Monster in His Eyes(5)

"You could've taken me home."

"I could've... had I known where that was. You were alone, and your  license lists a PO Box upstate. I couldn't very well drop you off at the  post office in Syracuse, now could I?"

"No," I say. I didn't think about that. I never bothered to have my  address changed. I haven't lived in Syracuse since right after I got my  license at sixteen.

"So I brought you here," he continues, "because I couldn't in good conscience leave you out there."

I stare at him as those words sink in. Ignoring the fact that I'm in a  stranger's house, in a stranger's bed, with no memory of getting there, I  feel a peculiar sense of relief. If what he says is true, that makes  him my savior …  my knight in shining armor, even if I refuse to buy into  being the damsel in distress.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm, uh …  I'm Karissa."

He knows my name, but it feels like the right thing to do, to introduce  myself. Maybe it will be slightly less awkward if he isn't a complete  stranger to me anymore.

"My name's Ignazio."

My brow furrows in confusion at his unique name, my reaction causing his  hardened expression to break. He smiles again, this time letting out a  light laugh.

"You can call me Naz, if you prefer," he says.

"Naz." The name sounds weird on my tongue. "I've never met a Naz before."

"I like to think I'm one of a kind."

He stares at me, and once again, I'm not sure what to say. I feel like a  fool, just sitting here, wrapped up in his sheets that smell so  masculine, like I imagine he smells if I get close enough to inhale the  scent of him. Although my heart has slowed down, my anxiety lessening,  my head hurts like a son of a bitch.

And not to mention I still have to pee.

"I, uh … " I feel my cheeks flushing. "Do you have a bathroom I can use?"

He nods, breaking eye contact, and turns toward the open door behind him. "Just down the hall, last door on the left."

I climb out of the bed, my legs wobbly as I stand up. Geez, how long  have I been out? Ducking my head, unable to look at Naz, I scurry past  him, down the hall. The bathroom is massive, everything bright white  just like the bedroom, the marble floor cold under my bare feet. The  light burns my eyes when I flip it on, and I squint, trying to adjust to  the brightness. I take care of business, groaning when I catch sight of  my reflection in a mirror afterward.

I look like death.

My eyes are bloodshot, makeup streaked all over my face, a big smudge of  color marring my skin. My hair is little more than a tangled rats nest  perched on top of my head, and I'm still wearing the godforsaken  spandex.

Grimacing, I try to fix myself up, splashing water on my face and  running my fingers through my hair, but it does little to help. Giving  up, I head back out, my steps unhurried.

I'm in no rush to face him again, knowing how I look.

He's still standing just in the doorway of the bedroom, his hands in his  pocket, his stance full of ease. He's not at all uncomfortable having a  strange girl in his home …  in his bedroom.

Does anything bother him?

He turns, catching my eye when I approach the doorway, but I stop there, not going back into that room.

"I don't usually look this way," I say, motioning toward myself, feeling the need to explain my disaster of an appearance.

He smiles again. He has a nice smile-the kind that's warm but not overly  friendly. It's genuine, nothing forced about it. He smiles like he  means it. I don't know much about this man, but he doesn't seem like the  type to do anything needlessly.

"I figured," he says, his eyes scanning me, making my cheeks flush again. "Eighties night."                       
       
           



       

"Yeah."

"As a man who was around back then, I can tell you that most people didn't dress that way."

"Ugh, I know. Acid-wash and shoulder pads were all the rage, right?"

"Yes."

I eye him peculiarly, trying again to guess his age. When he smiles, his  eyes crinkle, but I don't spot any wrinkles. "So you remember the  eighties well?"

"Well enough."

"How old were you then?"

That's nicer than asking how old he is now, right?

A look of amusement flashes across his face that tells me he's on to me. "How old do you think I was?"

I hesitate. "A teenager?"

"Close."

My stomach sinks. Ugh. "Older?"

"Younger."

Whew.

"So that means you're about … " I try to do the math in my head, but there still seems to be a fog settled over me. "Forty-ish?"

Jesus, he's forty.

"I'm going on thirty-seven."

Thirty-six, then. That makes him eighteen years older than me.

Ugh, eighteen.

He's twice my age.

"Well, thanks, Naz," I say quietly, feeling inadequate. He's all man,  and I'm probably nothing more than a silly, helpless little girl to him.  "Really, I appreciate it."

He merely nods.

I look away from him then, glancing around the room, searching out the  belongings I'm missing, but they're nowhere to be seen. The room has  significantly lightened the past few minutes, swaddling everything in  the soft glow. It's still early, but Melody has to notice I'm missing by  now.

"Do you know where my phone is?" I ask.

He nods, pulling it from his pocket. "You seem to make a habit of losing it."

"Yeah, I guess I do," I say, taking the phone from him. "How did you know it was mine, anyway?"

"You had it with you."

"No, before that," I say. "In Professor Santino's classroom."

"Ah. I heard you ask for it."

"You heard me?"

"I did," he confirms. "You stepped into the doorway and said 'my phone'."

I look at him incredulously, clutching my phone, running my thumb along  the jagged scratch down the screen. I hope like hell it still works  because I can't afford to replace it. I can barely afford to pay the  damn bill. "You must have great hearing."

"I do," he says, walking toward me. I stand still as he steps past, his  arm brushing against mine, the familiar cologne wafting around me,  clinging to him just as it clings to his bed. "Not much slips past me,  Karissa."

He walks away, and I watch as he disappears through the hall and down a  set of stairs. Looking down at my phone, I try to turn it on but it's  dead, the screen staying black.

With a sigh, I look away, having no choice but to follow Naz downstairs.

The two-story house is large and mostly vacant, fully furnished but  scarcely decorated. My eyes scan the rooms as I trudge through them. I  spot my shoes in the living room and slip them on. Now all I need is my  ID.

"Here," Naz says, picking up my license from a table and holding it out,  as if he'd read my mind. "I think that's all you had on you."

"It was," I confirm, taking it. "I, uh... I should go."

I nervously turn toward the door when he clears his throat. "Do you want a ride?"

I hesitate. "A ride?"

It doesn't strike me until then that I could be anywhere.

"Yes," he says. "I can take you back into the city."

Jesus, I'm not even in Manhattan anymore?

"Uh, yeah, sure. Okay."

It turns out we're in Brooklyn, an upper-class neighborhood in the  southwest corner of the borough. Naz's place is bigger than most others  on the street. I wonder what he does for a living to be able to afford  it. I don't ask, though. I feel enough out of place without having to  know my Prince Charming is an actual heir to some sort of throne.

A sleek black Mercedes is parked in the driveway, roaring to life when  Naz hits a button on his keys. He fits the car beautifully, both  impressive and downright gorgeous. I feel even smaller sitting in the  passenger seat, not speaking as he drives us through Brooklyn.

"Are you hungry?" he asks eventually, not giving me time to answer  before he whips the car into a Starbucks drive-through. "What do you  want?"

I want to say nothing, but my stomach is tearing up, and I'm pretty sure  he can hear it. It sounds like grinding gears. "Just whatever you get, I  guess."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "What if I get nothing?"

"Then get me something else …  something chocolate."

He laughs, rolling down his window to order-two coffees, loaded with  cream and sugar, and a chocolate muffin. I thank him when he hands me  mine, but he shrugs it off like it's nothing.                       
       
           



       

"So where am I taking you?" he asks when he pulls back into traffic.

"NYU," I say. "I stay in the dorms."

It's a twenty-minute drive into our part of lower Manhattan. I pick at  my muffin and sip on my drink and try to think of  something-anything-except for the reality of what I'd gotten myself  into.