Monster in His Eyes(27)

I don't know what to say, figuring I've said it all already when I  thanked him half a dozen times for the great night, so I say nothing,  getting out when the driver opens the door for me. I make the trek  inside barefoot, carrying my shoes, and dig my ID out of my purse to  scan myself inside.

I can feel eyes on me as I stroll through the lobby, feel them on me  while I wait for the elevator, feel them on me during the trip upstairs,  acutely aware that I'm doing the most obvious walk of shame of all  time.

But I'm not ashamed, not in the least.

I stroll down the hallway when I reach the thirteenth floor, straight to  my room in the corner. Loud rap music pours from it, rattling the  walls. My hand grasps the knob and turns as soon as I get there,  grateful Melody never locks the damn door because I don't think I have  my key. As soon as I start to open it, I hear her voice.

"Oh God, oh yes!" she cries. "Just like that!"

The thump-thump-thumping of her bed hitting the wall sounds like a  jackhammer. I stall instantly, not wanting to see what's going on in  there. My hand is off the knob again, the door clicking closed, neither  of them even hearing it from the way she cries out.

"Oh, Paul, baby, you feel so good!"

Cringing, I walk away, shaking my head. Awkward. On my way back to the  elevator, I pull out my phone, letting out a resigned sigh as I dial the  number. I press the down arrow just as he answers.

Naz foregoes any sort of greeting, merely saying, "I'm waiting downstairs."

He is. The car is still parked there, exactly where it was when I got  out, the driver waiting by the curb. He opens the door for me, and I  slide in, seeing Naz still focused on his phone, looking just as casual.

His eyes cut to me when the door closes. "Huh."

"Huh," I echo. "What does 'huh' mean?"

It's his second favorite thing to say, besides 'nonsense'.

"It means it didn't take you as long as I thought it would to change  your mind. I expected you to at least change before you started  regretting it."

"And what, you were just going to sit down here?" I ask. "How long would you have waited?"

"As long as it took."

"And if I didn't change my mind?"

"You would've," he says, matter-of-fact. "You like me."

"I like you?"

"Yes."

I laugh but don't dispute it because yes, I like him. I like him a lot,  so much that I'm terrified to admit to what degree I like this man. And  from the way his eyes flit to me, and the smirk that touches his lips, I  suspect he might know my dilemma, might know just how bad I have it.

"It's okay, though," he says, "because I like you, too."

His house is ice cold when we get there. I can see my breath whenever I  exhale, a cloud of fog in the air around me. I shiver, wrapping my arms  around myself, but the chill doesn't seem to bother Naz. He sets his  coat and vest down on the living room couch as he watches me.

"You know where the bathroom is," he says. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. I'll warm the place up while you do that."

I hesitate. "Am I supposed to put the dress back on?"

"No, I'll leave something on my bed for you to wear."

I make my way upstairs on my own. It's dark up here, despite the sun  shining brightly outside, like the top half of his house is always in  shadows. I head straight to the bathroom and lock myself inside, turning  on the hot water to try to warm the air.

I reach behind me, struggling to unzip the dress on my own, and step out  of it, unsure what to do with the thing so I just leave it in the  corner. I step under the water, flinching at the heat, but I don't dare  turn the temperature down. The room is way too cold.

I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and wrinkled, soaking  up as much of the warmth as I can, relishing the sensation of the water  beating against me. The pressure feels like hands kneading my taut  muscles, soothing the soreness away. Faint bruises blemish my skin in  places, remnants of his strong grip, reminders of the way he owned my  body, like it belonged only to him.

I swipe some soap and even some of his shampoo, stepping out smelling  like Irish Spring and men's Frizz-Ease. Goose bumps spring up along my  flesh as soon as the air hits me. I dry off, wrapping a thick white  towel around me as I scamper from the bathroom.

Just like Naz said, clothes are laying on the bed, a pair of black  sweatpants and a plain white undershirt. I drop the towel and pull them  on, scowling at my lack of underwear and bra. It takes me rolling down  the pants a few times at the waist for them to stay up, still dragging  at my feet.                       
       
           



       

I stroll back downstairs, arms crossed over my chest as I seek out Naz,  wondering where he went. I head for the den when I find him nowhere  else, and hear his voice as I approach the doorway.

"Yeah, you're right, it's more complicated than I expected."

I stall a few feet from the door, realizing he's on the phone and not  wanting to interrupt. I know I should walk back away, to give him some  privacy, but I just stand in place.

Call it curiosity.

"I haven't changed my mind," he says, "and I'm not going to. You know  better than to think I'll walk away in the middle of anything,  especially something like this. I've been waiting for this moment for a  long time, Ray. Just as long as you."

I shiver. I'm not sure if it's the cold or the name that causes it.

"Santino's been stalling," he says. "I'll pay him another visit this week and light a fire under his ass to get the file."

A file? That's what he wants?

"No, I don't want to do that if I don't have to. I told you, it's  changed …  it's complicated. Santino will come through. He's just afraid  of sticking his neck out, you know, and getting his head chopped off. He  thought he wouldn't have to see me again after he paid you, but he  should know not all debts can be forgiven with just cash."

He pauses for a moment, the silence deafening. My heart is pounding so  hard I'm afraid he can hear it, that he'll know I'm standing here. But  after a moment, he lets out a laugh. "Ah, come on, Ray, you know me. You  know I like playing with fire. It's one of my specialties."

More words are exchanged, but I don't hear them. I back away from the  door, jetting back upstairs whenever it's safe and I don't think he'll  hear my footsteps. I walk back to the bathroom and grab my dress, taking  it to his room, where the towel still lays on the floor. I pick it up,  too, and glance around, looking for a hamper, but there isn't one in  here.

Turning around, I'm about to head out in search of one when I nearly run  straight into the body blocking the doorway. It startles me so much I  scream, a high-pitch shriek, as my knees nearly give out. Naz is  standing there, eyeing me warily, as I clutch the dress tightly to my  chest.

I didn't hear him come upstairs.

"You scare easily," he says. "I was just coming to check on you. You've been gone a while."

"Yeah, I, uh …  I mean, I took a long shower, and I didn't want to get out  because, you know, it felt good, and it's cold …  and why is it cold?"

I'm a terrible liar. I know.

He's looking at me like he knows it, too.

"I forgot to turn the heat up yesterday before we left," he says.  "Temperature dropped overnight. I lit a fire in the fireplace in the  den, so it's warm down there."

"Oh, great," I say, holding out the bundle in my arms. "I was just going to put these somewhere …  wherever they go."

He takes them from me, and motions with his head for me to head out. I  step past him, walking back downstairs with him on my heels. He veers  right to a room I've never been in-the laundry room. He drops the stuff  off and follows me to the den.

It is warm in here, and I relish the sensation as I head straight for  the source, feeling the flames from a few feet away, wiping the chill  away, but it doesn't nothing to rid my skin of the goose bumps.

"How about a movie?" he suggests.

"Sure," I say. "You pick this time."

"You ever see Twelve Angry Men?" His favorite movie, I remember. I shake  my head, having never even heard of it, and a look of disturbance  crosses his face. "Huh. We're going to have to rectify that."

He puts the movie in as I sit on the couch. An old black-and-white  flick, it turns out. Naz settles in beside me, putting his arm over my  shoulder and pulling me to him.

Sighing, I tuck in at his side.

He's quiet, engrossed in the movie, his hand absently stroking my arm,  tickling my skin and distracting me from the movie. After awhile he  leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "You smell like me."

"I used your shampoo," I say. "And your soap. Hope you don't mind. I probably should've asked first."

"I told you to make yourself at home," he says. "I don't want you to  feel like you have to tiptoe around, afraid of doing something wrong or  hearing something you shouldn't, like phone conversations."