Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  The corner of his lip twitches. "You okay, jailbird?"

  I nod.

  "Good." All humor fades from his expression, eyes darkening with rage as he turns his focus to the officers gathering behind me. His gaze shifts between them, taking them in, the pure hostility wafting from him enough to make the hairs on my arm stand on end. "If you gentlemen have anything else, my attorney will be more than happy to field your requests, which you're well aware of. It's why I pay him, after all."

  "We had no questions for you," Detective Jameson says. "We just had a few for Miss Reed."

  "Who is my fiancée, which you're also now aware of," Naz says. "Bullying a young woman is quite unbecoming of you, Jameson. I thought your mother would've taught you better than that."

  Naz doesn't wait for the officer to respond. He motions with his head for me to come with him. I step past, and he presses his hand to my back, leading me out of the police station. His car waits by the curb for us. I slide in nervously, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach.

  Naz pulls into traffic, heading toward Brooklyn, before he relaxes. He slouches somewhat in the seat, letting out a deep sigh. I'm not sure if it's relief I hear or if it's exasperation.

  "How did you know I was there?" I ask quietly.

  "An associate gave me a courtesy call when he saw you brought in. I got there as soon as I could."

  "Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you showed up."

  He looks at me. Reaching his hand out, he cups my cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb. "I'll always show up."

  "You promise?"

  "I swear it."

  I'm sitting on the bed, the note from my mother sprawled out on my lap. My gaze shifts through the numbers over and over, reciting them to memory. I'm stalling, I know it, and maybe it's senseless, but I'm almost afraid to call her.

  She'll have questions.

  Much the same ones I have for her.

  What are you doing?

  Where are you staying?

  Why?

  My answers are probably more scandalous than hers.

  Sighing, I pull out my phone and dial the number, bringing it to my ear as it rings. I wait, almost expecting some sort of answering machine to greet me, when the line picks up. "Hello?"

  This is not my mother. This voice is male, gruff with a thick sort of accent. I sit in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to react, when he says it again, impatiently. "Hello?"

  "I, uh… can I speak with Carrie?"

  "Who?"

  My stomach drops as I glance down at the paper. I know I got the numbers right. "Carrie," I say. "Carrie Reed?"

  "Ah, yeah, hold on." I hear shuffling, then his muffled voice rings out in the background. "Carmela! I think it's her!"

  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.

  "I'm looking for Carrie," I say.

  "I know," he responds, the thick accent striking me. The same guy from the call. He steps aside, motioning for me to come in. Hesitantly, I step inside, seeing the house is mostly empty. He stands at the door for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping along the street. "You come alone?"

  "Of course."

  Satisfied, he shuts the door. He strolls past me, a peculiar sway to his walk, a strange limp like he can't quite bend one of his knees. "Your mother's not here."

  I stare at him, tensing as he heads into the living room and sits down on the shabby old couch—the only stitch of furniture in the room. "Where is she?"

  "Have a seat," he says casually, motioning toward the torn, filthy cushion beside him.

  "Where is she?" I ask again, making no move to come any closer. My eyes shift to the door, making sure it's unlocked in case I need to make a hasty exit, before I glance back at him. He's watching me, his lips curving with amusement as he strikes a match and lights his cigar. He tosses the match down on the wooden floor, stomping it out with his shiny black dress shoes.

  "I'm not going to harm you, girl."

  I try for the third time. "Where is she?"

  He slouches on the couch, resting his arm along the back of it as he stretches out, his gaze still firmly on me. "She stepped out."

  "Why? Where did she go?"

  "She thought it was best if she wasn't here, if I explain it to you."

  "Explain what?"

  He takes a drag from his cigar and is quiet for a moment, flicking his ashes straight onto the floor. "Why I left you."

  I stare at him, as every ounce of strength I tried to build, putting me on guard, fades away in a wave of shock. No way. I stare in disbelief, those words sinking in, my eyes roaming his face. Even from this distance, the freckles dotting his skin stand out like tiny beacons, displaying the truth before he even has to say it.

  I haven't been able to get ahold of my mother in weeks because she's been with my father, the man who abandoned us, who walked out on us. It's his fault she is the way she is, his fault she was constantly chasing ghosts, chasing him… and she found him. She fucking found him.

  And she's obviously even worse off for having done so.

  "I know why you left," I say, taking a step back. There are a few feet between us, but it suddenly feels way too close. "You left because you're a fucking coward."

  "Kissimmee…"

  "No," I say, shaking my head, the sound of that nickname coming from him stirring up anger. "Don't dare call me that! What gives you the right?"

  "Considering I gave you the nickname, I say I have plenty of right," he says. "I called you that when she was pregnant, my little Kissimmee baby. You were made there, you know, down in Kissimmee. So that's what gives me the right."

  "You have no right to even talk to me. You're nobody to me. Nothing. You lost all rights when you walked away. I didn't need you. I don't need you. But she loved you."

  "I loved her, too. I still love her. She knows that, she always has."

  "You're wrong," I say. "She was a mess, could never settle down or trust, always running because of you."

  He stands up. His presence feels imposing, intimidating. I take another step back as he starts toward me.

  "It wasn't me that had her running."

  "Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy," I say. "You weren't there. You didn't see it. You didn't live it. I don't care what bullshit excuse you make up… running out on us is unforgivable, and if she thought you explaining it to me would make it any better, she's sorely mistaken."

  "Don't act that way," he says. "I deserve to be heard out. I'm your father."

  "You're nothing," I say. "John Reed is nobody to me."

  I spit the words with as much hostility as I can conjure up, meaning them with everything in me, but instead of flinching, instead of being hurt, he laughs. His laughter is loud and amused, striking me harder than fists.

  "John Reed," he says, shaking his head. "You're right—he is nobody. He's nothing. He doesn't even exist. But I'm your father, Johnny Rita, and you're my daughter, and your mother… your mother's my wife. Carmela Rita."

  "Her name is Carrie Reed."

  He shakes his head, his tone mocking as he says, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, girl."

  "I'm not a girl—I'm a woman. And I don't care what you have to say. I'm done talking to you."

  I storm outside, slamming the door behind me. I half-expect him to come after me, but he doesn't. Of course. My eyes sting as I walk away from the rundown house, trying to put space between that man and me.

  It isn't until I'm a few blocks away with tears streaking my cheeks that I realize the predicament I'm in. Frustr
ated, exhausted, I sit down on the curb by the street sign on a corner and pull out my phone to call a cab.

  It takes them twenty insufferable minutes to get to me. It drops me off at the train station in Newark, and I buy a ticket back home.

  It's nearing dark when I make it back to the house in Brooklyn. The sun is setting, everything looking as I left it, the driveway vacant of Naz's car. I'm in a daze, my stomach in knots. I feel like I've been drained, and I'm not sure which way is up.

  John Reed. Johnny Rita.

  Carrie Reed. Carmela Rita.

  Who are they?

  Who am I?

  I thought I knew, but now I'm not sure. I'm drowning in a river of secrets, living in a world built upon lies. Does Karissa Reed even exist? Or am I Karissa Rita?

  Who the fuck is that?

  Tears swim in my eyes again as I unlock the door and step inside the dark house. Things make even less sense now. What was real? What was a lie? I shut the door and lock it again, turning to head straight for the stairs, when a sharp voice in the darkness stops me dead in my tracks.

  "Where'd you go?"

  Jumping, I turn around and come face-to-face with Naz in the living room. I grab my chest, startled. "You scared me. I didn't realize you were home. Your car isn't in the driveway."

  "It's in the garage," he says, stepping toward me, his hands in his pockets. "Where'd you go?"

  "I, uh... I went to see my mother."

  "You found her?"

  "More like she found me," I mumble, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the crinkled note. "Melody gave me this yesterday… I called the number, and my mom gave me an address, told me to come see her."

  He steps closer, reaching his hand out, silently asking to see the note. I hand it over to him and he reads it, cringing. "You went to this place alone?"

  "She told me to. Said it was important."

  He folds up the note and hands it back to me as he meets my eyes. He stares hard as he reaches over and cups my cheek. "You've been crying."

  "It's been a long day."