Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 53

I glance at my watch, curious to know what Ana is doing, and I’m tempted to call Sawyer. Frankly,

there’s only so much socializing I can tolerate, but our conversation turns to the new house.

After another two rounds Elliot has us on the move again.

Taylor is ready with the SUV, and he drives us to the next venue.

A strip club.

Shit.

“Dude, don’t get uptight. This stop is in the bachelor-party rule book.” Ethan claps his hands, but his

smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I think he’s just as uncomfortable as I am.

“Do not under any circumstances buy me a lap dance,” I warn Elliot. And I’m reminded of a time, not

too long ago, when I was in the dark depths of a private club in Seattle.

Where anything goes.

That was a lifetime ago.

Elliot laughs. “What happens in Vancouver stays in Vancouver.” He winks at me as we’re led to another

VIP table. This time my brother has ordered a bottle of vodka, which arrives with ceremony: sparklers

and a chorus of women in short red skirts and bikini tops that barely cover their nipples, who are all

cheers and enthusiastic applause. I worry for a moment that they’re going to sit down with us, but once

the shot glasses are lined up, they move on.

There are beautiful women everywhere. I watch one, a lithe blonde with dark eyes. She starts to

remove her clothes with athletic grace, while doing various gymnastic moves and poses on the pole. I

can’t help thinking that if she were a man, this would be an Olympic sport.

Mac is mesmerized, and I wonder if he has a partner.

“No, I’m single. Looking,” he says when I ask. His eyes return to the energetic blonde. I nod, but I’m at

a loss as to what to say, because I’m in no position to offer any relationship advice. I’m still amazed that

Ana has consented to be mine. In fact, she’s consented to a great many things. Nôvel/Dr(a)ma.Org - Content owner.

I smirk as my mind catapults to thoughts of the Red Room last weekend.

Yeah.

The memory has an arousing effect on my body. I take out my phone.

“No,” Elliot says. “Put it away.”

“My phone?”

We both laugh. And I sink a shot of vodka.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” I say.

“You don’t like it here?”

“No.”

“Jesus, you’re one uptight motherfucker.”

Dude, this is not my scene.

“Okay. We have one more stop. This was the traditional, customary part of your bachelor party. You

know, it’s the unwritten law.”

“I don’t think Ana would be very impressed.”

Ethan claps me on the back and I freeze. “So don’t tell her.”

And something in his tone puts my hackles up. “Are you fucking my sister?”

Ethan jerks his head back as if I’ve hit him. Shocked, he raises both his hands. “No. No. Dude, no

offense. She’s attractive and all, but she’s just a friend.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

He laughs, nervously, I think, and downs two shots of vodka.

My work here is done.

“You going to frighten off all her would-be boyfriends?” Elliot asks.

“Maybe.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get you out of here. This place is doing nothing for your mood.”

“Okay.”

We ditch the vodka and I leave an obscene cash tip on the table.

Back in the SUV, my humor is restored. Taylor’s at the wheel and we’re heading out of downtown

Vancouver, in the direction of the airport.

But we don’t go back to the plane. Taylor pulls up outside a sprawling, nondescript hotel-and-casino

complex that flanks the Fraser River.

“Marriage is a gamble,” Elliot says with a grin.

“Life is a gamble, dude. But this is more my scene.”

“I figured. You always beat me at cards,” he responds. “How are you still sober?”

“It’s just math, Elliot. I haven’t had that much to drink, and right now, I’m grateful.”

Elliot and Ethan head for the craps and roulette tables, while Mac favors the blackjack and I the poker

table.

There’s a respectful but expectant hush in the room. I am $118,000 up, and this is the last game I’m

going to play. It’s getting late; behind me, Elliot is watching. I don’t know where Ethan and Mac are. The

final hand is in play, and both players beside me fold in turn. I have two jacks, and because this is the

final game and I’m on a roll, I raise, and toss $16,000 worth of chips into the pot. The opponent on my

left, a woman who must be in her fifties, folds immediately. “I’ve got nothing,” she grumbles.

My remaining opponent—who reminds me of my dad—glances at me, then back at his cards, and

carefully, counting out chips, he matches my bet.

Game on, Grey.

The dealer collects the folded cards and briskly lays out the flop.

Hallelujah.

A jack and a pair of nines. I have a full house.

I stare impassively at my rival as he fidgets, checks his cards once more, his lively, dark eyes flitting to

me and back to his cards. He swallows.

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