Good evening, all! Let’s get set for another marathon of eyerolling at what happens in Chapter Five of Fifty Shades Darker. Ready? Let’s hop to it, then!
‘I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven’t fucked either the staff or the clientele.’
Then you should have gone to the salon on your own.
We glare at each other–and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder. ‘Put me down!’ I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.
He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.
‘Christian!’ I shout. People are staring. Could this be any more humiliating? ‘I’ll walk! I’ll walk.’
Just so we’re clear, this isn’t acceptable relationship behavior. If I saw this, I’d be calling the cops.
1. Shoulder carrying–unacceptable for anyone over the age of six.
2. Taking me to the salon that he owns with his ex-lover–how stupid can he be?
3. The same place he took his submissives–same stupidity at work here.
4. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea–and he’s supposed to be a bright guy.
5. Having crazy ex-girlfriends. Can I blame him for that? I am so furious; yes, I can.
6. Knowing my bank account number–that’s just too stalkery by half.
7. Buying SIP–he’s got more money than sense.
8. Insisting I stay with him–the threat from Leila must be worse than he feared . . . he didn’t mention that yesterday.
This sounds more like a list of cons than pros.
‘She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday.’
Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood draining from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint. Suppose she wants to kill him? No.
‘That means she can just buy a gun,’ I whisper.
You can’t just legally get a concealed weapons permit at the drop of a hat in Washington. It takes sixty days for it, and it can cost quite a bit of money depending on what state you’re in. How would a homeless, mentally ill woman be able to get one so quickly. Poor research, I say.
‘Were all your submissives brunettes?’
He frowns and glances at me quickly. ‘Yes,’ he mutters. He sounds uncertain, and I imagine him thinking, where’s she going with this?
‘I just wondered.’
‘I told you. I prefer brunettes.’
‘Mrs. Robinson isn’t a brunette.’
‘That’s probably why,’ he mutters. ‘She put me off blondes forever.’
Why, oh why have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy–beautiful, sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital K?
I’m asking YOU that!
He shrugs. ‘More.’ His voice is low and quiet. ‘And you’re right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There’s something about you, Anastasia, that calls to me on some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. I can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.’ He reaches forward and takes my hand. ‘Don’t run, please–have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please.’
‘I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.’ He turns and heads for his study.
I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab: ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE.
If he’d done a better background check, he would have known she was a virgin in the first book, huh?
Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and–Yes!–peas from the freezer. All of these will do.
Peas are right up there with orange juice and white wine for Ana. They are crisp and delicious.
I frown at him, perplexed. It’s harlot red, not my color at all.
And that’s all for this week!