𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘//𝐁.𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm,  in this bed. Hmm ... I open my eyes, and for a moment I'm tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange, unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beiges. I have seen it before. Where?

My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I'm in the Heathman Hotel ... in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Olivia. This looks bigger. Oh, shit. I'm in Anastasia Grey's suite. How did I get here? Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me.

The drinking—oh no, the drinking—the phone call—oh no, the phone call—the vomiting—oh no, the vomiting. José and then Anastasia. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don't remember coming here. I'm wearing my T-shirt, bra, and panties. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that she is, she thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It's thirst-quenching and refreshing.

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. She opens the door anyway and strolls in. Holy hell, she's been working out. She's in gray sweatpants that hang, in that way, off her hips and a gray sleeveless T-shirt which is dark with sweat, like her hair. Anastasia Grey's sweat; the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year-old; if I close my eyes, then I'm not really here.

"Good morning, Billie. How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve," I mumble. I peek up at her. She places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that she has around her neck. She's staring at me, brown eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what she's thinking. She hides her thoughts and feelings so well. "How did I get here?" My voice is small, contrite.

She sits down on the edge of the bed. She's close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my ... sweat and body wash and Anastasia. It's a heady cocktail—so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here," She says phlegmatically.

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes." Her face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." She quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

"We didn't—?" I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Billie, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," She says dryly. So she is gay. Interesting

"I'm so sorry." Her mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while." Me, neither—oh, she's laughing at me, the bitch. I didn't ask her to come and get me. Somehow I've been made to feel like the villain of the piece.

"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you're developing for the highest bidder," I snap. She stares at me, surprised and, if I'm not mistaken, a little wounded.