Crossing The Grey

O n e

New York is heaving. It always is. It's like the entire population of the US is squeezed into the smallest most dense corner of the country. It's a bottle neck of 8.4 million people.

The receptionist at the desk smiles brightly at me as I approach her. I smile back, distracted by the email I'm reading from Mia. She wants to come and stay with me for a week during the holidays since Mum and Dad are going to London. She doesn't want to spend it alone or at school in Paris. I don't have the attention span right now to type out a lengthy email reply. Maybe I should wait until Monday, call her then.

"Welcome to the Four Seasons New York Sir. Can I have your name?"

"Grey. Christian Grey." I say distractedly as I tap out the reply. She can come. It'd be great to see her and if I don't respond she'll only call and I can't speak to her right now. I can't speak to anyone right now.

"Mr Grey, how wonderful to see you again sir. You're with us for 3 nights this time is that correct?" She asks me in her overly polite tone.

"Yes, 3, " I confirm. "Are there any messages for me? A package? It should have been delivered by now." I slide my phone back in my pocket and turn my full attention on her.

"I'll just check that for you Mr Grey. If you could just sign here please." She says handing me a tablet and a small stylus. The screen says my name and and has the details of my booking which I review quickly. She flashes me another smile - this time flirtatious - and turns to go look for my parcel. I notice from the screen that they have me in the presidential suite, which is what I had Andrea request. I'd refused Cross's offer of his hotel. I didn't want him to think I owed him anything. I didn't want to owe him anything. He'd done more than enough. I wanted to get in and out of this city as soon as possible.

"Here we are Mr Grey. It was hand delivered this morning." She says handing me a brown manilla envelope. Its substantial. Thick and heavy, and has the words 'confidential' emblazoned across it in bold red letters. My stomach lurches at the thought of what it contains.

"Thank you." I say taking it from her. I slide it into the front compartment of my travel bag, and zip it, before turning back to back to her. She's holding out a branded keycard pouch in her neatly manicured hand.

"Here's your key sir. You're in our Presidential Suite North on the 51st floor. If there is anything else I can help you with, please don't hesitate to ask." She says this in a tone which makes me wonder if she is perhaps offering something other than the services of the hotel. I take a moment to look her over. Blonde - not my type - but attractive nonetheless. She's the sort of woman you know everything about before you've even had a conversation with her. Eager to please - which I most certainly preferred - however she would undoubtedly have no interests other than talking about men with her girlfriends and reading Instyle magazine. No. Definitely not my type.

I nod my thanks and head towards the bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby. The Foyer is busy, its always busy. Just like the rest of the city. I wonder if there's any such thing as a quiet spot in New York. Gideon would know. He knew New York like the back of his hand, or like he knew his way between a woman's legs as he'd joked the first time I'd met him.

The only thing I liked about being here was the anonymity. I'm not known here. Not like I am on the west coast. Not like I am in Seattle. There I can't leave the fucking apartment without being hounded by paparazzi and the occasional charity case looking to exploit my black philanthropic heart.

Decorated in marble and beige, the Presidential suite at the Four Seasons is large. Ridiculously so. However the views are incredible. Certainly a match for Escala. The lounge and bedroom overlook central park which today is bathed in sunshine. March in New York was better than August in New York that much was certain.