Monster in His Eyes(4)

Melody gets drinks-drink after drink after drink-some paid for; others  bought for her by guys in the club hoping the night won't end here. I'm  not sure where half of them come from, or even what they are, to be  honest, but I sure didn't pay for them, so I don't care.

I steal sips when nobody's looking, needing the boost as I dance my  heart out, spinning and jumping, laughing and trying to stay on my own  two feet as the alcohol seeps in.

I'm a sweaty mess, my feet on fire, the shoes pinching my toes when I  eventually lose track of my friend. Last I saw her she was talking to a  pseudo-Maverick, straight out of Top Gun, the two of them hot and heavy,  halfway to the danger zone.

I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, and wipe my sweaty  forehead with the back of my hand. The black marks there are still going  strong, not even the least bit smudged, but I've long ago given up the  façade of not drinking, a half-full cup of something in my hand, bought  and paid for by Maverick.

He didn't look happy when I swiped it from my friend.

I glance around as I sip it, moving through the crowd, seeking out the  frilly blue prom dress, but it's nowhere to be seen. She's not on the  dance floor, not at the bar, and not in line for the bathroom. The air  is thick and stuffy, and I feel light-headed, like I'm not getting  enough oxygen. Sighing, I chug the rest of the drink and toss the cup as  I make my way to the exit, moving past people to push my way outside.

I take a deep breath as soon as I'm out on the sidewalk, the night air  so cold it feels like tiny little needles jabbing my skin as my body  adjusts to the abrupt change in temperature. It's late …  one, maybe two  in the morning from what I can tell, the streets still alive but the  line to get inside down to only a few.

Melody's not out here, either.

The bouncer eyes me peculiarly. I step away from the door, away from  him, as I reach into my bra to grab my phone to call Melody. It slips  from my hand, along with my ID, both falling to the ground. I hold my  breath as the phone hits the sidewalk with a loud crack.

"No, no, no," I chant, crouching down to snatch it back up. I glance at  the screen, grimacing at the long jagged scratch right down the middle  of it. "Oh, fuck."

Frowning, I reach for my ID, but before I can grab it someone else gets  to it first. Brow furrowing, I look up, expecting it to be the nosey  bouncer.

What I see nearly knocks me on my ass.

It's him.

Him, all six-feet and some change of his glorious frame, still clad in  his all black suit, looking exactly as he had hours ago. I should be  alarmed, but I only feel a slight tingle trickle down my spine, a vague  sense of awareness that in a city of nearly two million people, the odds  of ever running into him twice are slim to none, much less twice in one  day.                       
       
           



       

Maybe it's fate.

Or maybe I'm in trouble …

He stands there, glancing at my ID, before his blue eyes shift to me. I  stand up again, swaying, my head swimming, everything around me delayed.  It's hard to think straight, the alcohol kicking in. I've been drunk  before, but this …  this isn't the drunk I'm used to. I'm dizzy, and  sweaty, and damn if I don't feel like I might puke.

Please don't puke.

"That's a terrible picture," I mutter as his eyes shift once more from  me to the ID. He gazes at it for a moment-a moment that feels like an  eternity as I try not to pass out on the sidewalk-before he holds it out  to me.

"There's nothing wrong with the picture, Karissa."

I take the ID to slip it back away as the alarm finally sinks in. "How  do you--?" I shake my head, the motion making me even woozier. My vision  blacks out for a second, a second where I fear it won't come back. "How  do you know my name?"

My voice comes out as a strained croak, and although my vision's  blurred, I see his forehead crease with confusion. "It's on your  license."

Oh. I mean to say it out loud, but I can't seem to get my lips to work  anymore. I blink rapidly, trying to take a deep breath, but it's  senseless. No amount of air will keep me afloat when I'm already  falling. My knees give out, everything fading to blackness.

BAM





Musk.

It surrounds me, infiltrating my senses as I creep toward consciousness.  It smells earthy, woodsy and aquatic, all male with just a hint of  sweetness. It seems to waft around me in a slight breeze I can feel  against my skin, warm, and fragrant, and …

Oh God, it's cologne.

My eyes drift open when that thought hits me, the scent stronger as I  come around. Blinking a few times, I stare up at a foreign white  ceiling. A fan spins round and round right above me, the setting so low  my eyes can follow the blades, the air blowing against my face. The room  is dim, faint light streaming through a window.

Close to dawn, I gather, from the soft orange glow that bathes part of the floor.

Or is it dusk?

My heart races in my chest, each beat painful, as it seems to  reverberate through my body. I'm achy, my head pounding in rhythm with  my heartbeat. Panic bubbles in my gut that I try to ignore, to push  back, but it's no use. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got  here, or how long I've been in this place. I'm confused, sore,  disoriented...

And my bladder feels like it's about to explode.

Slowly, I sit up in the bed. It's fit for a king-way bigger than any bed  I've ever owned. The mattress feels like fluffy clouds and the  intoxicating scent clings to the pillows and the sheets. Everything is  bright white, crisp and clean, and I'd think it was a hotel room, with  how impersonal it feels, if it wasn't for the fact that there's no  goddamn bathroom in the vicinity.

I strain my ears to hear, but it's dead silent, except for the soft  sound of air swishing from the fan. My panic eases a little when I see  I'm still fully dressed, wearing the god-awful eighties clothes from  last night.

That was last night, right?

As I contemplate what to do, I hear footsteps off in the distance,  calculated and exaggerated as they grow near. I hold my breath when the  knob across the room turns, the door opening.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

What have I gotten myself into?

The moment I see him, memories start to trickle in. The bar, dancing,  drinking, stepping outside as I search for Melody but somehow find him  there instead. I remember looking at him, talking to him, and then  there's nothing.

I'm drawing a blank.

He's wearing the exact same thing as last time I saw him, though, having still not changed.

Or maybe black suits are all he owns.

He hesitates in the doorway when he sees me sitting up, his hand still  grasping the knob, but after a moment he lets go of it and takes a few  steps toward me. Instinctively, I grab the blanket and pull it up,  shielding myself, despite the fact that I'm still clothed.

The act makes him hesitate a second time. He pauses, and stares, but he doesn't speak.

I'm not sure what to do, or say, or how I should feel or even what to fucking think, so I just stare back. Awkward.

After a moment the corner of his lip twitches, revealing the deep dimple. "You're awake."

"I am."

Ugh, my voice sounds like sandpaper and feels just as raw.

"I was worried," he says. "You've been out for a while."

"Where is this?" I glance around the room anxiously. "Where are we?"

"My place."

His place. Oh, God …  "How did I-?"

"You were drugged."

Those words stall me as my stomach sinks. I gape at him. Drugged? I was  drugged? That panic surfaces again so quickly that I can feel it  viciously rising, bile burning my throat. "You drugged me?"                       
       
           



       

His expression shifts, all amusement dying away at my question. His jaw  clenches, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring as he regards me with  an anger that makes my blood run cold. "I did nothing to you."

"I, uh …  I didn't mean … " Pulling my legs up, I try to fold into myself, slinking away from his tone. "I didn't know."

"You were slurring and struggled to stand up when I ran into you," he  says. "Your breathing was shallow, your eyes distant, and you were  confused, couldn't keep ahold of anything. You went unconscious on the  sidewalk, and your pulse was slow. You were practically wearing a sign,  sweetheart. Drugged."

The word 'sweetheart' slips from his lips with ease, but there's little  warmth to it. The cold tone makes a chill creep down my spine. The man's  intense.

"So you, uh, brought me to your place?" I ask incredulously. "When you saw I was drugged?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in  question. "Take you to the hospital, to the police, after you'd been  drinking …  underage, none-the-less."