Grey : 50 nuances de zizi qui parle (42)

On aperçoit la fin, et le début est toujours là.

Résumé des épisodes précédents : notre Christian est malheureux comme les pierres tout seul chez lui, et quand on l’a laissé, il partait faire un footing à 5h30 (il a raison c’est le meilleur moment pour courir en paix)

En avant pour la suite !

Sunday, June 5, 2011
(chap. 21 – part 2)

PROKOFIEV’S “ARRIVAL OF THE Montagues and Capulets” blares in my ears as I pound the sidewalk through the early morning quiet of Fourth Avenue. I ache everywhere—my lungs are bursting, my head is throbbing, and the yawning, dull ache of loss eats away at my insides.
C’est pas grave : l’effort physique est un excellent exutoire ! Et au moins après on sait pourquoi on a mal partout

I cannot run from this pain, though I’m trying. I stop to change the music and drag precious air into my lungs. I want something…violent. “Pump It,” by the Black Eyed Peas, yeah. I pick up the pace.
Je me demande s’il y a eu des études pour savoir s’il y a une corrélation entre le rythme de la musique et la vitesse de course. Quelque chose me souffle que oui.

I find myself running down Vine Street, and I know it’s insane, but I hope to see her. As I near her street my heart races still harder and my anxiety escalates. I’m not desperate to see her—
Noooooooon du tout !

I just want to check that she’s okay.

No, that’s not true. I want to see her. Finally on her street, I pace past her apartment building.
All is quiet—an Oldsmobile trundles up the road, two dog walkers are out—but there’s no sign of life from inside her apartment.
Pro tip : le nombre de personnes qui apprécient quitter leur lit avant 7h sont peu nombreuses. Alors quand en plus on part faire le malin en baskets à 5h30 du mat’, les chances de trouver de la vie en chemin sont réduites. Sauf si on compte les chats et les hérissons…

Crossing the street, I pause on the sidewalk opposite, then duck into the doorway of an apartment building to catch my breath.

The curtains of one room are closed, the others open. Perhaps that’s her room. Maybe she’s still asleep—if she’s there at all. A nightmare scenario forms in my mind: she went out last night, got drunk, met someone…

Bile rises in my throat. The thought of her body in someone else’s hands, some asshole basking in the warmth of her smile, making her giggle, making her laugh—making her come. It takes all my self-control not to go barging through the front door of her apartment to check that she’s there and on her own.

You brought this on yourself, Grey.
Forget her. She’s not for you.
I tug my Seahawks cap low over my face and sprint on down Western Avenue.
Voilà. Histoire d’être un peu plus creepy encore…

My jealousy is raw and angry; it fills the gaping hole. I hate it—it stirs something deep in my psyche that I really don’t want to examine. I run harder, away from that memory, away from the pain, away from Anastasia Steele.
… *ne fera pas la blague sur Forest, parce que ça serait méchant pour lui d’être comparé à ça*


IT’S DUSK OVER SEATTLE. I stand up and stretch. I’ve been at my desk in my study all day, and it’s been productive.
Ah ben forcément, quand on se concentre sur son travail au lieu de penser à niquer tout le temps…

Ros has worked hard, too. She’s prepared and sent me a first draft business plan and letter of intent for SIP.
At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Ana.

The thought is painful and appealing in equal measure.
I’ve read and commented on two patent applications, a few contracts, and a new design spec, and while lost in the detail of those, I have not thought about her. The little glider is still on my desk, taunting me, reminding me of happier times, like she said. I picture her standing in the doorway of my study, wearing one of my T-shirts, all long legs and blue eyes, just before she seduced me.

Another first.
I miss her.
There—I admit it.
Bravooooooo… Il veut un bon point aussi ? -_-« 

I check my phone, hoping in vain, and there’s a text from Elliot.

Beer, hotshot?

I respond: No. Busy.

Elliot’s response is immediate.

Fuck you, then.
J’aime beaucoup Elliot ^_____________^

Yeah. Fuck me.
Oui non toi un peu d’abstinence ça te fait pas de mal èé

Nothing from Ana: no missed call. No e-mail. The nagging pain in my gut intensifies. She’s not going to call. She wanted out. She wanted to get away from me, and I can’t blame her.
It’s for the best.
I head to the kitchen for a change of scenery.
Gail is back. The kitchen has been cleaned, and there’s a pot bubbling on the stove. Smells good…but I’m not hungry.
Et c’est lui qui nous faisait tout un sketch sur le fait de manger…

She walks in while I’m eyeing what’s cooking.
“Good evening, sir.”
She pauses—surprised by something. Surprised by me? Shit, I must look bad.
Y a de grandes chances oui…

“Chicken Chasseur?” she asks, her voice uncertain.
“Sure,” I mutter.
“For two?” she asks.
I stare at her, and she looks embarrassed.
Oui enfin elle n’y est pour rien, elle

“For one.”
“Ten minutes?” she says, her voice wavering.
“Fine.” My voice is frigid.
I turn to leave.
“Mr. Grey?” She stops me.
“What, Gail?”
“It’s nothing. Sorry to disturb you.” She turns to the stove to stir the chicken, and I head off to have another shower.
Christ, even my staff have noticed that something’s rotten in the state of fucking Denmark.
Ben oui mais faut comprendre : tu ressemblais presque à un être humain, et t’es redevenu à robocop décommissionné alors…


Notre PPB va-t-il se rendre compte qu’il n’a été qu’un abruti ? Et notre nénuphar va-t-elle réussir à rester loin de son chevalier sadique ? Rendez-vous au prochain chapitre ! \o/



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