Okay, last time I tried to give her a car, it didn’t go so well.
This could go either way.
You said it, Ana. You can buy me one for my birthday. A white one.
“Happy birthday,” I murmur, and from my pocket I produce the key.
Her mouth drops open. “You are completely over the top.” Each word is a quiet staccato, then she turns to admire the marvel of engineering parked at the curb. Her consternation is short-lived; her face lights up and she jumps up and down on the spot. She turns and barrels into my waiting arms, and I swing her around, delighted at her reaction.
“You have more money than sense!” she cries. “I love it! Thank you.”
I dip her low, surprising her, so she gasps and grips my biceps. “Anything for you, Mrs. Grey.” I kiss her. “Come. Let’s go see your dad.”
“Yes!” she exclaims. “And I get to drive?”
Smiling down at her, and against my better judgment, I acquiesce. “Of course. It’s yours.” I pull her to her feet, and she dances to the driver’s door, which Taylor is holding open for her.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Grey.” He beams.
“Thank you, Taylor.” She hugs him while I roll my eyes and climb into the passenger seat. Ana clambers in beside me and slides her hands around the steering wheel, grinning with glee, as Taylor closes her door.
“Drive safe, Mrs. Grey,” he says, his affection obvious despite the gruff tone. For some unfathomable reason it makes me smile.
“Will do,” Ana replies, buzzing with excitement. She puts the key in the ignition, and I tense beside her.
I hate being driven.
Except by Taylor.
But she knows this.
“Take it easy,” I caution. “Nobody chasing us now.” She turns the key, and the R8 roars to life. Ana quickly adjusts the side and rearview mirrors, puts the car in drive, and pulls out into the street at a harrowing speed.
“Whoa!” I cry out, clutching my seat.
“What?”
“I don’t want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down,” I yell, wondering if the R8 was a good idea. She slows immediately.
“Better?” She gives me a dazzling smile.
“Much,” I mutter, grateful that we’re both still alive. “Take it easy, Ana.”
Seven minutes later we’re in the hospital parking lot, and I’ve aged at least ten years with each minute of the journey. My pulse must be at 180 bpm; being driven by my wife is not for the faint of heart. “Ana, you have to slow down. Don’t make me regret buying you this.” I glare at her as she turns off the ignition. “Your dad is upstairs because he was involved in a car accident.”
“You’re right,” she whispers, reaching over and clasping my hand. “I’ll behave.”
I want to say more, but I don’t. It’s her birthday and her dad’s in the ICU.
And you bought her the car, Grey.
“Okay. Good. Let’s go.”
While Ana is visiting with Ray, I hole up in the waiting room and make some calls. First, Andrea.
“Mr. Grey. Good morning.”
“Good morning. What news?”
“Everyone is lined up to come to Portland. I’m liaising with Stephan later this morning. I’m still waiting to hear from The Heathman, and if they can’t source a cake, I’ve found a bakery in Portland that can do it today.”
“Good work.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Adams will take off at ten thirty this morning Pacific time. They should be in Portland by four thirty.”
“Do they know why we’ve moved the surprise party to Portland?”
“I haven’t elaborated.”
Good. I don’t want Carla to spend the flight worrying about Ray.
Andrea continues, “Mrs. Adams said she’s deliberately not contacting Mrs. Grey, to add to the surprise.”
“Okay. Let me know when they’ve left Savannah.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks for organizing all this.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir. I hope Mr. Steele continues to improve.”
“We’ll talk later.” I hang up and open the e-mail that has caught my attention.
From: Grey, Carrick
Subject: Drunk Driver. Astoria PD.
Date: September 10 2011 09:37
To: Christian Grey
Your mother says that Raymond Steele is in good hands.
I’ll be joining her later for Ana’s birthday celebrations.
With regard to the driver, I have some information which I’d rather talk you through, either in person or over the phone.
See you this evening, son.
Dad.
Carrick Grey, Partner
Grey, Krueger, Davis, and Holt LLP
I call Carrick but get his voice mail. I leave a message, then sit down and peruse the notes Ros has sent me regarding our meeting yesterday with the Hwangs.
Half an hour later my dad calls.
“Christian.”
“Dad. Hello. You have news?” I stare out at the Portland skyline.
“I spoke with one of my contacts at the Astoria PD. The perpetrator’s name is Jeffrey Lance. He’s well known to the police, not only in Astoria but also in southeast Portland, where he’s from. He lives in a trailer park there.”
“He was a long way from home.”
“His blood alcohol level was 0.28 percent.”
“What does that mean?”
I turn around; unbeknownst to me, Ana has crept into the waiting room and is watching me warily.
“It means he was three and a half times over the legal limit,” Dad says, pulling me back into the conversation.
“How far above the limit?” I don’t believe it. Fucking drunks. I loathe them. From deep in that part of my brain that holds my most painful memories, the smell of stale Camel cigarette smoke, bourbon, and body odor seeps into my consciousness.
“There you are, you little prick.”
Fuck. The crack whore’s pimp.
“Three and half times,” Dad mutters, disgusted.
“I see.”
“And it isn’t his first offense. His driver’s license was suspended. He has no insurance. The police are assessing all the charges and his lawyer is trying to get a plea bargain, but—”