Authors: Fanny Merkin
Table of Contents
Fifty Shames of Earl Grey
“I’m laughing as much as I was when I read the original
—Alyssa Palmer, erotic romance author of
“I’m not telling you to buy
Fifty Shames of Earl Grey
because I’m banging the author. I’m telling you to buy
Fifty Shames of Earl Grey
AND I’m banging the author.”
—Tiffany Reisz, author of the BDSM erotica series,
The Original Sinners
“Wickedly funny and irreverent. I laughed throughout the entire book and couldn’t put it down . . . Don’t miss this book.”
—Laurie London, author of the
paranormal romance series
“Hilarious . . . A super fun read, like going to Six Flags with Zooey Deschanel.”
—Kitty Glitter, author of
Wesley Crusher: Teenage F*** Machine
GROWL WITH FRUSTRATION at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is fifty shades of messed up. Why is it so kinky and out of control? I need to stop sleeping with it wet. As I brush my long brown hair, the girl in the mirror with brown eyes too big for her head stares back at me. Wait . . . my eyes are blue! It dawns on me that I haven’t been looking into the mirror—I’ve been staring at a poster of Kristen Stewart for five minutes. My own hair is fine.
The situation I’m in, however, is still fifty shades of messed up. My roommate, Kathleen, has the brown bottle flu. What a B. She was supposed to be the one interviewing this mega-corporate beefcake for
magazine. Since she’s too busy throwing up buckets of puke into the toilet, I’ve been volunteered to do her dirty work. (The interview, not cleaning up her vomit.) I am mere weeks away from graduating from college with a liberal arts bachelor’s degree. Instead of studying for my final exams, though, I’m about to ride my bike three and a half hours from Portland, Oregon, to downtown Seattle to meet with Earl Grey, the fabulously wealthy CEO of the Earl Grey Corporation. The interview can’t be rescheduled, Kathleen says, because Mr. Grey’s time is precious and oh-so-valuable. Like mine isn’t? As I said, my roommate is a total B.
Kathleen is sprawled out on the living room couch watching
16 and Pregnant
. This wouldn’t be so bad if she was my age and in school, but she’s old enough to be my mom. If they ever do a show called
Washed Up at 38,
I’m sure she’ll be the first cast. She’s a staff writer for
, a gig she treats as her own Rich Asshole dating service. None of the corporate executives she’s profiled have proposed to her, but she has made sandwiches with quite a few of them. “You have to start somewhere,” she always says. “Why not with peanut-butter-jelly time?” I don’t know what’s wrong with a good All-American HJ, but then again my experience with the opposite sex is almost nonexistent.
Kathleen looks up from her TV show and sees how annoyed I am with her. “I’m sorry, Anna. It took me months to get this interview. Please do this for me,” she begs me with her raspy Christian Bale–as–Batman voice. Somebody smoked too many cigarettes last night.
“Of course I’ll do it, Kathleen. You need to rest. Do you need any NyQuil?”
“Does it have alcohol in it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then pour a shot into a glass with some Red Bull,” she says. “And here—take my mini–disc recorder, and ask him these questions. I’ll do the transcribing.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this! I take the mini–disc recorder and notebook from her and hop on my bicycle. It’s only after I’m peddling on the highway for a half hour that I remember her request for NyQuil and Red Bull. Oh, well. That B can get off her sick butt and mix her own drink.
The Earl Grey Corporation headquarters in downtown Seattle is a ginormous 175-story office building that juts into the cloudless sky like a steel erection. I walk through the glass doors and into the lobby, which is floor-to-ceiling glass and steel. This fascinates me to no end, because buildings back in Portland are made of grass and mud.
An attractive blonde behind the receptionist’s desk smiles at me as I walk in. I assume she’s the receptionist, because I can’t think of any other reason she would be sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. Unless maybe she’s filling in for the real receptionist, who could be on their lunch break. But then I remember: it’s almost two, and I doubt anyone takes their lunch breaks that late. So this must be the actual receptionist.
“I’m here to see Mr. Grey,” I say. “My name is Anna Steal. I’m filling in for Kathleen Kraven.”
“Just a moment, Miss Steal,” the receptionist says, checking her computer. I wish I had borrowed one of Kathleen’s suit jackets for the interview. Standing here in this big building in front of this professionally dressed woman, I feel naked in my Tommy hoodie and Victoria’s Secret sweatpants with PINK written across the ass. The sweatpants aren’t pink, though—they’re gray. This always confuses me when I put them on, because shouldn’t they say GRAY—on the backside? Maybe Victoria’s secret is that she’s colorblind.
The receptionist glances up from her computer. “Please sign in, Miss Steal,” she says, pushing a clipboard with an attached pen across the desk to me. “You’ll want to take the elevator to the ninetieth floor.”
I stare at her blankly. We don’t have elevators in Portland. “This will be my first elevator ride. How do they work, exactly?”
She smiles. “The elevator car that you ride in is suspended in a shaft by a steel rope, which is looped around a grooved pulley called a ‛sheave.’ An electric motor rotates the sheave, raising and lowering the elevator car.”
“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Can I operate it myself?”
“Elevators are very simple to operate. Once you’re inside, you just have to press the button that says ‛ninety,’” she says as I sign in. There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but I let it slide. They’re probably not used to dealing with hicks from Portland around here.
The receptionist hands me a security badge that reads VIRGIN. Is it that obvious? “How did you know—”
“That you’re a first-time visitor here at the Earl Grey Corporation? Relax,” she says, winking. “I was just as nervous as you were the first time I met Earl Grey.”
I thank her and head toward the elevator. Two bald, muscular men dressed like secret service agents are standing guard, and one who looks exactly like Vin Diesel pushes the “up” arrow as I approach. Upon closer inspection, it
I step onto the elevator, push the button marked “90,” and the magical box hurtles up toward Mr. Grey’s office. It’s like an amusement park ride, only it’s free, you don’t have to stand in line for two hours, and no one’s thrown up all over the floor. Which makes me think of Kathleen again.
The elevator finally slows to a halt. The doors open and I’m in another lobby made of glass and steel. Is the whole building made with the same materials? Where did they ever find so much glass and steel? I begin to do what I always do when I’m thinking: pick my nose. Before I can shove my pinkie in too far, another attractive blonde greets me and guides me to a pleather beanbag chair. “Wait here, Miss Steal,” she says coolly.
I sink down into the beanbag chair and watch the blonde leave down a hallway. Does Earl Grey employ any male receptionists? What a creep. I dig through my backpack and pull out Kathleen’s notebook and glance over her questions. Who is this man I’m supposed to interview, this man whose last name is the same as the color of my sweatpants? Is that a sign? That B Kathleen didn’t tell me anything about him, and I didn’t think to ask. My brain is always going blank. This guy could be a hundred years old or five. Although they wouldn’t let a five-year-old run a company the size of the Earl Grey Corporation, would they? Then I remember: they totally would. I saw it in a movie when I was little.
, starring that cute boy from
God, if I have to interview an effing kid for the next hour, I’m going to jump out the window right now! I can’t contain my nervous energy. My leg starts twitching. I’d rather be alone, curled up in a ball in my bed, crying myself to sleep. Anything but about to interview some five-year-old billionaire.
Stop it, Anna,
a voice says with a thick Jersey accent. It takes me a second to realize that it’s my inner guidette. I can tell it’s her, because when she talks inside my head there’s this weird echoey sound.
There’s no friggin’ way he’s five years old. Or a hundred. If he’s being profiled in
he’s probably like every other CEO they lust after: late twenties or thirties and handsome in that geeky sort of way.
I breathe a sigh of relief, because I know my inner guidette is probably right.
The blonde returns. “Miss Steal?”
“Yes,” I say, in a deeper voice than usual, trying to mask my crisis of confidence.
“Mr. Grey will see you in a few minutes. Would you like a refreshment while you wait? Coffee, soda, tea . . . ?”
“Gravy,” I say.
It’s supposed to be a joke, but the woman nods and heads back down the corridor. A minute later, she returns with a clear pint glass filled with thick, brown gravy. Before I can ask for water instead, the office door connected to the lobby swings open and a handsome African American gentleman exits. Jay-Z!
Turning and pointing a finger back through the door, the rapper says, “Nine holes, this week.” I assume he’s talking about golf, but my mind starts to drift to thoughts of other holes. Jay-Z winks at me as he passes on his way to the elevator.