Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
BOARDROOM HOTTIES
Earl Grey’s Fifty Shames
AN EXCERPT FROM Fifty Shames in Space
Acknowledgments
Index
About the Author
Copyright Page
Praise for Fifty Shames of Earl Grey
“I’m laughing as much as I was when I read the original Fifty Shades.”
—Alyssa Palmer, erotic romance author of Prohibited Passion
“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 Sweetblood 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
Chapter One
I 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 Boardroom Hotties 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 Boardroom Hotties, 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 is Vin Diesel. Woah. I step onto the elevator, push the butto
n 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. Richie Rich, starring that cute boy from Home Alone. 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 Boardroom Hotties, 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.
My phone buzzes—it’s a text message from Beyoncé, warning me to keep my hands off her man. Whatever.
“Mr. Grey will see you now,” the receptionist calls out to me from behind her desk. I pick up my backpack and notebook, and check my hoodie pocket for the mini–disc recorder. Still there. I leave the gravy and make my way slowly toward the open door. I should be back in Portland, studying for my finals so that I can graduate. Yet here I am, doing Kathleen’s dirty work. I’m going to murder her, if Beyoncé doesn’t kill me first.
I push the door open and trip over the hem of my sagging sweatpants in one swift, clumsy motion. As I careen toward the floor, my body reflexively reverts to gymnast mode. I drop the backpack and notebook, throw my arms out straight, and roll into a cartwheel. With the momentum picked up from tripping, I complete three full cartwheels before landing on my feet—on Mr. Grey’s desk! I am so embarrassed about my clumsiness that I close my eyes.
Wait. Someone is . . . clapping? I open my eyes and stare down at Mr. Grey and HOLY MOTHER EFFING SPARKLY VAMPIRES IS HE HOT.
Chapter Two
MISS KRAVEN,” the handsome CEO says, extending a long-fingered hand to me to assist me off his desk. I’d expected him to be British, but there’s no trace of an English accent in his voice. “I’m Edward Cullen. I mean, 'Earl Grey.’ Have a seat?”
He’s young, he’s sexy, he’s tall—he’s the total package. And no way is he five years old. He can’t be more than thirty. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored gray suit, pressed white dress shirt, and a black tie with smiley faces on it. With his tousled brown hair and brilliant gray eyes, he’s the kind of guy you want to write fanfic about.
“Well, um,” I say, accepting his hand and stepping off the desk. I blink my eyes rapidly as we touch; either his touch is electric, or I just had a seizure. When I’m back on my feet on the floor I excuse myself to pick up my notebook and backpack, and then return to sit down across from him.
“Miss Kraven had an emergency come up at the last minute. She sent me instead.”
“And your name is . . .?”
“Anna Steal. Miss Kraven and I are roommates.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” he says.
I pull the mini–disc recorder out of my pocket and set it up. Mr. Grey watches me with an amused look on his face. He’s probably wondering why I’m using technology that was obsolete the day it rolled off the production line. I have the same question. The only thing I know is that Kathleen is obsessed with vintage stuff. I mean, her favorite band is Nirvana.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m trying to figure out how to turn this thing on . . .”
“It’s okay. I like to watch,” he says with a malicious smile.
“Can I record our conversation? It’s for Kathleen.”
“I don’t mind if you tape us,” he says. The way he says “us” sends shivers up my spine. Is he hitting on me? I’m not used to this kind of attention from a man. I’ve never been the “hot girl”; my body is unremarkable in just about every way, from my too-narrow hips to my B-cups.
“Kathleen told you what this interview was about, right?” I say.
“I’ve never spoken with her, but my assistant has informed me it’s for some sort of business magazine.”
“Um, yeah,” I say, finally figuring out how to turn on the mini–disc recorder. If he doesn’t know what kind of magazine it is, I’m not going to be the one to explain it to him. “So, she gave me a list of questions to ask you.”
He stares at me unwaveringly with his gray eyes. “And . . .?”
No small talk, apparently. I read the first question word for word out of the notebook. “You’re young and have achieved a lot in your business career, more than most people will achieve in their lifetimes. What’s the secret of your success?”
He smiles. “The most important part of my business is the people I employ and the people my company does business with. I spend a lot of time getting to know people and judging them. I inspire them, incentivize them, and reward them. I employ over a billion people in my vast empire, and I interviewed every one of them myself. They’re all outstanding human beings. So, in short, my success has everything to do with the people I surround myself with.”
“Couldn’t it be luck?” This isn’t something Kathleen wrote down, but I have to go off script—he seems so arrogant and sure of himself. I want to throw him off guard. This is going to be the best damn puff piece that has ever run in Boardroom Hotties.
“Luck is for gamblers, Miss Steal. I don’t gamble.”
“Never? You’ve never, say, played the lottery?”
“Never,” he says. “I don’t take chances.”
“Not even, like, a one dollar scratch-off ticket?”
“Never. I just can’t take that kind of chance. If the ticket’s not a winner, I’m left with a little scrap of paper with silver dust all over my quarter. And sometimes that silvery stuff gets on your fingers and it’s a bitch to clean off.”
“So you have bought scratch-off lottery tickets!”
He sighs. �
��Off the record? My mother was a gambling addict, Miss Steal. She gave me used scratch-off lottery tickets instead of toys to play with as a child. So I don’t take chances.”
“Not even for a dollar,” I mutter.
“Not even for a dollar,” he says, boring through my skull with his gray eyes.
I feel my heartbeat quickening. Everything he says makes me want to make sandwiches with him, even the part about playing with lottery tickets as a kid. Is it because he’s so good looking? Is it because of his incredibly long fingers? Or his tousled hair? Or his incredibly long fingers?
“Do you ever rest?” I ask. “How do you unwind?”
“I have hobbies,” he says, smirking. “Physical pursuits: base jumping, hang gliding, underwater basket weaving. I also enjoy intellectual activities, like board games.”
“Monopoly, I presume,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “But I also take pleasure in a good game of Trivial . . . Pursuit.”
Gulp.
He’s so attractive and long fingered that I find it hard to concentrate on asking the questions Kathleen has written down for me. I force myself to look at the page and read another one. “The Earl Grey Corporation has quite the diversified portfolio of businesses, from manufacturing to natural resources to Internet startups. Why not focus exclusively on the technology sector, like every other billionaire your age?”
He sighs. “I’m not like other people. I don’t do what everyone else does,” he says, “in business or in the bed-room.”
Most people sleep or watch TV or read books in bedrooms. What could he be talking about?
“Do you have a philosophy of business?” I ask.
“No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.”
Wow. Was this hot guy a philosophy major in college? He’s nothing like the burnouts I know who sit around contemplating their navels and smoking grass. My skin feels flushed. I’ve never been in the presence of such a smart, attractive man before, except for the time President Obama gave a speech at our school and recited the name of every state (including capitals) in alphabetical order, entirely from memory.