Sitting back in Christian’s office chair I contemplate the implications of his baby making obsession. With a giggle I think back to his overly confident jibe about nailing it, but I can’t help worrying about what would happen if we didn’t fall pregnant right off the bat. How disappointed would he be and how responsible would I feel? Despite the strong, sturdy fabric logic weaves through reason – the knowledge that Mother Nature will take her course regardless of our interference – I can sense that I would somehow feel like I failed him. Heading off that thought at the pass, I file it in my discuss-with-Flynn box, pleased with myself for taking action before letting things unravel.
With a knock on the door pane Collins’ presence snaps me away from my mental back slapping, “Mrs Grey, Cindy Mitchell is here for a brief induction, and to finalise her contract. Seeing that she’ll be glued to your side, I thought you might like to meet her.”
Smiling at Collins and his thoughtfulness I rise to follow him, curious to meet the woman who’ll be taking me and my son’s personal safety into her hands.
Mrs Mitchell is so stereotypical I have to stifle a giggle. Her hair is scraped into a bun so tight I wonder if she feels the pinpricks of pain throughout the day. Her shoulders are broad, rounded with the typical bulges of someone who trains to get big. Her dark skin is clear, completely unadorned with make-up bar the mascaraed swipe of her long lashes. The tiny gold hoops that glint in her ears hint at femininity, but her watch belies it with a chunkiness that’s usually reserved for men’s time pieces. She’s wearing a stark, black pants suit, utilitarian but well cut, the jacket nipped in at the waist, flaring over man-straight hips. The hand she holds out for me to shake is patterned with veins in relief, another hint that she’s no stranger to the inside of a gym. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she easily held her own against any Neanderthal stupid enough to agitate her – in short – a true Amazon.
With Collins’ introduction her mouth curves with a grin, her whisky-brown eyes good natured, “Mrs Grey, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I can’t help returning her smile, taken aback by her friendliness, something I don’t often see her burly colleagues emulate, “It’s nice to meet you too Cindy and call me Ana please.” Her handshake is firm, dry and instils in me a calm confidence.
I feel the gold band indenting her ring finger, the metal slightly warmer than the flesh of her hand. Married I realise, marvelling at how Christian always covers even the smallest of bases. If I am to have a female protector at least he evens it out by making it a married one. It’s endearing, one of the many ways in which he treats me as an equal – that is until he doesn’t – then bulldozing me into submission when I cross some safety related line, though, even I must concede that his motivation is always from a place of love and concern rather than from the pure, brute need for control. When a small sigh whispers past my lips I find it doesn’t bother me the way it used to, that when I said I wouldn’t change a thing about him it included his overbearingness. It’s part of who he is, just as much as the breathtaking planes of his body, the sharp lines of his face, or his heart that was so black from abuse it bloomed with love.
Her keen eyes dart to Collins, clocking his minute shake, “Better not ma’am,” she winks, “wouldn’t want to get myself into trouble, and from what I hear I have my work cut out with you.”
What?! I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s been thoroughly briefed but it doesn’t stop the mortification from stinging my cheeks. I splutter, my bug eyes popping with shock as I find anywhere to look at but her.
“Uhm… I don’t…” floundering I grapple uselessly for words that will put an end to the embarrassment that’s multiplied by the fact that I really like her.
“S’all good ma’am,” she says, still calm, still smiling. “You’ll just have to learn to trust me enough not to bail.” With a nonchalant shrug she eyes me in a way that makes me feel measured.
Expelling a breath through the O of my mouth I find the steel that sometimes lines my backbone, my desire to be what Christian needs overriding my chagrin. I fuse my gaze with hers, interjecting my voice with a bravado that’s hard to achieve when you’re glowing beet red with shame, “I think I can manage that.”
Her smile broadens, her eyes lighting with flecks of amber, “Excellent. In that case, I’m looking forward to working with you.”
We both turn to the sound of Collins releasing what must have been a nervously held breath, my blush passing to the tips of his ears along with our amused female stares.
In the early afternoon an e-mail from my husband trips my beating heart into a flittering pace.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Dinner with my hot wife
Date: 11 November 2016 12:11
To: Anastasia Grey <<===== hot wife
My dearest Mrs Grey,
I have an unexpected meeting with the manager of my Mile High Club later this afternoon, why don’t you join me there for dinner afterwards? My mother will be meeting me at Grey House just before then to remove my dressing and she’s kindly offered to babysit Chris at Escala tonight.
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Oh, date night with Christian I think excitedly. The last time we were at his Columbia Tower property he made me take off my panties, and teased me with the merciless intent of a soldier without so much as touching me. I blush remembering the torturous, seventy six floor ride in the elevator, his questing fingers dipping leisurely in and out of me as we stood coolly – at least to the casual observer – in the corner of the crowded car.
Taking my thoughts on a naughty meander a plan soon pops into my head. In the light of my husband’s covert baby making mission, and in the spirit of his erotic, tormenting ways, Mr Baby-Maker Fifty is in for some payback. I have a sneaking suspicion that this sex-on-every-other-day thing is even harder on him than it is on me; hopefully his residual desire will play right into my hands. And considering that it’s day fourteen tomorrow, my actual ovulation day, I bet anything that he’s keen to save his sperm till then.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Dinner with hotter husband – that’s you!
Date: 11 November 2016 12:29
To: Christian Grey
My dear Mr Grey,
I am writing to inform you that your hot wife will be delighted to accept your mother’s gracious offer of child minding and escort you to dinner.
That is all.
Wife, Mother, Cook, Sex Kitten and delighted, Soon-To-Be-Published Author for Grey Publishing – My title is longer than yours….. 😉
Hitting send I feel excitement tickling my belly. I’m relieved that our lives aren’t entirely on hold with the madness of another threat in the background and the crazy paparazzi crowd jostling our every entrance and exit. Again we’ve jumped into this marriage head first. With Chris adding a whole other dynamic to it, I would hate for our haste to diminish the bond that will always require a lot of maintenance.
From: Christian Grey
Date: 11 November 2016 12:34
To: Long titled wife
My dearest Mrs Grey,
Length isn’t everything – I win.
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. Happy Man
As always Christian has a way of exceeding my expectations. Here I was expecting some fun e-mail banter but instead he picks out a seemingly insignificant thing, turning our potential word sparring into a romantic gesture that readily rivals his best efforts. Warmth, admiration, desire – all spread through me on the sinuous fluidity of our love, built into me now just as indelible as my own genetic code. I am a lucky, lucky girl.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Title adjustments
Date: 11 November 2016 12:48
To: Christian Grey
My dearest Mr Grey,
Your beauty is only exceeded by your wit. Fair point, well made.
I love you
Happy Wife << ====== Aptly adjusted title
The ring of my cell startles me out of my happy place daydream, Christian’s voice as I answer low and thick as honey, “I love you too.”
Like a fool I smile, my face practically split with the broadness of my grin, “I love you more.” I hear his groan through his smile. I picture him with his head back, his eyes closed as he soaks in the words that always seem to feed his soul.
“Anastasia,” my name on his lips is a whisper, a plea, a prayer – like a sigh of relief.
For a beat my senses transport me back to Christian and my breakfast meeting at the Conrad in Miami, the day after I ran into him at the zoo. He told me then, for the first time, and in no uncertain terms, how my presence in his life changed him, affected him in the short course of our relationship before I screwed it up again. Like then, I again hear his need in the thread of his tone. Not just his body’s powerful physical draw but also the depth of his emotional craving for me. Holding on to the precious eye-opener, I let the weight of it tip the scales I measure my worth with.
If I am to even make a crack in my husband’s concrete resolve to stick to his baby making schedule I’ll need all the help I can get for my saucy plan of seduction, starting with a wax. Much as Christian is keen to provide for my every whim I don’t think leaving Escala for a beauty treatment will meet with his approval, especially if said salon isn’t preapproved by him. When I inform Gail of our evening plans she’s quick to help me organise a home visit from an esthetician.
Throughout the afternoon the conversation Christian and I shared plays on my mind, his words plugging the many holes my insecurity has punched through the years. I relish the way it bolsters my self-confidence, making me feel new. And Gail is an angel, helping me entertain Chris through my primping.
With my freshly exfoliated skin, hairless and glowing I venture into my closet in search of something jaw dropping. I find just the thing in a tiny flirty dress, so short I’ll have a have a hard time convincing Christian that it’s not a top. Giddy with feminine power I finger the nude chiffon pleats. I love the translucent, cloudy quality of the fabric, diffusing the view of the skin-coloured sheath underneath enough to make you wonder if it’s there at all. The pleats start at the scooping neckline, first tight before falling into a floaty A-line that will move flatteringly whenever I do. Reed thin straps over my shoulders ensure that the barely-there look of the dress isn’t spoilt.
I giggle when I realise the dress comes with its own set of underwear, cut from the same cloth as the sheath. The bra is strapless with a decent amount of support, holding the spill of my breasts in tantalising rounds, the valley between them darkening with depth as they peek from the neckline. The panty is a teeny, seamless thong made to be virtually invisible.
In the bathroom I keep with the low-key theme, finishing my face with bronzer, lashings of coal-black mascara and a sheer lip-gloss shimmering with hints of gold. My hair is pin-straight, flush against my back like the fall of water. My jewellery box raid yields chandelier earrings of antique gold, matched perfectly with creamy, fresh water pearls. An exotic scent, rich with the fragrance of spice and lilies is the last thing I apply before slipping into a pair of nude stacked heels, killer of course.
In the mirror I see a stunning creature, not me. Apparently there’s nothing like the glow of self-worth to make a girl look good. The smile playing on my lips is for my thoughts, eager and excited to see how the night will pan out. I pick a long coat to ward of the chill until we get to the club, then fill a small clutch with the bare essentials only because that’s all it can hold.
After an air kiss to save my make-up Grace pushes me back by the shoulders to take in my outfit. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, her mouth sliding into a crooked grin as she nods her head in approval.
“I suspect you’ll have my son’s full attention tonight,” she teases, her grin widening into a beam when she spots my coy blush.
“I hope so mom,” I breathe, a little flustered by the all-too-knowing glint in her eyes. “Thanks for taking care of Chris tonight. He’s excited to see you.”
“You’re welcome Ana,” she rubs the top of my arm, her expression warm. “I’m looking forward to seeing him too,” she banters, dropping her gaze to my belly, “him and my new grandbaby.” She gives me an exaggerated wink, one that says your secret is safe with me, though I don’t have a secret yet – I think.
I try to hide my shock, but her remark is so left field I’m betrayed by my gasp.
She giggles girlishly, obviously delighting in her inside info, “He told me; wanted to know if there was anything he could do to aid the process.” She makes air quotes around the word process, wriggling her brows suggestively.
I can only laugh, half embarrassed, half amused thinking about adult Christian having a birds and bees conversation with his mom. If I had any doubts left that Christian deserves a little seductive torture they leave in a flurry along with any inhibitions I may have been harbouring. Game on Mr Grey!
Collins escorts me to the seventy sixth floor before joining Taylor somewhere nearby. The Mile High Club is every bit as opulent as I remember. Muted lights twinkle like tiny stars, giving the large space a romantic ambience that’s complemented by the gentle tinkling of a Concert Grand, and excellent, unobtrusive service. The decor is understated, elegant, making full use of the spectacular Seattle skyline that’s visible through the surrounding glass walls.
My coat checked; I don’t walk so much as strut through the intimate groupings of tables, zeroing in on my spousal prey that is, as yet, oblivious to my arrival. I gather the admiring glances I garner like flowers, fuelling my confidence as I go. As if sensing the turning heads Christian looks up from his Blackberry, his bland expression falling away just like his jaw. Pushing up from his chair he makes to stand, bumping the table in the first ungraceful move I’ve ever seen him make. My inner goddess is sky high on the drug of our apparent appeal, and I revel with her in his reaction.
Careful not to make a scene he rounds the table, greeting me with a kiss on my cheek to give his hissed whisper access to my ear, “Jeez Ana, where the fuck is the pants? Are you trying to give me a damn heart attack?”
Unperturbed I smile, looking at him through my heavy lashes, fluttering them slowly, “This is a dress silly,” playfully I smack his arm, playing oblivious, “one of the ones you had your stylist pick out for me.” I walk my fingers up his chest, using his shirt buttons as stepping stones.
His fingers curl around my upper arm, his darkening eyes betraying his arousal despite his scowl, “Where’s your coat?” he growls, looking around, counting the pairs of eyes on the miles of leg I have on display.
I cock my hip, fisting my hands in my waist, “Mr Grey, I’m not ruining this gorgeous outfit you bought me with a coat, besides, you’re being awfully rude.” I breathe through the bubble of giggles fighting to escape, his face a picture of horror at my accusation. Counting down with my fingers I list his mock offences, “I’ve come all the way across town to join you for dinner, yet I don’t get a proper kiss, you don’t offer me a seat or a drink, not even a you look lovely,” I pout, waiting for his good manners to win out.
I get more than I bargain for when Christian calls my bluff, giving the entire restaurant a show. A possessive arm bands around my waist, roughly pulling me closer, his anchoring strength the only thing keeping me from toppling over on my dangerously high heels.
Hovering his cross mouth mere inches away from mine he speaks in a low rasp, “Trust me baby, you look hot enough for me to bend over the table and fuck into next year.”
A second later his mouth is on mine, kissing me with a ravenous intensity that leaves me dizzy.
When he’s done with me he sets me right, giving the dress a disgusted look, “Dress my ass. That thing is going straight into the trash when we get home,” he mutters darkly. “I think Miss Action owes me a fucking refund.”
Still grumbling he moves in behind me, shielding me with his body as he shepherds me into the half-moon booth. Thoroughly pleased I hide my smile, not only was that exactly the result I was hoping for, but the privacy of this booth suits my plan perfectly, the table in front of us strategically placed to veil my provocation.
Angling my body towards him I cross my legs as Christian moves in beside me, letting the dress ride up my thighs.
“Jeez!” he spits, freshly irked when he clocks the nude panties peeking through the triangle between my folded legs and the indecently high dress. “You can’t even sit in that thing!” Narrowing his eyes at me he snares my amused gaze, “You are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
My laugh is gentle, tinkling, almost coy, “Don’t be so dramatic.” I lean forward, giving him a prime view of the milky perk of my breasts while I run his tie through my scissored fingers. I shrug, not looking into the gaze I sense is heating for me, “I just wanted to look good for you.”
I hear him suck in a breath. He captures my wrist before I can smooth his tie once more, bringing my hand to his mouth. He bites then kisses a pair of my fingers before shoving my hand under the table, brushing it against his erection, “That’s how fucking good you look,” he grits.
If the tent of his pants is anything to go by Mr Grey is still going commando, and just like that it’s my turn to gasp, a flash of desire streaking into my panties. I squirm under his assessing stare, the colour of his eyes taking on that liquid light of raw need.
“And it doesn’t help my situation,” he quirks a brow, looking down at himself, “to think about the fact that you might very well be sitting here, pregnant with my child.”
Holy shit! I swallow, blinking at the hoarse rumble of his voice, his words igniting my blood.
He sits back, happier now that he’s shocked me right back. “You know I don’t share well, especially not this fucking much of you.” Slipping a digit under the strap of my dress, just below my collarbone he strokes my skin with the back of his finger. Though he’s mad, he’s equally aroused, his stare lazily sweeping over the curves he’s itching to touch.
I pinch my lower lip between my teeth, “You don’t have to share. I’m all yours Mr Grey.” This time I grab his tie, pulling him closer for a firm kiss. His hand slaps onto the long stretch of exposed thigh I have on show for him, his fingers digging into my flesh with a deliciously hard grip.
We jump apart, me giggling, him blinking when the waiter clears his throat beside our table, evidently ready to take our order.
Christian rakes a hand through his hair, quickly regaining control of himself before he gruffly rumbles off an order of poached Salmon, vegetables and a house salad. If the waiter is fazed by Christian’s tone he doesn’t show it, efficiently filling our wine glasses with sparkling grape juice before heading off to place the order.
“What, no oysters today Mr Grey?” I tease, thinking that he’s going to crack a joke about our libidos not needing any help.
“Uhm, no,” he says, unwavering. “No uncooked seafood when you’re pregnant.”
Jeez! Is there anything about the subject he doesn’t know?
“You know I might not be. It may take a while; we don’t know how long it will take for the hormones from the IUD to work out of my system.” Even though I know he won’t hear of it I still feel the need to manage his expectations.
He smirks, his arrogant expression infuriating as it is attractive, and I return it with my own because I know his little secret.
Over Christian’s shoulder I catch the eye of a man at another table, not for the first time noticing that he looks our way a little too much. He doesn’t smile or look away, simply stares with open interest.
When Christian sees my frown he turns to follow my line of sight, “What is it baby?”
Instantly the man looks away, re-joining the conversation around his table. There’s something off about him, not quite dressed for an establishment like this, without the quiet poise of the other diners that can afford the outrageous price tag of the yearly membership the club charges. The last thing I want to do is raise Christian’s suspicions on some vague feeling I have. That, coupled with my scanty outfit, puts me in no position to complain about the blatant appraisal of strangers.
I turn my full attention back to him, smiling warmly, “Nothing. Tell me about your day? How is your arm feeling?”
Christian gives me the highlights of his day, which flatteringly includes my e-mail and our phone call, and I do the same telling him about my meeting with Cindy. We discuss our plans with Elliot and Kate, and I rejoice seeing Christian’s excitement about seeing his brother and taking Chris out on the Grace.
My stomach knots nervously when he informs me that the process of Chris’ name change is virtually complete, and that a notification will be sent to Jose who apparently is still on location in the Bahamas. I’ve no idea how Jose will take the news. I toy with the idea of sending him a pre-emptive e-mail but shelve the unavoidable discussion with Christian for later. If he turns out to be the bad guy I bear such a big chunk of the responsibility for his actions. There’s still a part of me that finds it hard to believe that he would go to such extremes, maybe naively hoping that if I play nice he’ll let whatever grudge he does have go.
Both of us turn thoughtful, quiet for a minute before Christian reaches for my hand, “Do you remember what you said the other day, wanting me to come clean about certain aspects of my past?”
His cautious tone makes me look up; he’s focussed intently on me, “Yes,” I drawl slowly, not sure where the conversation is going.
Nodding he locks our stares, “I’ve been giving it some thought. Taylor and I had a meeting with a respected publicist, just to get his take. There’s still a lot to discuss but I wanted to know if you were still on board with the idea?”
I am and I’m not. There’s no way I can fool myself into thinking that it would be a breeze. Not the actual exposure part, but the fact that it would place Christian in a sexually intriguing light that would call women to him like a siren. You see it with celebrities all the time, the public thinks they own you, that you’re fair game for whatever twisted fantasies they entertain about you. I’m also not oblivious to how ruthless women can be to get what they want. On the other hand, is there any greater gift I can give him, freedom from a lifetime of fear of exposure?
I muster every ounce of my courage, giving my husband a beatific smile, “Absolutely,” I confirm, my voice clear, convincing, pushing the anxiety to the back of my mind.
When our food arrives I catch the curious man’s gaze on us again, the unease I feel only intensifying when he leers at me. Shuddering I turn to my food, hoping that I’m imagining things.
Of course the food is delicious, drawing a soft moan from me that makes Christian chuckle, “I love to see you eating baby,” he purrs in a way that makes it sound like sin.
I can’t help glowing. His words, his tone, even his gaze fall on me like the caresses of a gentle lover. Flattering and distracting, it all makes me fall so much deeper in love with him.
I guess he sees his adoration reflected in my expression for he groans, “Don’t look at me like that and expect me to behave. We’re in public Mrs Grey.” His voice is thick with desire, completely negating his warning.
I grin, coquettish and confident, “Like what Mr Grey? Like I love you? I can’t help it, it’s the truth.” I shrug a single shoulder, hopelessly unable to hide my feelings from him, even if I wanted to.
I hear the hiss of his inhale, his lips parting to accommodate it, “Let’s get you home so you can get fucked Mrs Grey, before I take you right here and give the damn tabloids something to write about.”
My heart stops, then starts at the streaky heat pulsing between us, “Good plan Mr Grey,” I manage to rasp past my dry mouth. “I just need to go the restroom.”
He nods curtly, muttering about the indecent dress as I slide out of the booth.
I’m relieved to see that the creepy guy from the other table is gone when I pass it on my way to the restrooms. Inside I freshen up, fixing my make-up quickly; eager to join my amorous husband. On my exit I gasp when I find the gawking stranger from the restaurant leaning against the wall in the relative privacy of the dead end passageway.
He captures my startled face in the doorway of the powder room, the flashes popping like manic winks from where he holds the camera low, the angle deliberately unflattering, which was, at least initially, out of my immediate line of sight. I notice he works the offensive thing with a practised ease, like it’s an extension of his own arm, all the while sneering his snide smile like he knows something I don’t.
Protectively I raise my arm, turning my head away from the blinding pops of light. I quash the burst of panic in my belly when I realise he’s a pap, his keen interest in us explained by his unsavoury job. He may be a leering bastard, intent on getting a money shot, but with Christian, Taylor and Collins nearby, all I have to do is get away from him. I skirt around him, a little disorientated by the insistent flashes but he sidesteps, cutting me off.
“Aw, come on Mrs Grey, give a guy a break, just answer a couple of friendly questions,” he cajoles, sounding anything but sincere. When I round his other side he blocks me again, dropping his fake friendly act and a bomb, “Why did you lie about your son’s biological father? Did you try to trick Christian Grey into marrying you? Were you and Mr Rodriguez in cahoots with a scheme to blackmail him with the child?”
Anger, no fury streaks through me with the force of a 1000V jolt. I stop, dropping my arm to glare daggers at him, “Get out of my way!” I yell, tears of frustration burning in the back of my throat. I clench my teeth, willing myself not to make matters worse by saying something that will be twisted in the tabloids tomorrow.
In true paparazzi form he lifts the camera, holding it close to my face, blinding me as he searches for something antagonizing enough to make me break, “So you’re not denying it? That’s pretty fucked-up! What about your son? Did you thi…Oooffffff!”
For a second I’m confused, I can’t make out what’s happening in the low light of the passage, my vision still affected by the sharp bursts of light from the flash. I feel an arm band around my waist, yanking me away as something speeds past me. Instinctively I know I’m in Christian’s arms, his body shielding me from whatever is happening.
His urgent words finally filter through my befuddled brain as his face comes into focus, “Are you hurt baby? Did that fucker touch you? Baby! Talk to me!” He gives me a small shake, his expression apprehensive.
Snapping too I shake my head, bewildered as I watch Taylor drag the cuffed and bloody nosed pap away, fighting his bonds, and spewing ugly threats of litigation. By the looks of it Taylor must’ve tackled him while Christian got me out of the way.
“Thank fuck,” he breathes before crushing me to his chest.
The threatening tears of frustration from earlier is gone, the shock keeping my mind pleasantly numb while Christian escorts me, tucked tightly under his arm, to collect my coat. He collects it then helps me into it, doing up the buttons and freeing my hair from beneath it, taking care of me like only he can.
We leave with Collins, his shoulders tense and his gaze sweeping, the pap’s audacious approach making him extra vigilant. Taylor’s with the cops, giving his statement and we’re heading there to offer ours.
Christian takes my hands, cupping them inside his own, “Baby, do you want to lay charges?”
“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “The last thing I want to do is antagonize them, and I don’t want to give them any reason to intensify their scrutiny of us, but I’m outraged with how he went about it.” And the photos, I think as an afterthought, cringing. I can only imagine the captions on the front page of some sleazy rag tomorrow.
Nodding, he tenderly brushes a stray stand of hair behind my ear. As if reading my mind he puts it at ease, “There’ll be no photos baby, Taylor made sure of that. And don’t worry about any of this coming out, if he ever wants to make a dime on his job he’ll drop it. I’ll cash in every marker I have to make sure he’ll never be published again if he so much as alludes to even laying eyes on you.”
Serves him right! I think nastily. The mighty force of Grey Publishing bearing down on a member of the paparazzi must be nothing short of intimidating. I lean in, cupping his cheek, “Thank you.” Pressing a grateful kiss onto his lips I make up my mind about pressing charges, “I’m fine to make a statement but I don’t think I want to lay charges if that’s okay with you.”
Christian hugs me to him, kissing the top of my head, “Much as I despise what they do I think that’s the better of two evils. If you sue one of their own they just gang up and make your life hell.”
“How did he know though? About Chris’ name change?” I ask, suddenly perplexed as it hasn’t yet been finalised.
“We had to file the documents with the Office of Vital Statistics, once there it’s a public record, and with the attention we’ve been getting from the press I’m not at all surprised that they dug hard enough to find out. This is why I hate them snooping around, they find shit and twist it…” his words fade out, his jaw clenching with annoyance as he looks through the window, losing himself in the passing world.
Thank you Skinsavant for the beauty technician info, and Karen and Susan for the quick, grammar/word confirming e-mails.
Be kind and review, please.