Monster in His Eyes(8)

Before I can respond, the line goes dead, my phone beeping. Call ended. I  stand there, hesitating, contemplating, before turning around. Once  again I don't give myself a chance to talk myself out of it. I switch  the stove off, leaving the pot of freshly boiling water on the burner as  I bolt from the kitchen and sprint to the room.

Thirty minutes. That's all I have.

I tear through my closet, throwing clothes around as I search for  something to wear, pulling shirts off hangers and holding them up in  front of the mirror before tossing them aside. I blast through  everything I own, demolishing my side of the room in less than five  minutes, putting Melody's mess to shame.

I move from my closet to Melody's, taking a deep breath before diving  in. Her clothes are trendier than mine, more revealing …  more her and  hell of a lot less me. I shift through what's hanging up before scouring  through her drawers, changing a few times before settling on a black  long-sleeve sweater dress I fish out of the back of the closet.

It'll have to do, because I'm down to fifteen minutes. I let my hair  down, running my fingers through it. It's wavy from being up all day,  but there isn't anything I can do to straighten it. I swipe lip gloss  across my lips and put on a coat of mascara, barely having time to  spritz myself with perfume before slipping on my boots.                       
       
           



       

Sitting on the bed, I glance at the clock and tense. Time is up already.

I practically sprint out, taking the elevator downstairs and jogging  outside, breathing heavily by the time I round the corner to the parking  garage. My footsteps falter, and I pause when my eyes come into contact  with the sleek black Mercedes idling there.

Something inside of me soars, the butterflies taking flight, like they'd  just discovered their wings for the first time. My feet move again as  the driver's side door opens and Naz steps out. He's wearing another  suit, all black with a blood red tie, my eyes drawn to the pop of color  on his broad chest.

Naz strolls to the passenger side, opening the door for me.

The stories got it right, I see.

Prince Charming has manners.

I offer him a smile, trying to get myself under control as I slip into  the seat, taking a deep breath when he walks around to get back in. He  hesitates, his hand on the gearshift, as his gaze sweeps along me. I can  feel my body flush from the attention and curse my lack of makeup …  I  know my nervousness is written all over my face.

He meets my eyes, his blue ones bright, twinkling with satisfaction. He  says nothing about it, though, turning away to put the car in reverse.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks, easing into traffic.

"Anywhere," I say. "Wherever you go."

"You sound uncertain."

"I guess I do."

My response makes him laugh.

"I just have no preference," I explain. "I was going to eat Ramen noodles tonight, so anything is an upgrade from there."

"Why would you eat that?"

"Because that's all I had in the room," I say. "And besides, they're not  so bad. They cost like, twenty cents. You can literally survive off  them for a dollar a day."

He cuts his eyes at me, looking not nearly as impressed by that as I am.

"Have you tried them?" I ask curiously.

"No," he says. "Can't say I've ever had the pleasure."

"I'll have to make you some."

He raises his eyebrows, regarding me peculiarly. "I'll hold you to that,  but not tonight. I'm taking you out instead. You can treat me another  time to your gourmet noodles."

I'm so embarrassed I can feel my face heating. What's wrong with me,  babbling to this man about freaking Ramen noodles? I want to slink away,  disappear into the cool leather seat and never again resurface. "Just  ignore me. I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not. You're just nervous."

"That obvious?"

"I'm just good at reading people. It kind of comes with the territory."

"What territory?"

"Work."

"And what is it you do for work?"

"A little of this, a little of that," he responds. "I'm a freelancer."

I stare at him. That didn't answer my question at all.

He cuts his eyes at me again, and my confusion must be easy to see …  or  maybe he just is that good at reading people …  because he chooses to  elaborate for me.

"Let's say a company needs something done …  like, say, they're downsizing  and need to fire people. Some of them choose to bring in someone else  to do it, so they don't have to do the dirty work themselves. They like  to keep their hands clean. So they hire an independent contractor,  someone with expertise, to handle it for them."

"And what's your expertise?"

"Dealing with people," he says. "Finding things."

As soon as he says it, it takes me back to Santino's classroom and the  words I heard that afternoon. 'I know what you're here for.'

"What were you looking for from my philosophy professor?"

A legitimate look of surprise crosses across his face that he wipes away  just as quickly. He doesn't answer, shaking his head after a moment as  his focus remains on the road. "I can't talk about my work."

Fair enough.

He takes me to a restaurant near Central Park, the kind where you have  to make reservations weeks in advance. I've never been-I don't think  even Melody has been, the atmosphere too rich for even her upscale  tastes-but I've heard of the place. Naz valet parks the car and I get  out, glancing around nervously, feeling severely underdressed even in a  dress.

I start to point out to Naz that we'll never get a table here when he  leads me inside, past couples waiting. The hostess looks up. "Do you  have a reservation, sir?"

"No."

"We're fully booked for the night," she says, flipping the page in her  reservation book as if double-checking. "Rest of the week, too."

"Do me a favor," he says. "Run and tell the chef that Vitale sends his regards."

The hostess looks like she wants to say no, but it's hard to argue with  someone who sounds so confident. She reluctantly excuses herself,  disappearing into the kitchen. Less than a minute passes before she  returns, grabbing two menus and flashing a forced smile at Naz. "I was  mistaken. We have a table for you."                       
       
           



       

"I figured," Naz says, pressing his hand to my back and motioning for me  to follow the hostess. I oblige, not wanting to make any more of a  scene than he just caused, everyone waiting already regarding us like  we'd come with bombs strapped to our chests.

I slip into the chair the hostess pulls out while Naz sits down across from me.

I gape at him when she walks away. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get a table so quick?"

"I called ahead."

"So?"

"So I know the chef," he replies. "Called in a favor."

I'm quiet for a moment as the waiter appears, asking what we want to  drink. I mutter "water" under my breath as Naz interjects. "Bring us a  bottle of your best champagne."

The waiter looks between the two of us, and I'm just waiting for him to  ask me for my ID, but he doesn't. Instead, he scurries away, walking off  to fulfill Naz's request. It's fascinating, watching people react to  him, while at the same time it's alarming. Is there anything this man  can't get his way with?

"How'd you do it?" I ask. "Really."

"I just told you."

"How'd you call ahead? I didn't see you."

"I did it before I picked you up."

I shake my head. "But you didn't know where I'd want to go."

"Didn't I?" He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I told you, Karissa. I  read people. You have a tendency to just go with the flow and see where  the wind blows, so I picked somewhere decent for you to land."

I'm flabbergasted as he picks up his menu and casually relaxes in his  chair, his attention on it. I barely know anything about this man, and  yet he seems to know me in ways no one ever has before, predicting what  I'll do before I even do it.

The waiter returns with a bottle of champagne and tries to fill our  glasses, but Naz takes it from him, insisting he do the pouring. I pick  up my menu then, glancing at it, my stomach clenching as I scan the list  of items.

I don't know what half this shit is.

I'm still staring at it when the waiter returns a second time, ready to  take our order. Naz gazes at me from across the table, his lips  twitching with amusement. He takes the menu straight from my hand and  turns it over to the waiter along with his. "We'll just have the tasting  menu."