Ana heaves, then buckles over and vomits on the ground.
Oh, shit!
“Ugh—Dios mío, Ana!” José leaps out of the way in disgust.
Fucking idiot.
Ignoring him, I grab her hair and hold it out of the way as she continues to throw up everything she’s had this evening. It’s with some annoyance that I note she doesn’t appear to have eaten. With my arm around her shoulders I lead her away from the curious onlookers toward one of the flowerbeds. “If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” It’s darker here. She can puke in peace. She vomits again and again, her hands on the brick. It’s pitiful. Once her stomach is empty, she continues to retch, long dry heaves.
Boy, she’s got it bad.
Finally her body relaxes and I think she’s finished. Releasing her, I give her my handkerchief, which by some miracle I have in the inside pocket of my jacket.
Thank you, Mrs. Jones.
Wiping her mouth, she turns and rests against the bricks, avoiding eye contact because she’s ashamed and embarrassed. And yet I’m so pleased to see her. Gone is my fury at the photographer. I’m delighted to be standing in the parking lot of a student bar in Portland with Miss Anastasia Steele.
She puts her head in her hands, cringes, then peeks up at me, still mortified. Turning to the door, she glares over my shoulder. I assume it’s at her “friend.”
“I’ll, um, see you inside,” José says, but I don’t turn to stare him down, and to my delight, she ignores him, too, returning her eyes to mine.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, while her fingers twist the soft linen.
Okay, let’s have some fun.
“What are you sorry for, Anastasia?”
“The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” she mumbles.
“We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you.” Why is it such fun to tease this young woman? “It’s about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?”
Perhaps she has a problem with alcohol. The thought is worrying, and I consider whether I should call my mother for a referral to a detox clinic.
Ana frowns for a moment, as if angry, that little v forming between her brows, and I suppress the urge to kiss it. But when she speaks she sounds contrite.
“No,” she says. “I’ve never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again.” She looks up at me, her eyes unfocused, and she sways a little. She might pass out, so without giving it a thought I scoop her up into my arms.
She’s surprisingly light. Too light. The thought irks me. No wonder she’s drunk.
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“I need to tell Kate,” she says, as her head rests on my shoulder.
“My brother can tell her.”
“What?”
“My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh.”
“Oh?”
“He was with me when you called.”
“In Seattle?”
“No, I’m staying at The Heathman.”
And my wild-goose chase has paid off.
“How did you find me?”
“I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia.” I head toward the car. I want to drive her home. “Do you have a jacket or a purse?”
“Er…yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She’ll worry.”
I stop and bite my tongue. Kavanagh wasn’t worried about her being out here with the overamorous photographer. Rodriguez. That’s his name. What kind of friend is she? The lights from the bar illuminate her anxious face.
As much as it pains me, I put her down and agree to take her inside. Holding hands, we walk back into the bar, stopping at Kate’s table. One of the young men is still sitting there, looking annoyed and abandoned.
“Where’s Kate?” Ana shouts above the noise.
“Dancing,” the guy says, his dark eyes staring at the dance floor. Ana collects her jacket and purse and, reaching out, she unexpectedly clutches my arm.
I freeze.
Shit.
My heart rate catapults into overdrive as the darkness surfaces, stretching and tightening its claws around my throat.
“She’s on the dance floor,” she shouts, her words tickling my ear, distracting me from my fear. And suddenly the darkness disappears and the pounding in my heart ceases.
What?
I roll my eyes to hide my confusion and take her to the bar, order a large glass of water, and pass it to her.
“Drink.”
Eyeing me over the glass, she takes a tentative sip.
“All of it,” I command. I’m hoping this will be enough damage control to avoid one hell of a hangover tomorrow.
What might have happened to her if I hadn’t intervened? My mood sinks.
And I think of what just happened to me.
Her touch. My reaction.
My mood plummets further.
Ana sways a little as she’s drinking, so I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. I like the connection—me touching her. She’s oil on my troubled, deep, dark waters.
Hmm…flowery, Grey.
She finishes her drink, and retrieving the glass, I place it on the bar.
Okay. She wants to talk to her so-called friend. I survey the crowded dance floor, uneasy at the thought of all those bodies pressing in on me as we fight our way through.
Steeling myself, I grab her hand and lead her toward the dance floor. She hesitates, but if she wants to talk to her friend, there’s only one way; she’s going to have to dance with me. Once Elliot gets his groove on, there’s no stopping him; so much for his quiet night in.
With a tug, she’s in my arms.
This I can handle. When I know she’s going to touch me, it’s okay. I can deal, especially since I’m wearing my jacket. I weave us through the crowd to where Elliot and Kate are making a spectacle of themselves.
Still dancing, Elliot leans toward me in mid-strut when we’re beside him and sizes us up with a look of incredulity.
“I’m taking Ana home. Tell Kate,” I shout in his ear.
He nods and pulls Kavanagh into his arms.
Right. Let me take Miss Drunk Bookworm home, but for some reason she seems reluctant to go. She’s watching Kavanagh with concern. When we’re off the dance floor she looks back at Kate, then at me, swaying and a little dazed.
Oh, shit!
“Ugh—Dios mío, Ana!” José leaps out of the way in disgust.
Fucking idiot.
Ignoring him, I grab her hair and hold it out of the way as she continues to throw up everything she’s had this evening. It’s with some annoyance that I note she doesn’t appear to have eaten. With my arm around her shoulders I lead her away from the curious onlookers toward one of the flowerbeds. “If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” It’s darker here. She can puke in peace. She vomits again and again, her hands on the brick. It’s pitiful. Once her stomach is empty, she continues to retch, long dry heaves.
Boy, she’s got it bad.
Finally her body relaxes and I think she’s finished. Releasing her, I give her my handkerchief, which by some miracle I have in the inside pocket of my jacket.
Thank you, Mrs. Jones.
Wiping her mouth, she turns and rests against the bricks, avoiding eye contact because she’s ashamed and embarrassed. And yet I’m so pleased to see her. Gone is my fury at the photographer. I’m delighted to be standing in the parking lot of a student bar in Portland with Miss Anastasia Steele.
She puts her head in her hands, cringes, then peeks up at me, still mortified. Turning to the door, she glares over my shoulder. I assume it’s at her “friend.”
“I’ll, um, see you inside,” José says, but I don’t turn to stare him down, and to my delight, she ignores him, too, returning her eyes to mine.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, while her fingers twist the soft linen.
Okay, let’s have some fun.
“What are you sorry for, Anastasia?”
“The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” she mumbles.
“We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you.” Why is it such fun to tease this young woman? “It’s about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?”
Perhaps she has a problem with alcohol. The thought is worrying, and I consider whether I should call my mother for a referral to a detox clinic.
Ana frowns for a moment, as if angry, that little v forming between her brows, and I suppress the urge to kiss it. But when she speaks she sounds contrite.
“No,” she says. “I’ve never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again.” She looks up at me, her eyes unfocused, and she sways a little. She might pass out, so without giving it a thought I scoop her up into my arms.
She’s surprisingly light. Too light. The thought irks me. No wonder she’s drunk.
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“I need to tell Kate,” she says, as her head rests on my shoulder.
“My brother can tell her.”
“What?”
“My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh.”
“Oh?”
“He was with me when you called.”
“In Seattle?”
“No, I’m staying at The Heathman.”
And my wild-goose chase has paid off.
“How did you find me?”
“I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia.” I head toward the car. I want to drive her home. “Do you have a jacket or a purse?”
“Er…yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She’ll worry.”
I stop and bite my tongue. Kavanagh wasn’t worried about her being out here with the overamorous photographer. Rodriguez. That’s his name. What kind of friend is she? The lights from the bar illuminate her anxious face.
As much as it pains me, I put her down and agree to take her inside. Holding hands, we walk back into the bar, stopping at Kate’s table. One of the young men is still sitting there, looking annoyed and abandoned.
“Where’s Kate?” Ana shouts above the noise.
“Dancing,” the guy says, his dark eyes staring at the dance floor. Ana collects her jacket and purse and, reaching out, she unexpectedly clutches my arm.
I freeze.
Shit.
My heart rate catapults into overdrive as the darkness surfaces, stretching and tightening its claws around my throat.
“She’s on the dance floor,” she shouts, her words tickling my ear, distracting me from my fear. And suddenly the darkness disappears and the pounding in my heart ceases.
What?
I roll my eyes to hide my confusion and take her to the bar, order a large glass of water, and pass it to her.
“Drink.”
Eyeing me over the glass, she takes a tentative sip.
“All of it,” I command. I’m hoping this will be enough damage control to avoid one hell of a hangover tomorrow.
What might have happened to her if I hadn’t intervened? My mood sinks.
And I think of what just happened to me.
Her touch. My reaction.
My mood plummets further.
Ana sways a little as she’s drinking, so I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. I like the connection—me touching her. She’s oil on my troubled, deep, dark waters.
Hmm…flowery, Grey.
She finishes her drink, and retrieving the glass, I place it on the bar.
Okay. She wants to talk to her so-called friend. I survey the crowded dance floor, uneasy at the thought of all those bodies pressing in on me as we fight our way through.
Steeling myself, I grab her hand and lead her toward the dance floor. She hesitates, but if she wants to talk to her friend, there’s only one way; she’s going to have to dance with me. Once Elliot gets his groove on, there’s no stopping him; so much for his quiet night in.
With a tug, she’s in my arms.
This I can handle. When I know she’s going to touch me, it’s okay. I can deal, especially since I’m wearing my jacket. I weave us through the crowd to where Elliot and Kate are making a spectacle of themselves.
Still dancing, Elliot leans toward me in mid-strut when we’re beside him and sizes us up with a look of incredulity.
“I’m taking Ana home. Tell Kate,” I shout in his ear.
He nods and pulls Kavanagh into his arms.
Right. Let me take Miss Drunk Bookworm home, but for some reason she seems reluctant to go. She’s watching Kavanagh with concern. When we’re off the dance floor she looks back at Kate, then at me, swaying and a little dazed.
