If I'm not a glorified prostitute, I don't know what one is.
Sleep evades me but I eventually catch it in my grasp. When I awaken, the bedroom is significantly lighter as sunlight streams through the windows. I again have no idea what time it is, but there's one thing I do know.
I'm alone.
Still aching, and yucky, and stark naked.
But alone.
Rubbing my eyes, I climb out of the bed and scrounge up my clothes from last night, still mixed in with his on the floor. I put on my bra and slip on my panties before grabbing the dress. I turn it right side out, trying to situate it, when something on it catches my eye.
It's torn.
It looks like his hands ripped right through it, the weaving fabric loose and pillaging around the hem.
I stare at it, horrified. "Oh God."
"Is there a problem?"
The voice startles me so much I jump, yelping, and nearly drop the dress. Turning to the doorway, I see Naz standing there, his dark hair damp, beads of water running down his bare chest. The sudden urge to lick them strikes me.
Ugh, down, hormones.
He's wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, fresh out of the shower. I'm momentarily stunned speechless as I survey him, getting my first good look at him out of his suit. He's just as gorgeous now, but there's more to him, noticeable things, things I couldn't see last night. He's covered in old wounds, battle scars, gashes that shine silvery in the light and disappear in the darkness, like whispered secrets.
It's not off-putting, but it is a bit unnerving. I wonder what this man has gone through. He looks like he's been to war.
"Problem?" he asks again when I say nothing, his voice a little louder, drawing my attention from his chest.
"Yeah," I mumble, pulling the dress on, acutely aware thanks to my soberness that my panties are definitely not sexy. "My clothes kind of got torn last night."
His eyes scan me, settling on the rip as I point it out to him. "Didn't mean to ruin your dress."
"My roommate's dress, technically," I say, running my fingers through my hair, pulling myself together. "I borrowed it from her closet."
"Ah, well, I'll make it up to her."
"How?"
He shrugs a shoulder, pushing away from the doorway to stroll closer. "Somehow."
Stepping past me, he heads to his closet. It's filled with clothes, a lot more than just black suits, but unsurprisingly that's what he grabs. I watch him, mesmerized by the ease in which he pulls himself together.
Much to my amusement, his hair dries quickly, lying perfectly without him even needing to touch it. Lucky bastard.
He turns to me as he finishes, fiddling with his dark tie, securing the knot. "Why are you wearing your roommate's dress, anyway?"
I glance down at it. "Because it looks good."
"It does," he says, "but what's wrong with your clothes?"
"Nothing, but you were taking me out to dinner, so I needed something to wear for that."
"You don't own anything you can eat in?"
"Nothing I can eat a twelve hundred dollar meal in."
He nods, grabbing his suit coat from the hanger. "But you didn't know I was taking you somewhere like that."
"Maybe I did... maybe I'm good at reading people, too."
"You didn't." He smirks as he shakes his head, as if reacting to a joke only he's in on. He lets out a chuckle, the sound making me feel like maybe I'm the punch line of it. "And you're terrible at reading people, Karissa. Terrible."
He puts on his coat, buttoning it, before turning to me again.
"You look beautiful in it, though," he says. "I'm glad you wore it."
"I, uh... thanks." Anarchy reigns inside of me as I swallow thickly. He called me beautiful. I suddenly feel like a young girl, blushing at the compliment. "I just wanted to look nice."
"Why?"
Why? What kind of a question is that?
The words 'because of dinner' are on the tip of my tongue, but they don't taste right. They have the tang of a bitter lie, only slightly seasoned to hide what's beneath. It wasn't dinner I wanted to look nice for.
It was him.
I don't respond, but from the look on his face, it's obvious he knows the answer.
Is there anything this man doesn't know?
He steps toward me, reaching out and gently rubbing my bicep. "Well, like I said, you look beautiful. Pity it's ruined, but I'll replace it."
"You don't have to do that," I say. "I don't even know where she got it, or how long she's had it… or if she even remembers she owns it, honestly."
He struts past, not acknowledging my rebuttal, as he heads for the door. "Come on, I'll take you home now. I'm due in the city soon."
He walks out, leaving me standing there. I slip on my boots, glancing around to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, before heading after him. He already has his keys, the front door hanging wide open with him standing there, waiting.
The drive into Manhattan is awkward. I want to jump out of my own skin. I don't know what to say, or what to think, or what to do about any of this, and he's giving me no indication of where his mind is.
What are we even doing here?
This man bulldozed his way into my world, razing everything I always thought, or felt, or believed, leaving me with wreckage to try to piece back together. It's like I stepped out into the sunlight for the first time, and he is driving me right back into the shadows.
Am I ever going to feel the sunshine again?
I don't want it to be over, but the question remains: what the hell is it?
"Are you okay?" Naz asks when he pulls onto the street leading to my dorm.
"I'm fine," I respond, forcing a smile. "Why?"
"You look upset."
"No, I'm just… thinking."
"Huh."
He says nothing else. Huh. That's it.
What the fuck is 'huh' supposed to mean?
My stomach is in knots when he passes my building and once again pulls into the entrance of the parking garage. I'm reaching for the door before we even come to a complete stop, figuring it's best to just be put out of my misery, when he reaches over and grabs ahold of my wrist. It's not painful, but his grip is firm, locking me there.
"What did I say about thinking so much?"
I stare at him. Less thinking, more feeling. "I know, but I can't help it. I just… I don't know what to think."
Because that makes sense, Karissa.
"Then don't," he says. "Don't think about it. Just enjoy it for what it is."
"What is it?"
He shrugs.
That's it.
He shrugs.
His grip loosens even more, his fingers slipping from my skin as he pulls away, the hand coming to rest on the gearshift again.
I take that as my cue to leave.
Opening the door, I climb out, slamming it behind me. I take a few steps away from the car when I hear the window rolling down, his voice calling out. "Karissa."
My footsteps falter as I close my eyes. He's just fucking with me at this point. He has to be. I turn around, knowing damn well I haven't forgotten my phone this time, considering I hadn't even remembered to bring the damn thing. "Yeah?"
"Dinner tonight?" he asks.
I stare at him. "What?"
"Dinner," he says. “Eight thirty good for you?"
My eyes widen as I say it again. "What?"
Amusement touches his lips, but he doesn't respond, instead putting the car in reverse and backing away. I watch as the car disappears in traffic, dumbfounded.
Is this man serious?
My mother left half a dozen messages overnight. I call her back, not wanting her to worry, only vaguely listening as she babbles about the flower shop. I hang up as quickly as I can without upsetting her and toss my phone down, glancing at the clock.
It's barely noon.
That means I have eight and a half hours to agonize, to convince myself this is rea
l, that it isn't a figment of my imagination.
Eight and a half hours to gather some courage.
Eight and a half hours to find something to wear.
They're the longest eight and a half hours of my life.
I shower and get ready, having the time today to fix my hair and put on makeup. I stress over clothes again, settling on a pair of pink skinny jeans and a black loose-fitting top. It's not fancy, but it's at least mine this time. Not fit for a twelve hundred dollar meal, but maybe half of that.
Or half of a half.
I continually glance in the mirror as I pace the room, watching the clock and waiting, not wanting to go downstairs too early, but not wanting to be late. By the time eight thirty arrives, I'm little more than a bundle of frazzled nerves, convinced I'm not even fit for a fast food extra value meal.
Pushing back the swell of anxiety, I make sure to remember my phone this time as I head out. My heart hammers hard as I ride the elevator, taking a deep breath when I reach the lobby.
I'm walking with my head down as I turn the corner to the parking garage, expecting to see the Mercedes, but pause when it's not there. Instead, leaning against the painted brick wall in front of me, stands Naz, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.
I blink a few times, caught off guard. "Uh, hey."
"Hello," he says, pushing away from the wall to stroll toward me.
"Are we still, uh... having dinner?"
"I certainly hope so," he says. "I'm hungry, and I distinctly remember being promised you'd cook for me yesterday."
I laugh as those words strike me, but my amusement dies a harsh death when I notice his serious expression. "You're kidding."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
No, he doesn't. I think back, begrudgingly admitting that his words had been he'd be back for dinner, not that he was taking me anywhere. I feel oddly manipulated, but it's my fault for misinterpreting. "Your house then?"
"We went there last night," he says. "Besides, forgive me if I'm wrong, but you have the noodles. So I figure, since we're already here..."
He points toward the dorms.
He wants to go upstairs?
My first instinct is to refuse, but I'm too thrown off to make up any excuses. Besides, I suspect they'll fall on deaf ears. Something tells me he'll talk his way inside eventually.
I motion behind me, stepping aside. "After you."
Somehow I'm more nervous now than I was a moment ago, as I lead Naz into the old dorms. This is my territory, my home... or as close to a home as I get. But yet I feel out of place, a stranger in my own skin, like I'm invading my own privacy by inviting him in.
Naz, on the other hand, looks at ease. There's nothing more intimidating than a man whose feathers aren't ruffled by anything. We step into the elevator and he leans back against the side, watching as I press the number thirteen button.
"Thirteenth floor," he muses. "Good thing you're not superstitious."
"Right? Especially since I stay in the thirteenth room, too."
He says nothing else as we ride upstairs, but he laughs when we reach my room tucked in the corner at the end of the hall: 1313. I pull out my key and unlock the door, pushing it open for him to step inside.
It's a goddamn disaster.
"This is nice," he says, glancing around as he pauses a few feet inside the door. He sounds genuine, but I can't imagine Mr. Fit for a King would find anything nice about a glorified walk-in closet with two little beds.
"It's tiny," I say.
He shakes his head. "It's just cozy."
"What it is is a freaking mess."
"Yeah, I won't argue that one." He glances between my side of the room and Melody's, like he's comparing and contrasting. He doesn't wait for me to tell him which is mine. Within seconds, he steps onto my side, his eyes sweeping along my things.
I just stand by the door, wringing my hands together. I don't have much, but what I have is important to me. We had sex last night, and as nervous as I'd been to have him inside of me, it's nothing compared to this. This is him getting a glimpse of what's beneath my skin.
What if he doesn't find it beautiful?
"You can have a seat or whatever you want," I mumble. "Make yourself at home, I guess."
He cocks an eyebrow. "You guess?"
"Yeah, well, I mean, I don't know what we're doing here or what you really want or..." Or what I'm saying. He has me frazzled. "I repaid you last night, you know... repaid you for everything, like you said about, but..."
"But?"
"But... I don't know."
"You don't know what to think."
I nod.
He lets out a laugh of disbelief as he steps toward me. "Is that all that was to you, Karissa? Compensation? Some sort of thank you gift? Placating me, throwing me a bone, because you thought you owed me? You felt indebted to me?"
I open my mouth to respond—to say what, I don't know—but he doesn't let me speak. He holds his hand up, resting his pointer finger against my lips. He's gentle about it, barely touches me with his fingertip, but the action silences me before I even begin.
"Because if that's all it was to you, I'll go," he continues. "I'll walk out the door right now. I don't fuck women because they owe me... I do it because I want to, because I need to, because they need me. And I don't mean that in an underhanded I bought dinner so you get naked sort of way, bartering favors like this is Basic Instinct. I'm not paying to get repaid, to get you in my bed. But if that's all this feels like to you, some sort of twisted business arrangement you're obligated to proceed with, I'll leave."
"Don't," I say quickly as he turns away. "Don't leave. I just, I don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me?"
He stares at me for a moment. "Why not you?"
His response doesn't answer my question, but it quells some of my anxiety, like maybe he can't see the flaws I see. Maybe what I see in the mirror, the girl my mother raised in little houses, isolated and overprotected, isn't the same woman he's looking at. Maybe one of us isn't seeing me clearly here, and maybe it's him...
Or maybe it's me.
"So you want noodles?" I ask, shifting the subject. "Like, honestly want me to make them?"
"I do," he says.
Sighing, I step over to the cabinet Melody and I share, opening it up to glance at the food. There isn't much. It's been weeks since either of us went shopping. "What flavor?"
"Whatever flavor a noodle is."
"They come in different flavors." I hold up a few packages, showing him. "Beef, chicken, shrimp…"
He grimaces. "Give me whatever your favorite is."
I grab the pink package. Shrimp.
I lead him out of my room and to the small kitchen. My pot from yesterday is still on the stove, still filled with water, the abandoned package of noodles on the counter. I discard it, rinsing out the pot and filling it with fresh water before setting it back on the stove to boil.
There's nothing in here except for an old stove and a sink and a mostly empty refrigerator, a few pots and pans in the cabinets that have been collectively donated. I wait for him to comment on it but he doesn't, instead leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.
I can feel him watching as I wait for the water to boil, feel his eyes glued to me as mine are glued to the pot. I know the saying—a watched pot won't boil—but I can't seem to look anywhere except for at it. As soon as it starts bubbling, I toss the noodles in, feeling silly as I clear my throat. Am I seriously doing this? "We just have to boil the noodles for a few minutes."
"Huh." He pushes away from the counter and steps behind me, so close I can feel his breath on my skin, as he peers over my shoulder at the pot. "And where does the flavor come from?"
"This," I say, holding up the square silver packet of seasoning.
He takes it from me. "And why does it look like a condom?"
"Good question
," I say, stirring the noodles. "I don't know."
"So what's in this?" he asks, flipping it over, surveying the outside, but it says nothing except 'shrimp flavor'. "Do you at least know that?"
"A hell of a lot of sodium. About as much MSG."
He glances between the package and me. "Now I think you might be trying to poison me."
"A little salt won't kill you."
"I'm an old man, Karissa. It might."
"You're not that old," I say, turning to face him, seeing the amusement crinkling his eyes. "I mean, yeah, you're older, but you're not old. It's not like you're entitled to a senior citizen discount. You're barely old enough to be my father."
As soon as I say it, his expression shifts. It's like he's been doused in gasoline, washing away every bit of humor as fire sparks inside of him. I can see it in his eyes, the bright blue hue darkening, as they narrow, turning cloudy and murky, like a storm is waging. My muscles grow taut as he takes a sudden step toward me. I instinctively want to step back, but I can already feel the heat from the stove creeping up my spine.
I don't want to get burned.
"Your father?" he asks, his voice low. "Is that what you see when you look at me?"
"What? No, of course not." I grimace, realizing how that must've sounded. Gross. "I'm just saying, you know, you're twice my age… not that it's a bad thing. You're just... a little older."
I stare into those eyes, cursing myself for upsetting him. He says nothing, just staring back, his expression as hard as stone. Seconds pass, seconds that feel like they last a lifetime, before movement in the doorway catches my attention.
I look over just as a girl struts in… I vaguely recognize her from encounters in the hallway, brief trips in the elevator, but I don't recall ever talking to her before. She glances up, a can of soup in her hand, and lets out a gasp of surprise when she sees us. "Shit, sorry, I didn't think anyone was here."
My stomach clenches from nerves, my heart hammering hard in my chest. I feel like I've been caught in a compromising position, like this girl has just walked in on something she shouldn't have seen, that she knows things now she shouldn't know about me. It's silly, but after spending my entire life having my mother drill the concept of privacy and propriety into me, I feel exposed, his proximity so intoxicating it's like I've just been caught with a needle in my arm.
Monster in His Eyes Page 6