50 Shades of Styles

Chapter 1

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades of Grey or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 1

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won't behave, and damn Zayn Malik 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 pale, brown-haired boy with blue eyes too big for his face staring back at me and give up and hope I look semi-presentable.

Zayn 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-industry-a list-tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So, I volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle to meet an enigmatic CEO of Styles Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more than mine – but he has granted Zayn an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extra-curricular activities.

Zayn is huddled on the couch in the living room.

"Lou, I'm 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," Zayn begs me in his rasping, sore-throat voice. How does he do it? Even ill he looks gamine and gorgeous, raven black hair in place and brown eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.

"Of course, I'll go Zayn. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"

"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc 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 rising 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, Zayn, would I do this.

"I will. Good luck. And thanks Lou – as usual, you're my lifesaver."

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Zayn talk me into this. But then Zayn can talk anyone into anything.

He'll make an exceptional journalist. He's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and he's my dearest, dearest friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Zayn lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would have made the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Styles's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass, and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Styles 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.