The REASON Series - the Complete Collection Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.