Chapter 1, Part 1

I growl with frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my hair – it’s fifty shades of fucked up. The situation I’m in is fifty shades of fucked up. I’m supposed to be studying for my finals; my roommate, Kathleen, should be the one fussing with her hair in front of the mirror right now. Instead, I’m trying to brush my hair into submission. Why is my hair so kinky? I need to stop sleeping with it wet, because it always ends up out of control. As I brush my long, brown hair, the girl in the mirror with blue eyes too big for her head stares back at me. Wait...I don’t have blue eyes! Then I realize I haven’t been looking into the mirror. I’ve been staring at a poster of Kristen Stewart for five minutes. My own hair is actually fine.

Kathleen has the flu. Today, of all days! What a b. She was supposed to be the one interviewing the mega-capitalist tycoon, Chris Gray, for our college student newspaper. Since she’s too busy throwing up buckets of puke into the toilet, I’ve been volunteered to do her dirty work. (The interview, not cleaning up her vomit.) I have an essay to finish writing and final exams to study for, but no – I’m driving 650 miles from Portland, Oregon to downtown Seattle to meet with the fabulously wealthy CEO of Gray Holdings. He’s a major benefactor of our school, and he’ll be giving a speech at the graduation ceremony in a few weeks. The interview can’t simply be rescheduled, Kathleen says, because Mr. Gray’s time is precious and oh-so-valuable. Like mine isn’t? As I said, Kathleen is such a total b sometimes.

Kathleen is on the couch in the living room watching 16 and Pregnant.

“I’m sorry, Anna. It took me months to get this interview. We can’t reschedule it, because by then we’ll be graduated. Please do this for me,” she begs me with her raspy Christian Bale-as-Batman voice. Somebody smoked too many cigarettes last night.

“Of course I’ll do it, Kathleen. You need to rest. Do you need any NyQuil?”

“Does it have alcohol in it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then pour a shot into a glass with some Red Bull,” she says. “And here – take my mini-disc recorder, and these questions. I’ll do the transcribing.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this for her! I take the mini-disc recorder and notebook from her and leave. It’s only after I’m on the road for a half hour that I remember her request for NyQuil and Red Bull. Oh, well. That b can get off her sick ass and get them herself.

Continued in Chapter 1, Part 2...

Chapter 1, Part 2

Continued from Chapter 1, Part 1...

I arrive at the Gray Holdings headquarters in downtown Seattle two hours later. The building is a ginormous 175-story office building that juts into the sky like a glass and steel erection. It’s fifteen minutes until two when I arrive – just in time for the interview. I walk through the glass doors and into the lobby, which is also floor-to-ceiling glass and steel. This fascinates me, because buildings back in Portland are made of grass and mud.

An attractive, blonde woman behind the receptionist’s desk smiles at me as I walk in. I assume she’s the receptionist, because I can’t think of any other reason she would be sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. Unless maybe she’s filling in for the real receptionist, who is on her lunch break. But then I remember: It’s almost two, and I doubt anyone takes their lunch breaks that late. So this must be the receptionist.

“I’m here to see Mr. Gray,” I say. “My name is Anna Steal. I’m filling in for Kathleen Kraven.”

“Just one moment, Miss Steal,” the receptionist says, checking her computer. I wish I had borrowed one of Kate’s suit jackets for the interview. I’ve never felt more self-conscious than I do now, standing here in this big building in front of this attractive woman wearing a Tommy hoodie and Victoria’s Secret sweatpants with “PINK” written across the ass. The sweatpants aren’t pink, though, they’re gray; this always confuses me when I put them on, because I would expect it to say “GRAY” on the backside.

The receptionist looks up from her computer. “Please sign in, Miss Steal,” she says, pushing a clipboard with an attached pen across the desk to me. “You’ll want to take the elevator and go to the ninetieth floor.”

I look at her blankly. Being from the small town of Portland, I’ve never seen an elevator before. “What button do I press to get there?”

She smiles. “The one that says nine-zero,” she says as I sign in.

She hands me a security badge that says VIRGIN. How could she know that I’m a virgin? Is it that obvious? “How did you –”

The receptionist laughs. “Relax. It just means you’re a first-time visitor here at Gray Holdings.”

Oh. That makes sense. I thank her and walk to the elevator. Two sharp-dressed men are standing guard, and one of them pushes the “Up” arrow when I approach. I step into the elevator, push the button marked “90,” and fly upwards towards Mr. Gray’s office. When the elevator finally slows to a halt, the doors open and I’m in another lobby – this one made of glass and steel as well. Is the whole building made with the same materials? Where did they ever find so much glass and steel? Before I can ponder the question further, another attractive blonde woman greets me and guides me to a chair. “Wait here, Ms. Steal,” she says cooly.

I sit down. I turn my neck and look out of the glass window, which overlooks the Seattle skyline. It’s amazing how I can at once be in downtown Seattle, and yet see the skyline of the entire city out the window. Is it some sort of optical illusion? Whatever it is, it’s amazing. Holy popsicle sticks: It's just a painting. Stop being so stupid, Anna!

I dig through my backpack and pull out the notebook; the minidisc recorder is still in my pocket. Who is this man I’m supposed to interview, this man whose last name is the same as the color of my sweatpants? Is that a sign? Kathleen didn’t tell me anything about him, and I didn’t think to ask. My brain is always going blank. This guy could be a hundred years old or five years old. Although they wouldn’t let a five-year-old run a company the size of Gray Holdings, would they? Then I remember: Yes, they would. I saw it in a movie when I was little. Richie Rich, starring that cute boy from Home Alone. God, if I have to interview a fuckin’ kid for the next hour I’m going to jump out the window right now... I can’t contain my nervous energy. My leg starts twitching. I’d rather be by myself, curled up in a ball in my bed, crying myself to sleep. Anything besides about ready to interview some five-year-old billionaire.

Stop it, Anna, a voice says. It takes me a second, but I realize it’s my own voice. I can tell, because when I talk inside my head to myself there’s this “echo-y” sound. Stop it, girl. There’s no way he’s five-years-old. Or one hundred. He’s probably like every other CEO on the planet: Late twenties, handsome in that geeky sort of way, and just as awkward as you. I breathe a sigh of relief, because I know I’m probably right.

The blonde returns. “Miss Steal?”

“Yes,” I say in a deeper voice than usual, trying my best to mask my crisis of confidence.

“Mr. Gray will see you a few minutes. Would you like a refreshment while you wait? Coffee, soda, tea...?”

“NyQuil and Red Bull,” I say. It’s supposed to be a joke, but the woman nods and heads back down the corridor and returns with a clear glass filled with a pale, green carbonated liquid.

Before I can ask for a water instead, the only office door connected to the lobby swings open and a handsome African-American gentleman exits. Turning and pointing a finger back through the door, he says, “Nine holes, this week.” I assume they are talking about golf, but my mind starts to drift to thoughts of other holes... The man winks at me as he passes me.

“Mr. Gray will see you now,” the blonde woman says. I pick up my backpack and notebook, and check my pocket for the mini-disc recorder and pen. I stand and make my way slowly towards the open door, like I’m walking to my execution. I should be back in Portland, studying for my finals so that I can graduate. I’m going to kill that effin’ b, Kathleen. 

I push the door open and trip over the hem of my sagging sweatpants in one swift motion. As I careen towards the floor, my body reflexively goes into gymnast mode. I drop the backpack and notebook, throw my arms straight out, and roll into a cartwheel. With the momentum picked up from tripping, I complete three full cartwheels before landing on my feet – on Mr. Gray’s desk! I am so embarrassed about my clumsiness that I close my eyes. But I hear someone...clapping. I open my eyes and stare down at Mr. Gray and HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SPARKLY VAMPIRES IS HE HOT.

“Miss Kraven,” he says, extending a long-fingered hand to me to assist me off the desk. “I’m Edward. I mean, 'Chris Gray.' Have a seat?”

He’s young, he’s sexy – he’s the total package. First, he can’t be more than thirty. He’s tall, dressed impeccably in a tailored gray suit, a black tie with smiley faces on it, tousled brown hair, and is staring me down with brilliant gray eyes. He’s the kind of guy you want to write fanfic about.

“Well, um,” I say, accepting his hand and stepping off the desk. I blink my eyes rapidly as we touch; either his touch is electric, or I just had a seizure. When I’m back on my feet on the floor I excuse myself to pick up my notebook and backpack, then return to his desk to I sit down across from him.

Continued in Chapter 1, Part 3...

Chapter 1, Part 3

Continued from Chapter 1, Part 2...

“Miss Kraven had an emergency come up at the last minute. She sent me instead.”

“And your name is...?”

“Anna Steal. Miss Kraven and I are roommates. We’re both English majors at Washington State.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” he says.

I pull the mini-disc recorder out of my hoodie pocket and set it up. Mr. Gray watches me with an amused look on his face. He’s probably wondering why I’m using a piece of technology that was obsolete the day it rolled off the production line. I don’t know either. The only thing I know is that Kathleen likes really old shit, like vintage stuff. I mean, her favorite band is Nirvana.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m trying to figure out how to turn this thing on...”

“It’s okay. I like to watch,” he says with a sinister smile.

“Can I record our conversation? It’s for Kathleen.”

“I don’t mind if you tape us,” he says. The way he says “us” sends shivers up my spine. Is he hitting on me?

“Kathleen told you what this interview was about, right?”

“I’ve never spoken with her, but my assistant has informed me it’s for your student newspaper.”

“Okay,” I say, finally figuring out how to turn on the mini-disc recorder. “I have some questions for you.”

He stares at me. “And...?”

I’ll just start in. No small talk, apparently. I read the first question out of the notebook Kathleen provided for me: “You’re young and have achieved a lot in your business career, more than most people will achieve in their lifetimes. What’s the secret of your success?”

He smiles. “I’m a business, man, not a businessman,” he says. “But at the same time, the most important part of my business is the people I employ and the people my company does business with. I spend a lot of time getting to know people, and judging them. And inspiring them, incentivizing them, and rewarding them. I employ over a billion people in my vast empire, and I interviewed every one of them myself. They’re all outstanding human beings. So, in short, my success has everything to do with the people I surround myself with.”

“Couldn’t it be luck?” This isn’t something Kathleen wrote down, but I have to go off script – he seems so arrogant and sure of himself. I want to throw him off guard. This is going to be the best damn school newspaper puff piece on a donor ever.

“Luck is for gamblers, Miss Steal. I don’t gamble.”

“Never? You’ve never, say, played the lottery?”

“Never,” he says. “I don’t take chances.”

“Not even, like, a one dollar scratch-off ticket?”

“Never. I just can’t take a chance. If the ticket’s not a winner, I’m left with a little scrap of paper with silver dust all over my quarter. And sometimes that silvery stuff gets on your fingers and it’s a bitch to clean off.”

“So you have bought scratch-off lottery tickets!”

He sighs. “Off the record? My mother was a gambling addict, Miss Steal. She gave me used scratch-off lottery tickets to play with as a child instead of toys. So I don’t take chances.”

“Not even for a dollar,” I mutter.

“Not even for a dollar,” he says, boring into my head with his gray eyes.

I feel my heartbeat quickening. Oh baby. Every thing he says makes me wet, even the part about playing with lottery tickets as a kid. Is it because he’s so good-looking? Is it because of his incredibly long fingers? Or his tousled hair?

“Do you ever rest?” I ask. “How do you unwind?”

“I have hobbies,” he says, smirking. “Physical pursuits: Base-jumping, hang-gliding, underwater basket-weaving.”

He’s so attractive, so good-looking that I find it hard to concentrate on asking the questions Kathleen has written down for me. I force myself to look at the page instead of continuing to be pulled into Mr. Gray’s tractor beam of hotness.

“Why do you invest in so much manufacturing? Why not, say, technology or Internet startups, like every other billionaire your age?”

He sighs. “I’m not like other people. I don’t do what everyone else does,” he says, “in business or in the bedroom.”

Most people sleep or watch TV in bedrooms. What could he be talking about?

“Do you have a philosophy of business?”

“No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.”

Wow. Was this hot guy a philosophy major in college? He’s nothing like the burnouts I know who sit around contemplating their navels and smoking grass. My skin feels flushed. I’ve never been in the presence of such an attractive, smart man before, except for maybe the time President Obama gave a speech at our school.

“I understand you were adopted. How has that affected your business career?” As soon as I read the question I feel like an even bigger idiot than I usually do. Why can’t Kathleen be here doing this? Oh, yeah – she’s at home doing NyQuil/Red Bull bombs and puking into the toilet. A typical Tuesday for her.

“Was I adopted? Yes, that’s public knowledge. How has it affected me? How would I know?” Yikes. He’s no longer smiling; he is p-i-s-s-e-d.

“Have you sacrificed having a wife and family for the sake of business?”

“No, but I have sacrificed many the virgin,” he says, smirking again. I gulp.

“Are you gay?” Another stupid question that Kathleen has written down. I’m going to kill her when I get home, if she hasn’t choked to death on her own vomit.

A smile spreads on Mr. Gray’s face. “Am I gay? No, Anna. I’m not gay. I’m quite the opposite, in fact.”

“What’s the opposite of gay?”

“Sad,” he says. “You meant ‘gay’ as in ‘happy,’ right? Or was that ‘gay’ as in ‘homosexual’?”

I look back at the notebook. “It doesn’t say here, Mr. Gray. It just says ‘gay.’ But you’re saying you’re not gay, whichever definition she means?”

He nods. What a poor, sad emo man!

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “These aren’t my questions...”

“Do you work with Kathleen on the student paper?”

I shake my head and blush. “This the first interview I’ve ever done.”

“I see,” he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Oh, how I'd like him to rub my–

The intercom on his desk rings, and he answers it. “Your next meeting is here, Mr. Gray,” the receptionist says.

“Cancel it. I’m not finished with this one,” he says. Then, to me, “Pardon the interruption. Where were we?”

“I think I’ve asked you all the questions she had,” I say.

“I see,” he says. “Then perhaps you can answer some of my questions.”

“I’m not that interesting,” I say.

“When do you graduate?”

“Soon,” I say. 

“And afterwards, what are your plans?”

“I don’t have any,” I say. I’m planning to move to Seattle with Kathleen, and then...who knows? I hadn’t put much thought into it yet. I’d only had four years to think about the question.

“Gray Holdings has an excellent internship program,” he says.

“Um, thanks,” I say. “But I don’t know if I’m one of the people you want on your team.”

“Why?” he says, smiling. Can’t he see that I’m not the kind of girl that dresses nice? Can’t he see that I’m not like the blonde Barbies he has working for him?

“Nevermind,” I say. I have to get out of his office before I completely soak through my sweatpants and make an even bigger fool of myself in front of Edward. I mean, “Chris Gray.”

“Would you like a tour of the building?” he says.

“Can’t,” I say, gathering up my things and turning the mini-disc recorder off. “I’ve got to study for my finals. Thanks for the interview.”

He extends his right hand. “The pleasure was all on this end,” he says, smiling. I shake his hand, and feel the jolt of electricity again from him. He laughs and raises his hand to show me the joy-buzzer in his palm. What a prankster! “Good day, Anna.”

“Good day to you, Chris,” I say, leaving.

To be continued in Chapter 2...