Free Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James Page A

unfocused.
Hmm … tequila
.
    I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually return to the table.
    “You’ve been gone so long,” Kate scolds me. “Where were you?”
    “I was in line for the restroom.”
    José and Levi are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. José pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip.
    “Kate, I think I’d better step outside and get some fresh air.”
    “Ana, you are such a lightweight.”
    “I’ll be five minutes.”
    I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseated, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual.
    Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am. My vision has been affected, and I’m really seeing double of everything like in old reruns of
Tom and Jerry
cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up?
    “Ana,” José has joined me. “You okay?”
    “I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at him.
    “Me, too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are regarding me intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me.
    “José, I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try to push him away rather feebly.
    “Ana, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms, pulling me close.
    “José, what are you doing?”
    “You know I like you Ana, please.” He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head.
Holy fuck … he’s going to kiss me
.
    “No, José, stop—no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s holding my head in place.
    “Please, Ana,
cariño
,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet—of margarita and beer. He gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating.
    “José, no,” I plead.
I don’t want this
. You are my friend, and I think I’m going to throw up.
    “I think the lady said no,” a voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Christian Grey, he’s here. How? José releases me.
    “Grey,” he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Christian. He’s glowering at José, and he’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground.
    “Ugh—
Dios mío
, Ana!” José jumps back in disgust. Grey grabs my hair and pulls it out of the firing line and gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness.
    “If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” He has one arm around my shoulders—the other is holding my hair in a makeshift ponytail down my back so it’s off my face. I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again … and again.
Oh, shit … how long is this going to last?
Even when my stomach’s empty and nothing is coming up, horrible dry heaves rack my body. I vow silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops.
    My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up. Vomiting profusely is exhausting. Grey takes his hands off me and passes me a handkerchief. Only he would have a monogrammed, freshly laundered linen handkerchief.
CTG
. I didn’t know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the
T
stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I’m swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here.
    José is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be