Page 29 of Pierced

“This is the Rothschild residence,” she responds. “What is your name, please?” She glances at her clipboard. I notice it only has one name on it.

“I’m Pierce Chevalier.”

She looks at the clipboard. Which I find silly. Then she looks back at me and says, “I’m sorry. I don’t have that name here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean, sir, there is no Pierce Chevalier on the drive-on list.”

“What? I can see the sheet. It only has one name on it.”

“Yes, sir. And Pierce Chevalier isn’t it.”

“Well, can you, like, call up to the house and tell Myrtle I’m here?”

“Ms. Rothschild has left specific instructions that she is only to be alerted when the person whose name is on this list arrives.”

I close my eyes, feel my jaw tighten, and do my best not to yell. “There’s only one name! I’d hardly call that a fuckin’ list!”

I did my best.

“Sir,” she says, placing her hand on a nightstick she has attached to her utility belt, “I’ll ask you to take a different tone, please.”

I take a deep, deep breath. Let it out.

“Fine. Look… I’m here to see Ms. Rothschild. We have a scheduled… thing. My name is Pierce Chevalier. I am her boss. I own Le Man magazine. Surely you know who I am.”

“Your name is not on the list, sir.”

Fuck this shit.

“OK. Fine,” I say, throwing the car into reverse and starting to back up.

“Perhaps it would be under another name…?” she half says, half asks. Pointedly.

“Excuse me?”

“Ms. Rothschild is a very private individual. Discretion is a priority. Perhaps, sir, for both your privacy and hers, your arrival is anticipated under a different name?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

My face feels like it’s a mixture of confusion and annoyance, but then those feelings are replaced by a dawning disbelief. I know she reads my sudden realization because she fights to conceal a small smile.

I sigh, close my eyes, gnash my incisors together, and work out, “Anastasia Steele?”

The small smile on her lips blossoms into a delighted grin and she says, “Welcome, Ms. Steele. I’ll buzz you in.”

As she walks away from me toward the guard house, I have to fight the impulse to back out of here down the driveway and flee as fast as I can. But… a deal is a deal. A contract is a contract. And if I’m being totally honest, now I’m just really fucking curious.

The massive iron gates swing inward, like a giant, metallic mouth opening to consume me, and I roll forward toward the Twilight Zone. As I pass the guard woman, she continues smiling and says, “Have a pleasant evening.”

I don’t think I like her.

The driveway is a roundabout. I take notice that in the setting sun, what during the day probably looks like a beautiful, stately manor, will—in a matter of moments, once it becomes night—look like Dracula’s fucking castle.

But at the same time, for whatever reason, I’m weirdly comforted. Because it kind of resembles the house in Marseilles where we lived when I was very young. My dad’s house. I’ve only been back twice in the last two decades. And even though I definitely don’t have the fondest memories of leaving there as a child, there’s something about the feeling of coming home that feels like… coming home.

Which is the most uselessly tautological thought I’ve ever had, but, y’know, wherever you go, there you are, so…

I step out of my car and slam the door shut, taking a moment to stare up at the house and the darkening Colorado sky. It’s big. I am struck, occasionally, by just how big this world is. And now is one of those moments.