Monster in His Eyes(54)

My brow furrows. Carmela?

There's another rustling before a breathy voice picks up. "Kissimmee? Is it you?"

"Uh, yeah. What's going on, Mom? Who's that guy? Why'd he call you Carmela?"

"Never mind that now," she says dismissively. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me? I'm fine. Where have you been? I've been worried!"

"I needed to move on, sweetheart. I told you that when you visited. It was time."

"You said you were thinking about it," I say. "I didn't expect you to  pick up and leave everything behind. I went to check on you and-"                       
       
           



       

"You've been to the house? Was it ransacked?"

"Uh, no …  why would it be?"

"No reason," she says. "Look, I can't really get into it on the phone.  I'll explain everything, I will …  I just need you to come see me. Can you  do that, Kissimmee? It's important."

"I guess."

"Come alone," she says. "Okay? It's important nobody else know where I am. Understand?"

I understand, all right. She's snapped. All those years of running from  memories and chasing phantoms has caught up to her, and she's lost what  little sanity she had left. There's a difference between being crazy and  being insane, and I'm terrified she's tiptoed over that line these past  few weeks. "I'll come alone. Just tell me where you are."

She spouts off an address, and I scour through the drawers until I find a  pen to scribble it down. She once more reiterates my need to come alone  before hanging up, not once asking me how I am or where I've been or  what I've been doing.

I toss my phone down on the bed beside me as I stare at the address. New  Jersey. It wouldn't take me too long, half a day to get there, get my  answers, and get back here to Brooklyn. Maybe I can convince her to come  back with me, get some sort of help, because whatever she's doing isn't  normal.

"What do you have there?"

I glance up as Naz walks in the room.

"It's, uh …  a note Melody gave me," I say, shrugging as I fold it up and  shove it back in my pocket. "I had coffee with her today, you know,  before the whole interrogation thing."

I would tell him if he asked, tell him the truth about the letter, about  talking to my mother, but he doesn't raise the subject any further. He  pauses in front of me, grasping my chin and pulling my face up to look  at him. He leans down to kiss me, his lips soft and sweet.

All it takes is a simple touch from this man and I melt. His presence  always makes the bad seem not so bad, the good just so much better, the  world around me so beautiful and brand new. He makes me feel special,  and safe, like the universe could be crumbling but he'd keep the ground  beneath my feet secure.

He wipes my worries away.

I'll deal with my mother tomorrow.

Tonight, I only want him.

With trembling hands, I reach out and start unbuttoning his shirt. He  lets me, never breaking the kiss, his hands cradling my head. He pulls  away when he has to, letting his clothes drop to the floor, leaving him  naked in front of me.

Light filters in from outside, enough so I can make out every contour of  his body. I want to trace every line, caress every crevice, taste his  flesh with my tongue, and show him how much I love him with my lips. He  sits down on the bed and reaches for me again, but I slip from his grasp  and drop to my knees on the floor instead.

His expression is strained as he stares down at me. I wrap my hand  around the hard shaft and stroke a few times, watching him, before  lowering my head into his lap. I flick my tongue out, tasting the tip of  him.

An unnatural groan vibrates his chest.

His hands stroke my hair as I take him into my mouth. I can't take all  of him-can barely take half of him. I've never tried to satisfy a man  like Naz, so I just go at it and hope for the best.

It doesn't last long before he stops me. Grabbing a hold of my arms, he  pulls me up onto the bed with him, whispering, "That's enough, Karissa."

"Was it not good?" I ask nervously.

"It was great," he says quietly. "But you shouldn't ever kneel in front of me."

I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended, but he gives me little  chance to be either. He takes over, stripping me as he pulls me deeper  onto the bed with him.

He lies back, letting me climb on top of him. I sink down on him, taking  him inside of me, a chill running down my spine when I hear him groan  again. The sound is so primal, unrestrained.

I ride him, grinding against him, arching my back and taking him in as  far as he can go. His hands are on my hips, but he doesn't guide me, for  the first time since we've been together he's letting me do the work.

I can tell when he's getting close. My hands are on his chest, covering  his scars, feeling his heartbeat against my palm. It's racing, although  he looks relaxed, his stomach muscles clenching as his eyes close.

I can feel it as he comes, filling me with all of him. He groans again,  this time louder, his grip on my hips tighter. When he relaxes, I stop  moving, and he opens his eyes to look at me. I offer him a tentative  smile, but he doesn't return it, knocking mine off my face when he yanks  me off of him, onto the bed, and settles on top of me.

I yelp, caught off guard, as he nuzzles into my neck, nipping at the skin. "That wasn't easy for me."

He pushes inside of me, the thrust deep, making me gasp. He's harder now than he was before he even came. "I know."                       
       
           



       

He's a machine, going on and on as night falls, not stopping until my  body is tired, both of us covered in sweat from head to toe. I lay in  his arms, my head on his chest. We're both quiet as we catch our breath,  his heartbeat settling back into a steady, normal rhythm.

I don't think my heart will ever beat the same.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly after a while.

"Yes," I whisper. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were hauled into the police station today. That has to be upsetting."

"It was," I admit. "They think I …  I mean, they thought I had something to do with what happened to Santino."

"No, they didn't," he says. "They don't think that."

"But they said-"

"Just because they say it, doesn't meant they believe it," he says. "They don't think you killed Santino."

"Then why did they say it?"

"Because they think I did."

I tense. "That's just crazy."

I expect him to agree, to laugh it off, but he says nothing. He makes no  noise at all. The silence that smothers the room is deafening,  chilling, and I'm not sure what to say after that. I lay there, staring  into the darkness, as Naz's hand strokes my bare side, holding me  tightly like he'll never let me go.





I take the train to Manhattan, and then another train to New Jersey,  hailing a cab outside of the train station in Newark. The driver looks  at me peculiarly when I read off the address, making no move to pull  away.

"You sure that address is right?" he asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

"Uh … " I glance at the paper. "Yes."

"Okay, then."

He starts on the road. Newark reminds me of a smaller New York City,  with the skyscrapers and busy streets. I'm admiring it as we drive  through the city, tensing a little when he starts weaving away. He  passes through neighborhoods, each one growing rougher, until we start  to approach what looks like the slums. Windows are smashed and boarded  up, graffiti covering the sides of crumbling buildings, trash scattering  the sidewalks.

Please keep going.

Please keep going.

He stops.

The cab pulls up in front of an old brick house. The one attached to it  is abandoned, completely gutted, but the other looks inhabitable.  Barely. My mother's car is nowhere to be seen. I see no signs of life  around it, no lights on inside and no furniture on the small porch. I'm  about to tell the driver to keep going, to take me back, because there  has to be some mistake, when the curtain in the front room shifts  around.

Someone's inside.

I pay the driver and get out, starting toward the house. I step up on  the porch and knock, my heart hammering in my chest as I wait. My mother  can't stay here, in this house, in this neighborhood. It's not safe.

The door yanks open, a pair of deep brown eyes meeting mine. They belong  to a man with jet-black hair, parted to the side and styled back, shiny  from the amount of product in it. He has a moustache, but the rest of  his face is freshly shaved. He's wearing dark gray slacks and a vest,  with a light button down shirt. An unlit cigar is between his lips.

He doesn't look like someone who would live in the slums.