Monday, May 9, 2011
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You are reading: Free books online grey
I have three cars. They go fast on the ground. so fast. one is red one is green one is yellow i like green it is the best. mom likes them too. I like it when mommy plays with the cars and with me. red is the best of it. she today she is sitting on the sofa looking at the wall. the green car flies onto the carpet. the red car follows. then yellow. shock! but mommy doesn’t see. I do it again crash! but mommy doesn’t see. I point the green car at her feet. but the green car goes under the sofa. I can’t reach it my hand is too big for the gap. Mommy doesn’t see I want my green car but Mommy stays on the sofa looking at the wall. breast. My car. she doesn’t listen to me. breast. I pull her hand away and she leans back and closes her eyes. Not now, worm. not now, she says. my green car stays under the sofa. it’s always under the sofa. I can see. but I can’t reach it. my green car is blurry. covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. but I can’t reach it. I can never reach it. my green car is lost. lost. and I will never be able to play with him again.
I open my eyes and my dream fades into the morning light. what the hell was that? I grab the shards as they fly back, but I can’t catch any of them.
Throwing it away, as I do most mornings, I roll out of bed to find some freshly laundered sweatshirts in my dresser. Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I’m not in the mood for rain during my run today. I go up to my gym, turn on the TV for the morning business news, and get on the treadmill.
My thoughts drift to the day. I have nothing but meetings, although I will see my personal trainer later for a workout in my office. bastille is always a welcome challenge.
Maybe I should call Elena?
yes. maybe. we can have dinner later this week.
I stop the treadmill, out of breath, and head to the shower to start another monotonous day.
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“Tomorrow,” I murmur, waving goodbye to claude bastille as he stands in the doorway of my office.
“golf, this week, grey”. Bastille smiles with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.
I frown at him as he turns and walks away. his parting words rub salt in my wounds because, despite my heroic attempts during our training today, my personal trainer has kicked my butt. bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of meat on the golf course. I hate golf, but so much business is done on the fairways that I have to put up with their lessons there too… and while I hate to admit it, playing against bastille improves my game.
As I gaze out the window at the Seattle skyline, familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness. my mood is as flat and gray as the weather. my days blend indistinctly, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend and now, in the continuing confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with bastille. but I do.
I frown. the sobering truth is that the only thing that has caught my interest recently was my decision to send two cargo ships to sudan. this reminds me: ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. what the hell is holding her? I check my calendar and look for the phone.
damn it. i have to endure an interview with persistent miss kavanagh for the wsu student newspaper. why the hell did I agree to this? I hate interviews: stupid questions from uninformed and envious people trying to probe my private life. and she is a student the phone rings.
“yes”, I say to andrea, as if it was her fault. I can at least shorten this interview.
“miss anastasia steele is here to see you, mr. grey.”
“steel? I was waiting for Katherine Kavanagh.”
“It’s Miss Anastasia Steele here, sir.”
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I hate the unexpected. “Show her in.”
well, well… miss kavanagh is not available. I know her father, Eamon, the owner of Kavanagh Media. we’ve done business together, and he seems like a shrewd trader and a rational human being. this interview is a favor for him, one that I intend to collect later when it suits me. and I must admit that he was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.
A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirlwind of long brown hair, pale limbs, and brown boots plunges headfirst into my office. Suppressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I rush over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the ground. Bringing her slender shoulders together, I help her to her feet.
clear, embarrassed eyes meet mine and stop me in my tracks. they’re the most extraordinary color, pale blue and innocent, and for one terrible moment, I think she can see right through me and I’m…exposed. the idea is puzzling, so I dismiss it immediately.
She has a sweet little face that now blushes, an innocent pale pink. I briefly wonder if all her skin is like that, flawless, and how she would look pink and warm from a cane bite.
damn.
I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed by his direction. what the hell are you thinking, grey? this girl is too young. she gapes at me and I resist rolling my eyes. She yeah, yeah baby, she’s just a face, and she’s just skin deep. I need to dispel that admiring look from those eyes, but let’s have some fun in the process!
“Miss kavanagh. I am a gray christian. are you okay? would you like to sit down?”
there’s that blush again. commanding once more, I study her. she is quite attractive: petite, pale, with a mane of dark hair barely contained by a hair tie.
a brunette.
yes, she is attractive. I hold out my hand as she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her hand in mine. her skin is cool and smooth, but her handshake is surprisingly firm.
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