Monster in His Eyes(22)

       

I turn to Naz curiously, wondering how much I can question him before he shuts down again. "How do you know him?"

"He knew my-" He pauses for a beat. "My family."

I don't know what answer I expect, but that's not it. "So you're friends?"

That thought creeps me out.

"Hardly," he says. "I only see him in a professional capacity."

"Thank God," I mutter. "I don't know how I'd feel about you being friends with the devil."

"The devil?"

"Santino... I'm pretty sure he's Satan."

"Nonsense," he says. "The man is little more than a pesky cockroach."

"Yeah, well, in that case, I wish someone would squash him."

Naz laughs. "Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

He stands up and grabs his tie, laying it around his neck, not bothering to fix it. "You hungry?"

"Uh, yeah, but I really should get going," I say, pulling out my phone  to glance at the time. "I can just grab something back at the dorms."

"I'll drive you."

"You don't have to."

"Nonsense."

Nonsense. I think that might be his favorite word. "But-"

"But what?" He cuts me off before I can answer. "You don't want to  inconvenience me? Waste my time? Waste my gas? Don't want me to have to  go out of my way? You don't want to be a bother?"

"Well... yes."

"What did I tell you that night in your room? I said there was no  turning back. So don't start getting cold feet on me now. I'm yours,  Karissa, anytime, day or night."

"I'm not getting cold feet."

"But you're thinking and not feeling. You're overthinking."

I can't really argue with that.

Guilty.

"Let me drive you to the dorm," he says. "It's the least I can do."

He drives me back to Manhattan.

Despite my earlier words, he buys me dinner on the way. Nothing fancy,  nothing he would even eat, but it's definitely more my speed.

I'm still sipping on a chocolate milkshake when he pulls the car into  the parking garage beside my dorm to drop me off. I thank him, leaning  over and kissing his cheek. I'm about to get out when he says my name,  drawing my attention to him.

"I have a party to go to this weekend," he says. "Come with me."

My eyes widen. "A party? Like, with people and dancing?"

"It's more of a dinner party, but yes, there may be some dancing."

"A dinner party," I echo. "Like with …  dinner?"

I have no idea what a dinner party is really like, but I watch TV. I  watch Real Housewives of wherever the fuck they are these days. I've  seen what they call dinner parties.

"Yes, with dinner," he says with a laugh. "They're not usually my thing,  but it's business, and I'd rather not go alone, if I have someone to go  with me."

"Uh …  I don't really have anything to wear to a dinner party."

"Don't worry about that. I'll have something dropped off. You're, what, a size two?"

I bark with laughter, still sipping my milkshake. "Maybe one of my ass cheeks."

He smirks. "Just say you'll go with me and I'll handle the rest."

I consider it for a moment, wanting to say no because of my nerves, but I  can't get the word to come out. How can I deny him when he's been so  great to me? "Yeah, okay, sure."

"Great," he says. "I'll be in touch."





I get another C- on my paper on happiness. It's all marked up, more red  marring the pristine white paper than black ink from my words. Santino  has critiqued every line to the point that I can practically hear his  ridiculing voice when I read his comments. On the very top, in all  capitals, underlined half a dozen times, is the word PRETENTIOUS.

Pretentious. Me.

The man with a flashy pointer and a stick up his ass called me  pretentious. I'm stunned. I'm pissed. I'm upset on the trek home from  class, so furious that Melody doesn't even try to speak to me as she  clutches her paper on Disney World.

She got a B+.

I caught a peek at it when he handed them back, seeing very little red  scribbled on hers, so little, in fact, that it made what was written up  top stand out even more.

REFRESHING.

I quote Walt Disney in class and am mocked. She writes an entire paper on the subject and he calls it refreshing.

As if I couldn't be any more dismayed.

I stride right into the building, swiping my student ID for entrance.  Melody's right behind me, treading lightly. We walk to the elevator and  cram inside when my phone starts to ring. I consider not even looking at  it, in no mood to talk to my mother, but I pull it out to silence it. I  just happen to catch sight of the screen right before I hit the button  and stall, seeing Naz's name.                       
       
           



       

"Hello?" I answer hesitantly.

"Are you busy?"

"No."

"Good, because there's a car waiting downstairs to take you to Fifth Avenue."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now," he says. "You need a dress, don't you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And take your roommate," he says. "I seem to remember owing her a dress, too."

I don't know what to say, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't wait  for me to respond, anyway. I lean against the side of the elevator,  waiting, as we seem to stop on every floor on the way up. By the time we  reach thirteen, Melody and I are the only ones left. It dings and  Melody starts to step out, but I grab ahold of her and pull her back in,  pressing the lobby button.

Her brow furrows as she looks at me. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Fifth Avenue somewhere."

"Why?"

"I guess we're going shopping."

She looks torn between confusion and excitement, like she wants to jump  up and down but she has no clue how the hell we can be going shopping  when we've been living off of noodles all week. I don't explain, still  stewing on my grade, as she crams her paper in her bag. She cuts her  eyes at me, frowning as I watch. "I don't know why that man has a  hard-on for you. You're a lot better at that crap than me. You should be  getting all A's."

I just shrug, having no idea how to respond, as we stride out of the  elevator and make our way outside. I notice it then, parked along the  curb right in front of the dorm: a sleek black town car with a man  leaning against the side of it, waiting. He glances up, pushing away  from the car when he sees us. "Miss Reed?"

"Yes."

He smiles politely, opening the door for us to get in. I hesitate, but  Melody pushes right past me, climbing in the back seat. I join her,  sighing as the driver shuts the door and climbs in up front. Melody is  chatting non-stop on the drive, excited, even though she has no idea  where we're going or what we're doing.

Hell, I don't know myself.

All I know is I need a dress.

The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue in Midtown West and drops us off in  front of an upscale boutique. I stand there along the curb, staring  through the glass doors, as the town car pulls away, disappearing into  traffic and leaving us there. Melody's wide eyes regard the store with  much the same excitement as in the car, but even she seems a little  hesitant.

"What now?" she asks.

"I guess we go in."

She shrugs, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the boutique. It's  swathed in a soft glow, faint classical music playing. The store is  arranged by color and scheme, with sections of different designers, the  clothes along the walls while the middle section is sprinkled with  furniture like we're in someone's home.

It's not like the stores I'm used to, with racks upon racks crammed  together of every size imaginable, mass-produced and distributed to  anyone who wants it. These are one-of-a-kinds, where you hold your  breath and pick a dress and hope like hell you can squeeze into it.

I pause right inside the door, glancing around, as the saleswoman  appears. She struts, poised, eyebrows raised like she's potentially  approaching feral animals and she thinks we might bite. I'm about to  blurt out that this is a mistake, that I'm most definitely in the wrong  place, when she says my name. "Karissa Reed?"

I gape at her. "Yes."

"Mr. Vitale said he would be sending you by this afternoon," she says,  giving me what I surmise is her warmest smile, although it still looks  quite frigid. "He left instructions, evening attire for you and a dress  for your friend …  to replace one that was damaged?"

"A damaged dress?" Melody glances at me. "You mean my sweater dress? The black one?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah, we kind of …  I mean, he kind of … "

She holds her hands up to stop me. "Enough said."

I laugh nervously, glancing back at the saleswoman as she eyes us, her  gaze even icier than just a moment ago. She clears her throat  dramatically, waving around the store. "Well, help yourselves to  anything in the store. The dressing rooms are through there." She points  toward the back. "I'm here to help if you need it."