Monster in His Eyes
Page 8

"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.
By the time we make it there, I'm feeling insignificant, little more than a charity case that has been picked up off the streets. He pulls the Mercedes around the corner and into an adjacent parking garage, stopping there and slipping the car in park, blocking the entrance.
"Thank you again," I say nervously, unfastening my seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. "Really."
I don't give him time to respond… this is uncomfortable enough without forced conversation. I step out, clutching my coffee, and slam the door behind me. Before I can walk away, the window rolls down, and his voice calls out. "Karissa."