Monster in His Eyes(20)

She rolls her eyes, nudging me as I laugh. Her expression shows her  amusement for a second before it falls away, her eyes widening. "Is that  a hickey on your neck? Oh my God, it is!"

She tries to get a better look but I block her, pushing her prying hands away. "So what if it is?"

"What did you do last night?" she asks. "No, scratch that. Who did you do?"

"It's nothing," I say, the words a bitter lie on my tongue. "He's just a guy."

"Just a guy?" She gapes at me. "A guy you didn't tell me about!"

"Actually, I did tell you about him. You remember that guy from that night at Timbers? The one I went home with?"

Her eyes widen. "So you did sleep with him?"

"No." I hesitate. "Well, yes, but not that night."

"But after that night."

"Yes."

She looks torn between hugging me and smacking me, her expression  flickering. It eventually gives way and she grins, punching my arm. "You  whore!"

I laugh as I move away from her, kicking my leg and hitting her in the side with it. "Reserve the judgment, slut."

Holding her hands up, she laughs. "Fine. So is he a student here or something?"

"He's, uh …  he's not a student. He's just a guy."

"Do I at least get a name?"

"Naz." Her brow furrows as I wave it off. "He's older than me, lives in  Brooklyn and is an independent contractor. Anything else you need to  know?"

"Uh, yeah." She eyes me seriously. "How big is it?"

I kick her again as she laughs and stands up, retreating back to her  side of the room. I expect more questions, and I can see she has more  she wants to ask, but she keeps them to herself.

I'm instantly grateful to have her as my friend.

"As long as you're safe," she says, "and I know where you are."

"Yes, Mom."

She picks up a pillow and chucks it at me, promptly asking for it back,  but I refuse, snuggling with it in my bed instead. Too lazy to retrieve  it, she shrugs and lies down, grabbing her phone from her pocket. "Paul  and I are going to dinner tonight. You gonna come with this time?"

"Depends," I say. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," she says. "Somewhere for pizza …  maybe over in one of the  other boroughs. You know, get out of the city for a bit. You in?"

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "I actually know a place you'd like."

"You know a place?" she asks incredulously.

I laugh. "Yes."





Paul's a lot more attractive when not intentionally dressed like an  eighties douchebag, but an air of arrogance surrounds him, a smug smile  constantly on his lips. He owns a death trap of a Jeep Wrangler and  drives with the top down, my hair blowing all over the place in the  backseat as he speeds through the streets, weaving in and out of  traffic, on our way to Brooklyn.                       
       
           



       

I fear for my life, every second of the trip making me wish I'd stayed  behind. At least there I'm not racing toward a fiery death.

"I've heard of this place," Paul shouts over the sound of the wind  blowing around us all. "They say it's a bitch to get a table."

"Yeah," I respond. "It's totally worth it, though."

We head to the same pizzeria Naz took me to last night, having to park  down the street. Paul walks ahead of us as Melody chats my ear off. A  few people wait around outside for tables, but it isn't as bad as last  time. We step inside, requesting a table from the young hostess. Paul  talks to her-flirting with her, right in front of Melody-and she jots us  down for a table for three.

"It'll be about thirty, forty minutes," she says. "I'll call for you when your table's ready."

We start to head back outside, to wait on one of the benches. A man  opens the door for us, holding it, his gaze meeting mine. I recognize  him …  the owner …  the man Naz spoke to when we were here. I smile  politely, stepping by him, as his brow furrows. He rattles off something  in Italian, something I don't understand, before he motions for the  hostess to come over. He says something to her, something I again don't  comprehend, until he reaches the last word. "Vitale."

The hostess looks at me. "He says you're Vitale's special friend, that you were here with him."

I can feel the blush overtaking my face as I nod. "Yes."

The man smiles widely at the confirmation, grabbing my hand and pressing  a kiss to the back of it. He rambles for a moment before turning to the  hostess, spouting off something else. She nods, and he strides away.

The hostess grabs three menus, motioning for us to follow her. Melody  looks at me with surprise, but I just shrug as the three of us are led  straight to a table that's just being cleared off. I take a seat across  from Melody and Paul as the hostess sets the menus down, smiling at me.

"Mr. Andretti said to send Vitale his regards," she says. "To ensure him he took good care of you."

"Uh, okay," I say. "I will."

Naz isn't here, he's nowhere in the vicinity, and yet his presence can still be felt.

She walks away, and I glance up, catching my friend's eyes. Melody looks dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't," I mumble, shaking my head. "Naz did."

We're catered to all through dinner, waited on fast and showered with  extra food. A bottle of wine is brought to the table, despite none of us  requesting it, no questions asked about anybody's age. Paul lavishes in  the attention, but I can feel Melody's questioning looks cast my way.

When we're finished, Paul asks for a bill as Melody pulls out her  wallet. I feel guilty, realizing she's the one paying for all of us. The  waiter shakes his head, smiling as he starts clearing our plates. "The  bill has already been taken care of."

Melody gapes at him. "By who?"

The waiter says the payer prefers to remain anonymous, but I'm not  fooled. A smile tugs my lips as I swirl some of the wine around in my  glass, drinking my last few drops. I know exactly who did it.

After we leave, I stall on the sidewalk near the entrance. "You guys go ahead. I have somewhere else to be."

Melody's brow furrows, and she starts to question me, but Paul throws  his arm over her shoulder and pulls her away. "Cool. See you later."

Melody looks behind her, shouting she'll see me back at the room, as I  pull out my phone and call a cab. It takes it a moment to show up, the  ride to Naz's house only a few minutes. It takes every penny in my  pocket to afford the fare. I stroll up to the front door, knocking. It's  near dusk, his Mercedes parked in the driveway.

The door opens and he appears in front of me, his expression blank. He  looks at me, his eyes shifting past me to the street as the cab pulls  away, before he meets my eyes again. He's quiet for a moment, just  staring at me, before he finally speaks. "You had dinner with another  man. I'm hurt."

"Can't be too hurt," I say, "considering you paid the bill."

He smirks, not admitting or denying that, as he steps aside to motion for me to come in.

"I'm going to need a ride back to the city," I mumble, frowning, noting  he's already out of his suit, wearing what I'd call pajamas, except I  know he doesn't sleep in them …  Naz sleeps naked. I hadn't exactly  thought this thing out. "You know, whenever you get the chance, if you  don't mind …  it'll be a long walk otherwise."

"I'll take you in the morning."

"In the morning?"

"Yes," he says, reaching over and cupping my cheek, his voice playful as  he adds, "You've got a dinner to pay me back for tonight."                       
       
           



       





"Disney World."

My footsteps falter on the middle of the sidewalk near Washington  Square, about a block from the building housing Santino's classroom.  "Seriously?"

Melody stops walking and turns to face me. "Yep."

"You wrote about Disney World?" I ask, needing some clarification.

"Yep," she says. "You know, with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Plato the Dog."

I blink a few times. "Please tell me you didn't call him Plato."

"Of course not." She laughs. "I wrote about the princesses, namely  Cinderella, and the whole concept of living happily ever after. I mean,  it's kind of your fault, since you quoted Walt Disney last time. It was  stuck in my head. And besides, it's the happiest place on earth, right?  That's what they say."

"Right," I say, starting to walk again. "That's what they say."

"Why, what did you write about?"