Fifty Shades of Greene | As Shown By Lachlan Greene

Sunday, May 15, 2011

With Moby blasting in my ears I run down Southwest Salmon Street toward the Willamette River. It's 6:30 in the morning and I'm trying to clear my head. Last night I dreamed of her. Blue eyes, breathy voice...her sentences ending with "sir" as she knelt before me. Since I've met her, my dreams have been a welcome change from the occasional nightmare. I wonder what Flynn would make of that. The thought is disconcerting, so I ignore it and concentrate on pushing my body to its limits along the bank of the Willamette. As my feet pound the walkway, sunshine breaks through the clouds and it gives me hope.

Two hours later as I jog back to the hotel I pass a coffee shop. Maybe I should take her for coffee.

Like a date?

Well. No. Not a date. I laugh at the ridiculous thought. Just a chat-an interview of sorts. Then I can find out a little more about this enigmatic woman and if she's interested, or if I'm on a wild-goose chase. I'm alone in the elevator as I stretch out. Finishing my stretches in my hotel suite, I'm centered and calm for the first time since I arrived in Portland. Breakfast has been delivered and I'm famished. It's not a feeling I tolerate-ever. Sitting down to breakfast in my sweats, I decide to eat before I shower.

There's a brisk knock on the door. I open it and Taylor stands on the threshold.

"Good morning, Mr. Greene."

"Morning. They ready for me?"

"Yes, sir. They're set up in room 601."

"I'll be right down." I close the door and tuck my shirt into my gray pants. My hair is wet from my shower, but I don't give a shit. One glance at the louche fucker in the mirror and I exit to follow Taylor to the elevator.

Room 601 is crowded with people, lights, and camera boxes, but I spot her immediately. She's standing to the side. Her hair is loose: a lush, glossy mane that falls beneath her breasts. She's wearing tight jeans and chucks with a short-sleeved navy jacket and a white T-shirt beneath. Are jeans and chucks her signature look? While not very convenient, they do flatter her shapely legs. Her eyes, disarming as ever, widen as I approach.

"Miss Parkes, we meet again." She takes my extended hand and for a moment I want to squeeze hers and raise it to my lips.

Don't be absurd, Greene.

She turns her delicious pink and waves in the direction of her friend, who is standing too close, waiting for my attention.

"Mr. Greene, this is Salem Hendrix," she says. With reluctance I release her and turn to the persistent Miss Hendrix. She's tall, striking, and well groomed, like her father, but she has her mother's eyes, and I have her to thank for my introduction to the delightful Miss Parkes. That thought makes me feel a little more benevolent toward her.

"The tenacious Miss Hendrix. How do you do? I trust you're feeling better? Milina said you were unwell last week."

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Greene."

She has a firm, confident handshake, and I doubt she's ever faced a day of hardship in her privileged life. I wonder why these women are friends. They have nothing in common.

"Thank you for taking the time to do this," Salem says.

"It's a pleasure," I reply, and glance at Milina, who rewards me with her telltale flush.

Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me.

"This is José Rodriguez, our photographer," Milina says, and her face lights up as she introduces him.

Shit. Is this the boyfriend?

Rodriguez blooms under Ina's sweet smile.

Are they fucking?