Welcome everyone to my sick version of the Fifty Shades Trilogy. I own nothing, plot, story and characters used in this story I have borrowed for my sick kicks. However I may change some details to fit my characters, and may even re-write the lemons myself, just because I believe most are bit rushed and rusty…enjoy.
List of characters:
Anastasia Steele: Mexico
Christian Grey: America
Elena Lincoln aka Troll Bitch *ahem* I mean Mrs. Robinson: Ukraine (Lol I love Ukraine)
Jack Hyde: Philippines
Mia Grey: Canada
Elliot Grey: France
Kate Kavanagh: England
Ethan Kavanagh: Scotland
Leila Williams: Panama
Jason Tyler: Ancient Rome
Dr. G. Grey: Japan
Carrick Grey: Greece
Ella aka Christian's biological mother: Native America
Jose Rodriguez: Spain
Carla aka Anastasia's mother: China
Mr. Sawyer: Estonia
Ray aka Anastasia's father: Russia
Ryan (security): Sweden
Samantha (security): Belarus
Mrs. Jones (housekeeper): Lithuania
Dr. Flynn: Germany
Mrs. Flynn: Italy
Dr. Greene: Belgium
Ros Bailey: Taiwan
Paul Clayton: Argentina
Claude Bastille: Prussia
Sophie aka Taylor's daughter: Sebrogia
*Phew* Alright let's get on with it, please enjoy~ :)
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair-it just won't behave, and damn Arthur Kirkland for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the tan, curly—raven-haired girl with aqua eyes to big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair into a ponytail and hope that I look semi-presentable.
Arthur is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he'd arranged to do, with some mega—industrial tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for and one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no-today I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Jones Enterprises Holdings, Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily precious-much more precious than mine—but he has granted Arthur an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extracurricular activities.
Arthur is huddled on the couch in the living room.
"Ally, I'm so sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Arthur begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice. How does he do it? Even ill he looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blond hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red—rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcomed sympathy, and slight flush of attraction. We'd never happen though; Arthur is a true homosexual through and through. I don't mind, in any case Arthur is my best friend and always will be no matter what.
"Of course I'll go, Artie. You should get back to bed. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol?"
"NyQuil, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my raising panic.
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."
"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Artie, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks, Ally—as usual, you're my life saver."
Gathering my backpack, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Arthur talk me into this. But then Arthur can talk anyone into anything. He'll make an exceptional journalist. He's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, and beautifully handsome-and he's my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, Washington, toward Interstate 5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Arthur has lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Rosa, my old VW Beetle, would make this journey in time. Oh, the Merc is fun to drive, and the miles slip away as I hit the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Jones' Global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with JONES HOUSE written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous-and frankly intimidating— glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
"I'm here to see Mr. Jones. Alejandra Romanize for Arthur Kirkland."
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Romanize," She arches her eyebrow as I stand impatiently before her. I'm beginning to wish I'd worn something more formal, or borrowed one of Arthur's balzers, rather than my navy-blue jacket. I at least made an effort and wore a knee—length brown skirt and black sweater with matching knee—high boots. It was the only "appropriate" thing in my closet, or so Arthur claims. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend that her look doesn't tick me off.
"Mr. Kirkland is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Romanize. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at, amused no doubt, as I sign in. Glad to amuse you puta.
She hands me a security pass that has "visitor" very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nada cambia. I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators and past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well—cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me at terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby—again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman, this time in black and white, who rises to meet me.
"Miss Romanize, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to- ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my backpack, and go through them, inwardly cursing Arthur for not providing me with a quick biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could ne thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room and slack off. To be honest I prefer my own company reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library, or pouring my soul out at any local club dance floor. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass-and—stone edifice. One could say formality is not my thing.
I role my eyes at myself. Calmate, Romanize. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Jones is in his forties: fit, tanned, and bleached haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Talking a deep breath, I stand up.
"Miss Romanize?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Jones will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh, please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Um—no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" She asks turning her attention back to me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Latvia, please fetch Miss Romanize a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Latvia scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer."
"My apologies, Miss Romanize. Latvia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Jones will be another five minutes."
Latvia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Romanize."
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Jones insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall elegantly, dressed, attractive European man with silver hair exists. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door, "Golf this week, Jones?"
I don't hear the reply. He turns sees me, and smiles, his red eyes a glow with mischief. Latvia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!
"Good afternoon, ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.
"Mr. Jones will see you now, Miss Romanize. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my backpack, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially opened door.
"You don't need to knock—just go in." She smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet and falling headfirst into the office.
Double crap—me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Jones' office, and gentle hands are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow-he's so young.
"Mrs. Kirkland." He extends a long fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Alfred Jones. Are you alright? Would you like to sit?"
So young—and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine Grey suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly bright sun-colored hair and intense, bright blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
"Um. Actually—" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty, then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
"Mr. Kirkland is indisposed, and we are in no way romantically involved—err, so he sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Jones." Pen déjà! He has no reason to know about my relationship with Arthur.
"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested but, above all, polite.
"Alejandra Romanize. I'm studying English literature with Artie, um… Arthur… um… Mr. Kirkland, at WSU Vancouver."
"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward an L-shaped white leather couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a modern dark wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white—ceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite—a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local artist. Trouton," says Jones when he catches my gaze.
"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted by both him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side a regards me intently.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Romanize," he replies, voice soft, and for some reason inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Artie's questions from my backpack. Next I set up the digital recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Jones says nothing, waiting patiently—I hope—as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed on his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.
"S-sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss Romanize," he says.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?"
"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?"
I flush. He's teasing me? Que wey. I blink at him, unsure what to say, ass, baboso, pendejo; I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."
"Did Artie, I mean, Mr. Kirkland, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than me—okay maybe six years or so, and okay mega-successful, but still—is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
"Good." I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Jones." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I thought you might," he says deadpan. Sigale pendejo. My cheeks heat at the realization, what a stupid question, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
"You're very young to have assumed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
"Business is all about people, Miss Romanize, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his icy blue stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside out, and know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nature a good solid idea and good people."
"Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Artie's list—but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
"I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Romanize. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said, 'The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"
"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Romanize," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickness, and my face flushes again.
Why does he have such an unnerving affect on me? His overwhelming good looks maybe? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that.
"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft.
"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control freak.
"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Romanize. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility."Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.
"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's arrogant. I change tack.
"And do you have any interests outside of work?"
"I have varied interests, Miss Romanize." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason I am confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are a light with some wicked thought.
"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"
"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
"Well, 'to chill out', as you put it—I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Romanize, and I have expensive absorbing hobbies."
I glance quickly at Artie's questions, wanting to get off this subject. "You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?
"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?"
"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts." His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.
"Possibly. Though there are some people who'd say I don't have a heart."
"Why would they say that?"
"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.
"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Artie's list.
"I'm a very private person, Miss Romanize. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews…"
"Why did you agree to this one?"
"Because I'm a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Mr. Kirkland off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."
I know how tenacious Artie can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under Mr. Jones penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for exams.
"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in that area?"
"We can't eat money, Miss Romanize, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat."
"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel very passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?"
He shrugs noncommittally.
"It's a shrewd business," he murmurs, though I don't think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense—feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefit of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by hid attitude.
"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"
"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle—Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control—of myself and those around me.
"So you want to posses things?" You are a control freak.
"I want to deserve to posses them, but yes, bottom line, I do."
"You sound like the ultimate consumer."
"I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again, this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking we're talking about something else, but I'm mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising, or maybe it's just me. I want this interview to be over. Surely Artie has enough material now. I glance at the next question.
"You were adopted. How much do you think that's shaped the way you are?" Oh this is personal. I stare at him, hopping he's not offended. His brow furrows.
"I have no way of knowing."
My interest is piqued. "How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's a matter of public record, Miss Romanize." His tone is stern. Shit! Yes of course—if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. Flustered, I move on quickly.
"You've had to sacrifice family life for your work."
"That's not a question." He's terse.
"Sorry." I squirm; he's made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?"
"I have a family. I have an older brother, a younger brother and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."
"Are you gay, Mr. Jones?"
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Mérida! Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions? Damn Artie and his curiosity!
"No, Alejandra, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
"I apologize. It's, um…written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
He cocks his head to one side.
"These aren't your own questions?"
The blood drains from my head.
"Err…no. Artie—Mr. Kirkland—he complied the questions."
"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh no. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's his extracurricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.
"No, he's my roommate."
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his blue eyes appraising me. "Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth.
"I was drafted, he's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic.
"That explains a great deal."
There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters. "Mr. Jones, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."
"We're not finished here, Sealand. Please cancel my next meeting."
Sealand hesitates, gaping at him. She appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Que bien. It's not just me.
"Very well, Mr. Jones," she mutters, then exists. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me. "Where were we, Miss Romanize?"
Oh we're back to "Miss Romanize" now. "Please don't let me keep you from anything."
"I want to know about you. I think it's only fair." His eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very…distracting. I swallow.
"There's not much to know."
"What are your plans after you graduate?"
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Move to Seattle with Artie, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Jones. I just need to go through my final exams." Which I should be studying for right now, rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.
"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?
"Oh, I'll bear that in mind," I murmur confounded. "Though I'm not so sure I'd fit in here." Oh no I'm musing out loud.
"Why do say that?" he tilts his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm under coordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde.
"Not to me." His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go—now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.
"I'm sure your far too busy Mr. Jones, and I have a long drive."
"You're driving back to Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes, sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my backpack. His eyes narrow speculatively.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Jones."
"The pleasures been all mine," he says, polite as ever.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Romanize." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake my head once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must me my nerves.
"Mr. Jones." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
"Just ensuring that you make it through the door, Miss Romanize." He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry to his office. I blush.
"That's very considerate, Mr. Jones," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Sealand and Latvia both look up, equally surprised.
"Did you have a coat?" Jones asks.
Latvia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Jones takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Jones places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting—awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in, desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's gazing at me and leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's unnerving.
"Alejandra." He says in farewell.
"Alfred," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.