Monster in His Eyes(21)

Definitely not Disney World. "I talked about philosophers like Aristotle and their views on happiness."

I can remember exactly how I started it:

Happiness isn't tangible. It's immeasurable, not profitable, often  impractical, and some would argue indescribable. You can't see  happiness, or smell it, or taste it, or hear it, or feel it …  or can you?

I thought it was pretty brilliant, myself, but what do I know?

She blows out an exaggerated breath, making a face. "Where's the fun in that?"

"It's not supposed to be fun," I point out. "It's philosophy."

"Whatever," Melody says. "It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none.  Speaking of which, Paul took Santino's class last year and he said  that-"

I don't hear anything else that she says, her words falling on deaf  ears. I look up as we approach the philosophy building and my heart  stalls a beat before kicking into high gear, pounding so ferociously  that my vision blurs around the edges, obscuring everything within a  frame of blackness.

The butterflies are trying desperately to take flight.

My hands are trembling, my fingers tingling, as I clutch the straps of  my backpack around my shoulders. Stepping out of the building, less than  a hundred feet in front of me, is the man I left just hours ago, the  man I see even when I close my eyes, dressed impeccably as always.

Naz.

He walks a few steps in my direction and pauses, his eyes flickering  toward me, but his expression shows none of the recognition I feel  inside.

None of the excitement.

None of the giddiness.

My palms start to sweat, my knees weak. I continue walking alongside  Melody, trying to listen as she babbles on and on, but his sudden  presence is jarring. I keep looking at him; keep waiting for him to see  me. His eyes flicker my way a few times, landing straight on my face,  but still-he offers no acknowledgment.

Not a wink.

Not a smile.

Not even a cheek twitch.

My stomach coils. I'm not sure what to do, what to say, what to think.  In the moment, I'm not sure of anything. He just stands there casually,  fifty …  forty …  thirty feet in front of me, and eventually turns away, his  attention going to the building we're walking toward.

I glance that way, seeing Santino near the entrance, looking as uptight  as ever, and holding his pointer stick like a cane. I glance between  them curiously as I approach, ultimately looking away from Naz, too  nervous to meet his gaze.

I'm so close I can smell a whiff of his cologne in the afternoon breeze.  I step past him, relishing in the small moment where I inhale the  essence of the man, when I'm jerked to a sudden stop. He grabs my arm,  swinging me around to face him. I stumble, blinking rapidly, caught off  guard as I meet his eyes. A smile lifts his lips. "You're not even going  to say hello?"

"I, uh …  I … "

I get nothing out but foolish stammering before his hands grasp my head,  cradling my face in his palms. He kisses me, suddenly, brutally, his  lips hard, the kiss full of passion. I gasp as I kiss him back, stunned  by the intensity. It lasts forever but no time at all before he pulls  away, still holding my face, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Hello," I whisper breathlessly.

He laughs under his breath, his eyes scanning me, and leans over again  to press a chaste kiss against my lips. His hands drift down, his thumb  rubbing a fresh mark visible on my neck. He seems to admire it for a  moment before letting go, turning around to walk away without saying  anything more.

"What the fuck?" Melody hisses in my ear as she steps beside me. "What the hell was that?"

"That was him."

"Him? Like, him?"

I watch him cross the street to the Mercedes, parked along the curb, before turning to my friend. "That's Naz."

"Jesus, Kissimmee, you didn't tell me he was sex on legs."                       
       
           



       

I roll my eyes, unable to stop myself from blushing, as I turn away from her. "Come on, we're going to be late for class."

I look up as we approach the doorway of the building, my stomach  dropping when I see Santino still standing there. His gaze is fixed  across the street. He shifts his attention to me, nothing but pure  disdain in his eyes. "Miss Reed."

"Sir."

He turns to Melody. "Miss Carmichael. I hope you ladies have your essays ready."

"Of course, sir," Melody says sweetly as we stride past.

The man is in rare form today, slamming his stick against his desk and  calling on me so many times I lose count. Right before class is over he  passes our midterms back to us, pausing in front of my desk for a  second. I'm staring down at my book, starting on our next essay, but I  can feel his gaze on my face. I chance a peek, meeting his eyes as he  slips my paper on top of my book.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he says.

"Me, too," I mutter, flipping my exam over as he moves on. I stare down at it, cringing.

C-





Naz's books are just as diverse as his movie collection.

I stand in the den, surveying his vast bookshelves, running my  fingertips along the spines as I read the titles. He has everything from  Shakespeare to self-help, Edgar Allen Poe to poetry. It's peculiar.

The man even has textbooks on philosophy.

I stall, my fingertips tracing the spine of The Art of War. "Did you read all of these books?"

Naz is sitting at his desk. Not sure why, since he's watching me instead  of doing anything. I look his way as he nods. "Most of them."

"Did you go to college?"

His brow furrows at my question. "Yes."

"What did you major in?"

Was independent contracting an option?

"Nothing," he says. "I dropped out before I had to declare one."

"Why did you drop out?"

"I had to."

"Why?"

"Because things happened that made it so." I regard him curiously,  wondering what things happened, but he motions for me to come close  before I can pry anymore. I step toward him as he turns in his chair,  tugging me between his legs, his hands on my hips as he squeezes me  between him and the desk. "Are you writing a book about my life,  Karissa?"

"No." I place my hands on his shoulders as I gaze at him, my fingertips  trailing up his neck, twirling a curl near his ear. "I'm curious."

"Be careful what you ask," he says quietly, his hands drifting along my jeans to cup my ass. "The answers aren't always pretty."

Leaning down, I kiss him softly and whisper against his mouth, "I just want to know you."

He pulls away, leaning back in his chair to gaze at me. He's so quiet I  start to get self-conscious, my face flushing at the intensity of his  stare, when he lets out an exaggerated sigh. I watch as he unknots his  tie, pulling it off and tossing it on the desk beside me.

His jacket was discarded the moment we stepped in his house an hour ago.

Slowly, he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on mine as he pulls it  open. I try not to look, try to keep eye contact, but I can't help it.  My eyes are drawn down to his chest as he tugs on the neck of his  undershirt, pulling it down as far as it will go. I take in the sight of  his tanned skin peppered with old scars, my right hand drifting from  his hair down his neck.

I hesitate before running my fingertips along the marred skin,  connecting the dots of his old wounds like maybe they can tell me the  story. He remains quiet as I draw on his skin before he clutches my  wrist, stilling my movements. I meet his eyes then, startled by his  strong grasp, and see that look.

That look.

It sends a chill down my spine.

He says nothing as he stares at me. Nothing about what he just did  really explains it, but somehow I understand. Whatever happened to him  was bad... bad enough to stop life in its tracks and send him on a  different path.

"What would you have majored in," I ask, "if that hadn't happened?"

"I don't know." He lets go of my wrist. I press my palm flat against his  chest, faintly feeling his steady heartbeat as he speaks again. "That's  not who I am now. I hardly remember that man anymore."

He pushes his chair back, my hand dropping from his chest. I take it as  my cue to move away when he starts buttoning his shirt again. I stroll  back over to the bookshelf, surveying his collection of textbooks. "Did  you like philosophy in college or something? You have a lot of books  about it."

He scoffs. "Hated it. Failed it."

"Funny, me, too. Probably wouldn't be if my professor wasn't such an asshole, though."

"Ah, Daniel Santino." Naz laughs to himself. "He's always been a bit of a dick."