Monster in His Eyes(12)

       
           



       

The drive into Manhattan is awkward. I want to jump out of my own skin. I  don't know what to say, or what to think, or what to do about any of  this, and he's giving me no indication of where his mind is.

What are we even doing here?

This man bulldozed his way into my world, razing everything I always  thought, or felt, or believed, leaving me with wreckage to try to piece  back together. It's like I stepped out into the sunlight for the first  time, and he is driving me right back into the shadows.

Am I ever going to feel the sunshine again?

I don't want it to be over, but the question remains: what the hell is it?

"Are you okay?" Naz asks when he pulls onto the street leading to my dorm.

"I'm fine," I respond, forcing a smile. "Why?"

"You look upset."

"No, I'm just …  thinking."

"Huh."

He says nothing else. Huh. That's it.

What the fuck is 'huh' supposed to mean?

My stomach is in knots when he passes my building and once again pulls  into the entrance of the parking garage. I'm reaching for the door  before we even come to a complete stop, figuring it's best to just be  put out of my misery, when he reaches over and grabs ahold of my wrist.  It's not painful, but his grip is firm, locking me there.

"What did I say about thinking so much?"

I stare at him. Less thinking, more feeling. "I know, but I can't help it. I just …  I don't know what to think."

Because that makes sense, Karissa.

"Then don't," he says. "Don't think about it. Just enjoy it for what it is."

"What is it?"

He shrugs.

That's it.

He shrugs.

His grip loosens even more, his fingers slipping from my skin as he pulls away, the hand coming to rest on the gearshift again.

I take that as my cue to leave.

Opening the door, I climb out, slamming it behind me. I take a few steps  away from the car when I hear the window rolling down, his voice  calling out. "Karissa."

My footsteps falter as I close my eyes. He's just fucking with me at  this point. He has to be. I turn around, knowing damn well I haven't  forgotten my phone this time, considering I hadn't even remembered to  bring the damn thing. "Yeah?"

"Dinner tonight?" he asks.

I stare at him. "What?"

"Dinner," he says. "Eight thirty good for you?"

My eyes widen as I say it again. "What?"

Amusement touches his lips, but he doesn't respond, instead putting the  car in reverse and backing away. I watch as the car disappears in  traffic, dumbfounded.

Is this man serious?





My mother left half a dozen messages overnight. I call her back, not  wanting her to worry, only vaguely listening as she babbles about the  flower shop. I hang up as quickly as I can without upsetting her and  toss my phone down, glancing at the clock.

It's barely noon.

That means I have eight and a half hours to agonize, to convince myself this is real, that it isn't a figment of my imagination.

Eight and a half hours to gather some courage.

Eight and a half hours to find something to wear.

They're the longest eight and a half hours of my life.

I shower and get ready, having the time today to fix my hair and put on  makeup. I stress over clothes again, settling on a pair of pink skinny  jeans and a black loose-fitting top. It's not fancy, but it's at least  mine this time. Not fit for a twelve hundred dollar meal, but maybe half  of that.

Or half of a half.

I continually glance in the mirror as I pace the room, watching the  clock and waiting, not wanting to go downstairs too early, but not  wanting to be late. By the time eight thirty arrives, I'm little more  than a bundle of frazzled nerves, convinced I'm not even fit for a fast  food extra value meal.

Pushing back the swell of anxiety, I make sure to remember my phone this  time as I head out. My heart hammers hard as I ride the elevator,  taking a deep breath when I reach the lobby.

I'm walking with my head down as I turn the corner to the parking  garage, expecting to see the Mercedes, but pause when it's not there.  Instead, leaning against the painted brick wall in front of me, stands  Naz, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.

I blink a few times, caught off guard. "Uh, hey."

"Hello," he says, pushing away from the wall to stroll toward me.

"Are we still, uh... having dinner?"

"I certainly hope so," he says. "I'm hungry, and I distinctly remember being promised you'd cook for me yesterday."

I laugh as those words strike me, but my amusement dies a harsh death when I notice his serious expression. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

No, he doesn't. I think back, begrudgingly admitting that his words had  been he'd be back for dinner, not that he was taking me anywhere. I feel  oddly manipulated, but it's my fault for misinterpreting. "Your house  then?"                       
       
           



       

"We went there last night," he says. "Besides, forgive me if I'm wrong,  but you have the noodles. So I figure, since we're already here..."

He points toward the dorms.

He wants to go upstairs?

My first instinct is to refuse, but I'm too thrown off to make up any  excuses. Besides, I suspect they'll fall on deaf ears. Something tells  me he'll talk his way inside eventually.

I motion behind me, stepping aside. "After you."

Somehow I'm more nervous now than I was a moment ago, as I lead Naz into  the old dorms. This is my territory, my home... or as close to a home  as I get. But yet I feel out of place, a stranger in my own skin, like  I'm invading my own privacy by inviting him in.

Naz, on the other hand, looks at ease. There's nothing more intimidating  than a man whose feathers aren't ruffled by anything. We step into the  elevator and he leans back against the side, watching as I press the  number thirteen button.

"Thirteenth floor," he muses. "Good thing you're not superstitious."

"Right? Especially since I stay in the thirteenth room, too."

He says nothing else as we ride upstairs, but he laughs when we reach my  room tucked in the corner at the end of the hall: 1313. I pull out my  key and unlock the door, pushing it open for him to step inside.

It's a goddamn disaster.

"This is nice," he says, glancing around as he pauses a few feet inside  the door. He sounds genuine, but I can't imagine Mr. Fit for a King  would find anything nice about a glorified walk-in closet with two  little beds.

"It's tiny," I say.

He shakes his head. "It's just cozy."

"What it is is a freaking mess."

"Yeah, I won't argue that one." He glances between my side of the room  and Melody's, like he's comparing and contrasting. He doesn't wait for  me to tell him which is mine. Within seconds, he steps onto my side, his  eyes sweeping along my things.

I just stand by the door, wringing my hands together. I don't have much,  but what I have is important to me. We had sex last night, and as  nervous as I'd been to have him inside of me, it's nothing compared to  this. This is him getting a glimpse of what's beneath my skin.

What if he doesn't find it beautiful?

"You can have a seat or whatever you want," I mumble. "Make yourself at home, I guess."

He cocks an eyebrow. "You guess?"

"Yeah, well, I mean, I don't know what we're doing here or what you  really want or..." Or what I'm saying. He has me frazzled. "I repaid you  last night, you know... repaid you for everything, like you said about,  but..."

"But?"

"But... I don't know."

"You don't know what to think."

I nod.

He lets out a laugh of disbelief as he steps toward me. "Is that all  that was to you, Karissa? Compensation? Some sort of thank you gift?  Placating me, throwing me a bone, because you thought you owed me? You  felt indebted to me?"

I open my mouth to respond-to say what, I don't know-but he doesn't let  me speak. He holds his hand up, resting his pointer finger against my  lips. He's gentle about it, barely touches me with his fingertip, but  the action silences me before I even begin.

"Because if that's all it was to you, I'll go," he continues. "I'll walk  out the door right now. I don't fuck women because they owe me... I do  it because I want to, because I need to, because they need me. And I  don't mean that in an underhanded I bought dinner so you get naked sort  of way, bartering favors like this is Basic Instinct. I'm not paying to  get repaid, to get you in my bed. But if that's all this feels like to  you, some sort of twisted business arrangement you're obligated to  proceed with, I'll leave."

"Don't," I say quickly as he turns away. "Don't leave. I just, I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me?"