Page 23 of Gray Area

I study Declan. He is easily ten inches taller than I am, and he has a broad set of shoulders and chest, making him an intimidating sight. But in that moment, with just his words and his eyes, I feel a warmth in him, and in his gaze something I hadn’t found in him before—concern.

“Okay,” I agree.

Declan wastes no time, grabbing my bag and putting an arm around me to help guide me out the door. I ignore the tingle his light touch gives my body and focus on getting out the door, eager to get into bed now that the adrenaline from our heated debate has faded.

Chapter 11

DECLAN

Istart my car with the remote starter from the inside of the building. Vivian is moving slow, and I want to pick her up and carry her there, but I know this would be a bad move. She is an odd woman. I have never met anyone like her. She is determined. She doesn’t want to argue; she just wants to do her thing. By herself. She is fiercely independent. I totally get it.

Normally I would have just respected that and let her go. She is an adult for Christ’s sake. She is more than capable of making her own decisions. But I just couldn’t. This is different;sheis different. And the thought of just sending her out to wait in the cold or fucking walk in it, even healthy—never mind sick like she currently is—makesmenauseous, and heated, and straight-out pissed.

I open the passenger door when we get to my car and I am glad to feel warmth come pouring out of it. I wait for Vivian to get inside and seated and gently close the door, making my way to my side. I place her backpack in the back with a thud, and get into my seat.

I get out my phone and open my GPS app. “What’s your address?” I ask her.

“Why?”

I glance up at her. “So I can take you home,” I remind her evenly.

“Oh, right,” she says and rattles off a street name and number in the city that I know is in a particularly shitty area, but I keep that information to myself. I punch the address into my phone, and as soon as it is loaded, I drive but of the parking lot.

I have the radio off and we sit in silence as I follow the automated directions. After a couple of minutes, I look over and see that Vivian has her eyes shut and her forehead resting against the window. She’s asleep, and I relax seeing her at ease.

It doesn’t take me longer than ten minutes to get to the address Vivian has given me, and I am more disgusted than I thought I would be. The building has more pieces of the siding missing than it has intact. There are windows broken and still others boarded up. I can see some lights on inside the interior, but there is a lot of darkness.

“Vivian?” I call softly to her, but she doesn’t move. I reach to tap her on the shoulder and instead find myself pushing a random strand of hair behind her ear. I can’t help myself—that glossy black mane has beckoned to me since the first day I saw it. It is so soft, just as soft as I imagined.

I gather myself and refocus my attempt to rouse her, tapping her shoulder. “Vivian?” I say, louder this time.

She stays still but her eyes snap open, the same way they had earlier in the classroom. I had been loud when I found her there.I hadn’t even considered anything other than making sure she was okay when I had found her in there, alone, with her head on the desk. I had been so afraid something was really wrong, I had called out to her harshly. I hope my tone now is not as tense.

Vivian gathers herself and sits up, looking out the window. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know we were here,” she says and moves to grab her bag from the back seat.

I stop her, as her body turns toward me. “This is where you live?”

She looks at me for a beat, then glances out the window and then back to me. “Yes,” she replies quietly. I get the feeling she’s embarrassed to admit this to me.

I want to say it isn’t safe, that it’s a bad neighborhood, but she knows all that, I am sure. And really, is it my place? “Let me walk you in, just to make sure you get in there okay,” I add on quickly.

She hesitates, but then finally says, “Okay.”

I turn off the car and come around to the passenger side, grabbing the door from her as she opens it. I wait for her to get out, and when she doesn’t after a second or two, I look around the door and find her with her head between her knees.

“You good?” I ask her, and in response all I get is a quick shake of her head. I come around the door and crouch before her. “What’s wrong?” I demand. I want to be gentle with her, to be soft and kind, but I am concerned. I clearly don’t handle things well when I am concerned, since I just barked out my question at her. I am unfamiliar with this. I just want to get to the problem, so I can fix it for her.

“I don’t feel good,” she whimpers, and I hear her sniffle.

Oh God, is she crying? Fuck. I am immobilized; what the fuck do I do now? And why is she crying?

“Uh, okay, we can get you inside and get you more comfortable, okay?” I say.

She shakes her head again. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says in a whisper, with more sniffling.

“That’s okay,” I tell her gruffly. “We can just get you inside and you can—”

“I can’t move,” she cuts in. “If I move I’m going to throw up.”

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