments to cool.

“Turn over, baby,” I say.

She turns over and proceeds to get in the doggie-style position, but I push her gently back down onto the bed. Straddling her, I turn her head to the side and arrange her hair so that it’s completely away from her face, off her shoulders, and off her back. When she’s comfortable, I kiss her shoulders softly, then her back, allowing my dick to rub against her glorious ass just a bit, enough to ignite it again for me. I kiss down her back and the moment I get to the Garden, she ignites again. The unquenchable fire shoots right through her body and into mine, and Greystone is ready for action once more.

I pull my hips back and my shaft falls right to the bottom of her ass cheeks, the head nestled right below her anus. I gently push my rigid member just past her perineum and I feel moisture on the head. I know I’ve hit paydirt when I hear her gasp and her ass rises a bit, her fists gripping the bedsheets. I push into her core and sink into her warmth and tightness once more. For the love of God, this woman is going to be the death of me.

She’s got that pretty, round ass at the perfect angle and I’ve got yet another perfect rhythm into the pussy while I’m gently gripping those cheeks and hips. I’m looking down at this round ass and my thick, straining, shiny cock stroking between her legs, feeling the heat and the friction and it’s making my fucking mouth water. This site is so fucking beautiful that I can’t stop staring. My dick is impressive, but to see it disappear repeatedly beneath this beautiful, soft, round ass… I could watch this shit all day. Since I’m just getting started, the arousal and the burn isn’t too deep, and I’ve got this pleasant friction feeling on the skin. So, I never change my stroke…

And I watch…

And watch…

And watch…

“Oh, dear God, what are you doing to me?”

I didn’t even think about the fact that the continuous rhythm was going to bring her to another orgasm until she’s shrieking again and her ass is rising hard against my pelvis, her hands gripping the sheets like she’s going to tear them off.

Hot damn! There’s a picture for the memory banks!

“Baby, you are so fucking beautiful,” I say, and I continue my rhythm and enjoy the view.

A few minutes later, I’ve gotten my fill of the show and my balls are aching to come again. This is going to be the swan song.

My beautiful wife has had a chance to rest and now I want her to ride me a bit. So, I roll us both over so that she’s sitting on my dick.

“Come on, baby, ride it.”

What the fuck did I say that for?

My wife opens her legs around mine, leans back with both hands flat on my abs, and pumps my dick viciously, and I mean viciously.

“Fuck-ing hell!” I gasp, and that only fuels her fire. I swear to God, my cock feels like it’s getting buried in her goddamn uterus and she just keeps pumping and pumping, so deep that I feel her lips every time they slap my balls.

“God… damn… baby…” I gasp again, now holding onto fistfuls of the sheet myself. This woman is literally fucking the ever-loving life out of me. I thought after two shrieking orgasms, she would be a bit tuckered out and I would have to help her out with this, but she doesn’t need my help at all. Dear God in heaven, the fire and friction and depth.

“Baby… shit!” It’s at this point that I realized that I can’t do or say anything else but lay here and be fucked. I want to touch her, but she’s fucking me so thoroughly that if I let go of the sheets, we might both fucking take flight! I close my eyes and open my mouth so that I can get some air. My dick is on fucking fire—delicious, burning, aching, agonizing, searing fire! Fucking hell, my balls are about to pop like grapes. A few more minutes of this maddening pace and…

She stops.

Her body’s trembling, she’s grunting, and her arms give way behind her. She’s coming again… and hard.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t stop now!

I release the sheets and grab those tits for all they’re worth. I’m pumping hard and deep into that pussy like I’m digging for gold, just like she was pumping me.

Don’t leave me now, don’t fucking leave me now!

I thrust and thrust and thrust, looking for that rhythm, and on the third thrust, I find it. I fucking find it.

“Yes!” I grit through my teeth, and only a few thrusts later, I heard the pop. Not sure what happened, but a stream of searing hot cum goes flowing through my shaft and bursting out the head.

“Oooohh!” I cry out in agonized surprise.

Still holding onto those tits, I thrust through this orgasm. At least, I think I’m thrusting. Cum is pumping so hard through my cock that I know I still feel the sides burning. I can’t even feel my balls, just hot, deep, crippling pain and pleasure searing through my fucking loins.

I can’t even breathe. I’m burying my dick deep in that pussy. The head is sandwiched in hot, wet, meat and still beating a mean tattoo inside of her. I can still feel her squeezing me, still feel the cum pulsing out of my shaft and filling her so much that it’s running down my shaft and to my ass.

She’s whimpering against my body now, and I’m still coming… and coming…

I keep pushing my dick into that core waiting for it to stop throbbing. She fucked me until my body begged to come and now that it is, it’s giving her all that it has left. I thrust into her hot core, her legs spread wide as I grip her luscious tits, my cock pulsing and thumping painfully as my balls empty inside her.

We both fall back onto the bed, breathless. Neither of us says anything as there really isn’t anything to say. I roll her over onto her side, spooning her and kissing her gently on her back until she falls asleep. Then, I locate the remote and turn the television off.

That was so hot, I forgot the damn thing was on.

*-*

I awake in bed alone. That doesn’t happen often. I almost always wake before Butterfly does. Is she alright?

I try not to leap out of bed in a frenzied rush to find my wife. She’s fine, I tell myself. She just got up before me and she’s probably having coffee or in the shower. When I go to the en suite to relieve myself and she’s not in the shower, I’m only slightly panicked, not frantic. I slide into my slacks from yesterday and go out into the living room.

“Well, I don’t know what to expect, Daddy,” I hear her say. See? I told you she was fine, I scold myself. “I’m 99% certain that my mother tried to kill herself, but her doctor is giving me a hard time about a three-day evaluation.”

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and she quietly blows me a kiss as I head over to the coffee maker. She’s curled up in one of the dining chairs with a cup of coffee in front of her and a notepad that she’s been scribbling something on.

“I told him that she was in his care now, and that when he decided what he was going to do with her that he could call me and let me know… None of them thinks I want to take care of her. So, since everybody is so in love with her and I’m the big bad wolf and they know what’s best for her, then let them do it. Believe me, I would have done fine not to have this disrupt my life at all.”

I pour a cup of coffee. Once again, I think about Grace and how I could never feel this way towards her, but how I truly feel that Carla deserves every bit of what Butterfly is dishing out.

“That was yesterday,” she says to Ray. “I haven’t been back to the hospital and I’m not going back unless I’m summoned. And they had better make a decision before sentencing on Wednesday because if they don’t, I’m outta here.”

Well, that makes me happy to hear, that she doesn’t plan on hanging around to find out what Dr. Lee plans to do. I say if she wants to do herself, she’ll find a way. And when she does, they’ll see how wrong they were for how they treated my wife.

“I’m fine, Daddy, don’t worry about me,” she says. “I already have a game plan in motion.”

Oh? What game plan is that? I take a sip of the black coffee. I’m transported all the way back to the first cup of coffee my wife made for me at her condo in Seattle. I look down into the cup and smile…

“Black… a man after my own heart.” 

Those were her words when she found out that I prefer my coffee black. As it turns out, I was—am—in fact a man after her heart.

“What’s got you smiling like the cat who caught the canary?” she asks as she refreshes her coffee. I was so lost in my own world I didn’t even hear her finish her conversation with Ray.

“Remembering the first cup of coffee I ever had with you,” I say, putting my arm around her waist and pulling her to me. “You had me at ‘Grey,’” I say, pressing a tender kiss on her lips.

“You were insufferable,” she says, putting her hands on my chest, “fucking insufferable.”

“Some people would say that I still am,” I reply.

“Yes, they would,” she concurs, “but they don’t know you like I do.”

“Oh, you still think I’m insufferable too… sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” she says, pecking me on my lips again.

“How’s Ray?” I ask, releasing her and taking another sip of my coffee.

“He’s fine,” she says. “He called to check up on me. Says he regretted having to leave me here, but he had to get back to be with his family. I already know that.”

“What’s this game plan you were talking about?”

“I’m going to have someone here be responsible for my mother so that I don’t have to come back,” she says. “I’ve already got Alex doing background checks on her boyfriend Abe and her beloved Window.” I frown.

“Window?” I say. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s what she calls Wendy,” she replies. “She appears to be ready to turn her entire life upside down for my mother and she obviously adores her Window, so she’s the most obvious choice. And then there’s this Abe character, who just showed up out of nowhere and is so in love with my mother. If they’re genuine in their affection and there’s no ulterior motive, it’s the perfect set-up. If not, then she’ll be in the hospital until they release her, and then she’ll go to a nursing home or assisted living.”

“And if the good doctor decides that she doesn’t need a psych eval?” I ask.

“Then she’ll be in the hospital until they release her, and then she’ll go to a nursing home or assisted living,” she repeats. “I meant what I said. I’m not going back to the hospital until I’m summoned and when I do, it’ll be to make whatever final decisions need to be made before I leave this place.”

And that’s that. The queen has spoken, and I have a feeling that no matter what, we only have one week left in Nevada.

---

A/N: “I fell for the ‘donkey,’ hook, line, and sinker. When Carla said this, she was referring to a part of the Shakespearean play, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Without retelling the entire story and for those who don’t know of it, Puck is retrieving a flower that contains a powerful love potion. While at his task, Nick Bottom says something adverse to him and Puck turns Bottoms head into that of a donkey. The king and queen of the fairies—Oberon and Tatania—are fighting, and Oberon uses the love potion on Tatania while she’s sleeping, intent that she would fall in love with the first thing she sees when she wakes. What’s the first thing that she sees? Bottom as the donkey. She’s so in love with him that she actually marries him in the story.

A little useless factoid that I think I mentioned earlier during one of the weddings. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March—the song traditionally played when the bride and groom exit the wedding after the vows—was written for this play. So, when choosing your exit song, just remember if you choose this one, you chose the song where a woman was married to a donkey.

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/

The new question and answer thread is always open for questions about the story. Be sure to read it and please adhere to the rules when asking questions. You can find it on the left, second from last on the menu or you can click HERE.

There has been yet another development where if you feel the need to talk to fellow readers about personal issues, you need a sounding board, or you want to vent about something in your life, please feel free to visit the link on the left in the menu entitled “Do You Need To Talk.” No subject is taboo. I just ask that you approach the link with respect for those who have concerns as well as those who respond. You can also get to the link by clicking HERE. 

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