The REASON Series - the Complete Collection (5 page)

SIX

I jump, stop breathing and then try to sink further into the wall.
 

Without turning to look at him I mumble, "Uh, last night, with you."
 

Suddenly an arm reaches out for the panel in front of me. He presses stop and then presses the button with a phone on it.
 

A disembodied voice comes on the line. "Yes, sir?"

"Redirect us to the skyway level, please."
 

I huff.
 

"Yes, sir."

There are a couple of clicks, and the elevator starts to descend again. I'm still not looking at him.
 

"Why? What is so damn important about feeding me?" I try to growl and sound irritated, but the mention of food has made me hungry. Then again, I'm almost always hungry. But there’s no way I’m accepting more charity from him. In fact, this is the perfect opportunity to give him his money back. Then I can leave via the skyway system and grab a bus back toward my apartment. It’ll give me time to eat a hot dog, since it's still hours before I have to be at work.
 

"It's important to me because eating is healthy, and I don't like the way you look."
 

"Gah!" I exclaim. "Are you kidding me? What difference does it make to you what I look like? You’re some random customer who’s come into my diner for the last couple of nights. So what if I'm a little thin. That's my business and none of yours."
 

I look up, trying to see how long until we reach skyway level. I’m eager to get out of this conversation. We are still only in the upper twenties, and the skyway is on level two or three. Damn it.
 

I hear him sigh in frustration. "Because people, especially you, should not go without food."

Me?
"What is so damn special about me?” I ask aloud. “For all you know I'm some random drug addict—"

"I know that's not the case," he says, cutting me off.
 

I finally look at him. His hair is slicked back in the same way it’s been the other times I’ve seen him. His eyes are blue and warm, and there is a half smile playing at his lips. He’s looking down at me, making me feel small at five feet, two inches. He has to be at least six feet tall. Broad shoulders. His suit today is gunmetal gray with blue or black pinstripes — I can’t tell which. His shirt is a beautiful lavender color with a darker purple tie.
 

"How do you know I'm not an addict?" I ask softly.
 

He smiles at me, warm, genuine. "Because you've come to return the tip money I left you last night."
 

My jaw falls open. "How" — I swallow hard — "did you know?"

His smile fades a little. "Why else would you come down here?"

I close my mouth and look down at the floor. He says it almost as if my being here is unwelcome, but he has a point and his ability to read me is really scary.
 

"Since you haven't eaten since last night, I'm going to take you to lunch."

I feel my face flush bright red, both in anger and complete irritation. "That is not why I'm here. I've survived my entire life fending for myself, I don't need some rich, hot-shot businessman buying me food."
 

I reach into the pocket of my bag and pull the folded-up paper from it. I thrust it toward him. He refuses to take it. Tears of frustration trickle down my cheeks. "Damn it, Mikah, take it." I push it at him again, and again he refuses. "I'm not a damn charity case. I don't need your money or your food."
 

The bell chimes. We’ve finally reached the skyway. As soon as the doors open, I drop the folded-up paper with his money in it, bolt from the elevator and turn left, hoping and praying I can get away.
 

"Vivienne, stop," I hear him say behind me. I keep going, walking quickly but not running. Yet. I'm trying hard to not make a scene.

But he doesn’t seem to care about that. He catches me quickly. Spins me around. I grab hold of his arm so I don't go sprawling onto the floor.
 

My stomach, on the other hand, has its own agenda. I cover my mouth quickly as my eyes dart around, looking for a restroom or at the very least a trashcan. I spot a trashcan about ten feet away.
 

I try in vain to free myself from his grip. "Damn it!" I bark at him. "I'm goin—" I swallow back the bile that's rising up my throat. "Throw up," I whisper. His grip immediately loosens on my arms and I dart to the trashcan.
 

He's there in an instant, pulling back my hair so that I don't vomit on it. Due to the empty state of my stomach, it doesn't last long, and I slink to the floor against the wall, drained and exhausted. Resting my head against the wall, I close my eyes. I feel a cool hand against my cheek and I flinch. A completely involuntary reaction.
 

"You should really go to the hospital," he says quietly as he pulls his hand back.
 

"For what? Ain't nothing they can do."

"In less that twenty-four hours, I've watched you faint and now vomit into a trashcan. You need to go to the hospital."

Oh for fuck’s sake. "Damn it, Mikah, no. I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm pregnant, not diseased."
 

A harsh growl comes from between his lips. Thank God. Nothing scares a man away like the words
I’m pregnant
. I stand up, ready to try to leave again, knowing full well that he won’t follow me this time.
 

I catch one last glimpse of his beautiful face. "Goodbye, Mikah," I say and take a step away from him.

SEVEN

I'm finally able to make it to the skyway and cross over to the next building. I follow the signs to an elevator and push the down button. A few other people join me in waiting.
 

I hear Mikah's voice talking to someone. "She went this way. You can't miss her – she has bright red hair, long, down to the small of her back."
 

I sink down into the crowd a little bit. The people around me are very pointedly staring at me. It's obvious that they know he's talking about me.
 

"Damn it, Vivienne," I hear him say, farther away this time.
 

Finally the elevator arrives. I'm quick to jump in. The rest of the little crowd follows behind me and I push
G
for ground level. Please, let me get out of here and on the bus before he catches up to me.
 

It takes but a few moments before the doors are opening on the first floor. As soon as they do, I see Mikah across the lobby, frantically looking for me. I draw my hood up over my head, hoping it’ll hide my red hair. But it's a pretty day outside, and the hood may draw more attention. Damn it. I look to my left and spy an exit. Phew – I can slide that way and avoid him.
 

I put my head down and start moving along swiftly. All of a sudden I hear a man shout, "Blake!" followed by a whistle and the snapping of fingers far too close to me. I speed up.
 

I’m almost to the exit when a hand wraps around my upper arm. The grip is hard, painful. As he spins me around my hand comes up reflexively, hard and fast, and connects with his cheek.
 

"Shit!" he spats as his head snaps to the left with the impact of my hand. "Damn it, Viv, don't fight me."
 

"Jesus, Mikah, I'm—I didn—" I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I watch him rub his cheek. Regret fires through my heart as I realize that coming here was a really bad mistake. The tears spill over and I try to pull away from him.
 

"Hey, it's alright. I took you by surprise." He pulls me back toward him and wraps his arms around me.
 

I come completely unglued. Tears begin streaming, hot and heavy, down my cheeks as he cups me against his chest. Embarrassed by my lack of self-control, I push against him, trying to pull myself out of his arms.
 

"Vivienne, please, it's alright. Don't run."
 

The tears come even harder, stealing what little strength I had to begin with, and my legs begin to shake.
 

I give in to his embrace. It's strangely comforting being in his arms. I feel safe and protected, like nothing I've ever felt before.
 

With his hand over my left ear and my right pressed tight against him, I can't make out what he's saying, but I can feel the vibrations of his voice. He lifts his hand and says very gently, "I'm going to pick you up."

"No...no, no, no," I whine, but my protest is weak, and he ignores me. Sweeping me up off my feet, he walks through the doors I had been trying to get out of and onto the street. "Please, put me down."
 

"Not a chance, sweetheart. Not a chance." He shakes his head. "Not until we're in the car."

"Car? What car? No. Mikah, stop. I have to go to work." My protest falls upon deaf ears. I hear a car door open, and Mikah gracefully slides in. It's not until I'm inside that I realize that we're in a limousine. I want to protest more, but I know full well I'm going to lose the argument.
 

Then panic sets in. I don’t like being locked into such a tight space. My body starts to shake again, harder than before, as my panic level rises.
 

"Hey." He pulls back to look at me. "Vivienne, what's the matter?"
 

I slip out of his grasp and crawl down onto the floor of the car. My teeth chatter, I'm shaking so bad. "T-t-tight...s-space. Claustro...ph-ph-phobic. Too...dark," I finally manage to say as images of the hot dark closet I’d spent several days in swirl inside my mind.

"Red, hit the lights and windows."
 

"Yes, sir."
 

Suddenly light floods into the limo and I can feel a cool breeze flowing in from outside. The shakes reduce to a slight tremor.
 

Mikah leans forward on the bench seat, almost as if he is going to join me on the floor. He reaches out for my arm and I flinch away at the contact. He hesitates momentarily then tries again. This time I don't flinch, and he begins to gently rub my arm. I find myself soothed by the caress.
 

"Why are we in a car? Where are we going?" I finally manage to ask.
 

"We're in the car because I want some privacy with you. We'll stay here until you're ready to go. Then I'm taking you to H.C.M.C."
 

I stiffen and pull away from his hand. I slide back against the bench opposite him and pull my knees to my chin, steeling myself.
 

"No. I told you, no hospital."
 

He reaches out toward me, but I shy away and he stops. "I just need to know that you're alright. Okay?" He looks down at me. His eyes are comforting, warm. "Please, Vivienne?" His voice is pleading, but not insistent. A hint of desperation.

My heart starts to pound and my skin tingles. I look away from his face, not wanting to see his reaction to what I’m about to tell him. I know what I will see and I can't stand the sight of pity in someone’s eyes when they look at me. But he has to know why taking me to the hospital wouldn’t help me.
 

"If I go to the hospital, I will lose my job because Bartie is an ass-hat and he won’t care where I am. I'm malnourished. My blood sugar is low, and I have high levels of anxiety. There, sir, is your diagnosis. And you know what they will do? They will run a battery of tests on me that I can't afford just to tell me everything I've just told you. Then they’ll tell me that I’m not taking proper care of myself. That I should eat regularly and get plenty of rest, which are completely unreasonable expectations given my circumstances. They will make me feel shitty and useless. Then they will send me home to a closet-sized apartment with no food, a half-ass thing the landlord calls a mattress, and no way to pay my rent or buy what little food I have been able to afford because I will be without a job. So what’s the point?"

I don't need to look at him to be able to gage his reaction. "Mikah, I work shit hours at a shit job for shit pay. I live in an overly shitty apartment and have no means of changing that fact anytime soon. So this is me, who I am. You're just going to have to deal with the fact that you can’t save me." I start crying again, completely out of control.
 

"Jesus, Vivienne, why won’t you let me help you?" His voice is soft, sincere and - more than anything - sad.
 

"Because! You have more important things to do than worry about some poor, pathetic, pregnant chick who works at a diner you stumbled into the other night. I've already told you — I've made it on my own, I will continue to make it on my own. Just like I always have. Please, Mikah.... Please respect that," I plead with him.
 

"I...Vivienne, I can't. I respect you for everything you've done, but you need more than you can provide for yourself. It's not just you that you need to worry about. I want to help you. And your baby." He takes a long, deep breath.
 

Guilt floods through me as I take in his words. "If I go to the hospital, get checked out, will that be enough for you? Will you walk away when I'm done?" I plead.
 

"I can't promise that."

"Damn it, why not? Mikah, you don't even know me."

"Vivienne Alison Callahan. Born September second, nineteen ninety, Boston Hospital. Born to mother Rebecca Callahan, father unknown."
 

I lift myself up onto the leather seat of the bench I’ve been leaning against to put as much distance between us as I can manage.
 

"Do you want me to continue?"

I shake my head. "Just because you know those facts does not mean you know me or who I am.” Good God, he went digging for my history. Why would he do something like that? “You've known me less than three days. How on earth were you able to find that out?"

"I'm not sure you really want me to answer that." I glare at him. "When you flinched away from me after you fainted, I took off because...because..." He looks away from me. "Because I was afraid we would end up in this situation. In a car, heading to the hospital, with you feeling as though I'd trapped you in here."