Monster in His Eyes Read online

  The love bite on my throat sort of gives it all away.

  Happiness is having your very first hickey, put there by a set of soft lips that speak the smoothest words that sound like music to your ears and whispers to your soul.

  Yeah, happiness makes you speak in ridiculous riddles and create poetry worse than William McGonagall.

  I toss the notebook aside and lay back on the bed, letting out an exaggerated sigh. No sooner do I close my eyes and the door flings open. Melody walks in as I glance that way, her expression full of alarm as she regards me warily. "Jesus, Kissimmee, where the hell have you been?"

  "I was… out."

  "No shit," she says, dropping her bag before flopping down beside me on my bed. "I figured that much when you weren't here."

  "I told you not to worry."

  "Yeah, well, you can't disappear all night without me worrying. You didn't even make it back in time for your eight o'clock class!"

  "How do you know?" I ask. "Your lazy ass doesn't wake up until I'm back from that one, anyway."

  She rolls her eyes, nudging me as I laugh. Her expression shows her amusement for a second before it falls away, her eyes widening. "Is that a hickey on your neck? Oh my God, it is!"

  She tries to get a better look but I block her, pushing her prying hands away. "So what if it is?"

  "What did you do last night?" she asks. "No, scratch that. Who did you do?"

  "It's nothing," I say, the words a bitter lie on my tongue. "He's just a guy."

  "Just a guy?" She gapes at me. "A guy you didn't tell me about!"

  "Actually, I did tell you about him. You remember that guy from that night at Timbers? The one I went home with?"

  Her eyes widen. "So you did sleep with him?"

  "No." I hesitate. "Well, yes, but not that night."

  "But after that night."

  "Yes."

  She looks torn between hugging me and smacking me, her expression flickering. It eventually gives way and she grins, punching my arm. "You whore!"

  I laugh as I move away from her, kicking my leg and hitting her in the side with it. "Reserve the judgment, slut."

  Holding her hands up, she laughs. "Fine. So is he a student here or something?"

  "He's, uh… he's not a student. He's just a guy."

  "Do I at least get a name?"

  "Naz." Her brow furrows as I wave it off. "He's older than me, lives in Brooklyn and is an independent contractor. Anything else you need to know?"

  "Uh, yeah." She eyes me seriously. "How big is it?"

  I kick her again as she laughs and stands up, retreating back to her side of the room. I expect more questions, and I can see she has more she wants to ask, but she keeps them to herself.

  I'm instantly grateful to have her as my friend.

  "As long as you're safe," she says, "and I know where you are."

  "Yes, Mom."

  She picks up a pillow and chucks it at me, promptly asking for it back, but I refuse, snuggling with it in my bed instead. Too lazy to retrieve it, she shrugs and lies down, grabbing her phone from her pocket. "Paul and I are going to dinner tonight. You gonna come with this time?"

  "Depends," I say. "Where are you going?"

  "I don't know," she says. "Somewhere for pizza… maybe over in one of the other boroughs. You know, get out of the city for a bit. You in?"

  "Sure," I say, shrugging. "I actually know a place you'd like."

  "You know a place?" she asks incredulously.

  I laugh. "Yes."

  Paul's a lot more attractive when not intentionally dressed like an eighties douchebag, but an air of arrogance surrounds him, a smug smile constantly on his lips. He owns a death trap of a Jeep Wrangler and drives with the top down, my hair blowing all over the place in the backseat as he speeds through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic, on our way to Brooklyn.

  I fear for my life, every second of the trip making me wish I'd stayed behind. At least there I'm not racing toward a fiery death.

  "I've heard of this place," Paul shouts over the sound of the wind blowing around us all. "They say it's a bitch to get a table."

  "Yeah," I respond. "It's totally worth it, though."

  We head to the same pizzeria Naz took me to last night, having to park down the street. Paul walks ahead of us as Melody chats my ear off. A few people wait around outside for tables, but it isn't as bad as last time. We step inside, requesting a table from the young hostess. Paul talks to her—flirting with her, right in front of Melody—and she jots us down for a table for three.

  "It'll be about thirty, forty minutes," she says. "I'll call for you when your table's ready."

  We start to head back outside, to wait on one of the benches. A man opens the door for us, holding it, his gaze meeting mine. I recognize him… the owner… the man Naz spoke to when we were here. I smile politely, stepping by him, as his brow furrows. He rattles off something in Italian, something I don't understand, before he motions for the hostess to come over. He says something to her, something I again don't comprehend, until he reaches the last word. "Vitale."

  The hostess looks at me. "He says you're Vitale's special friend, that you were here with him."

  I can feel the blush overtaking my face as I nod. "Yes."

  The man smiles widely at the confirmation, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. He rambles for a moment before turning to the hostess, spouting off something else. She nods, and he strides away.

  The hostess grabs three menus, motioning for us to follow her. Melody looks at me with surprise, but I just shrug as the three of us are led straight to a table that's just being cleared off. I take a seat across from Melody and Paul as the hostess sets the menus down, smiling at me.

  "Mr. Andretti said to send Vitale his regards," she says. "To ensure him he took good care of you."

  "Uh, okay," I say. "I will."

  Naz isn't here, he's nowhere in the vicinity, and yet his presence can still be felt.

  She walks away, and I glance up, catching my friend's eyes. Melody looks dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"

  "I didn't," I mumble, shaking my head. "Naz did."

  We're catered to all through dinner, waited on fast and showered with extra food. A bottle of wine is brought to the table, despite none of us requesting it, no questions asked about anybody's age. Paul lavishes in the attention, but I can feel Melody's questioning looks cast my way.

  When we're finished, Paul asks for a bill as Melody pulls out her wallet. I feel guilty, realizing she's the one paying for all of us. The waiter shakes his head, smiling as he starts clearing our plates. "The bill has already been taken care of."

  Melody gapes at him. "By who?"

  The waiter says the payer prefers to remain anonymous, but I'm not fooled. A smile tugs my lips as I swirl some of the wine around in my glass, drinking my last few drops. I know exactly who did it.

  After we leave, I stall on the sidewalk near the entrance. "You guys go ahead. I have somewhere else to be."

  Melody's brow furrows, and she starts to question me, but Paul throws his arm over her shoulder and pulls her away. "Cool. See you later."

  Melody looks behind her, shouting she'll see me back at the room, as I pull out my phone and call a cab. It takes it a moment to show up, the ride to Naz's house only a few minutes. It takes every penny in my pocket to afford the fare. I stroll up to the front door, knocking. It's near dusk, his Mercedes parked in the driveway.

  The door opens and he appears in front of me, his expression blank. He looks at me, his eyes shifting past me to the street as the cab pulls away, before he meets my eyes again. He's quiet for a moment, just staring at me, before he finally speaks. "You had dinner with another man. I'm hurt."

  "Can't be too hurt," I say, "considering you paid the bill."

  He smirks, not admitting or denying that, as he steps aside to motion for me to come in.

  "I'm going to need a ride back to the city," I mumble, frowning, noting he's al
ready out of his suit, wearing what I'd call pajamas, except I know he doesn't sleep in them… Naz sleeps naked. I hadn't exactly thought this thing out. "You know, whenever you get the chance, if you don't mind… it'll be a long walk otherwise."

  "I'll take you in the morning."

  "In the morning?"

  "Yes," he says, reaching over and cupping my cheek, his voice playful as he adds, "You've got a dinner to pay me back for tonight."

  "Disney World."

  My footsteps falter on the middle of the sidewalk near Washington Square, about a block from the building housing Santino's classroom. "Seriously?"

  Melody stops walking and turns to face me. "Yep."

  "You wrote about Disney World?" I ask, needing some clarification.

  "Yep," she says. "You know, with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Plato the Dog."

  I blink a few times. "Please tell me you didn't call him Plato."

  "Of course not." She laughs. "I wrote about the princesses, namely Cinderella, and the whole concept of living happily ever after. I mean, it's kind of your fault, since you quoted Walt Disney last time. It was stuck in my head. And besides, it's the happiest place on earth, right? That's what they say."

  "Right," I say, starting to walk again. "That's what they say."

  "Why, what did you write about?"

  Definitely not Disney World. "I talked about philosophers like Aristotle and their views on happiness."

  I can remember exactly how I started it:

  Happiness isn't tangible. It's immeasurable, not profitable, often impractical, and some would argue indescribable. You can't see happiness, or smell it, or taste it, or hear it, or feel it… or can you?

  I thought it was pretty brilliant, myself, but what do I know?

  She blows out an exaggerated breath, making a face. "Where's the fun in that?"

  "It's not supposed to be fun," I point out. "It's philosophy."

  "Whatever," Melody says. "It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none. Speaking of which, Paul took Santino's class last year and he said that—"

  I don't hear anything else that she says, her words falling on deaf ears. I look up as we approach the philosophy building and my heart stalls a beat before kicking into high gear, pounding so ferociously that my vision blurs around the edges, obscuring everything within a frame of blackness.

  The butterflies are trying desperately to take flight.

  My hands are trembling, my fingers tingling, as I clutch the straps of my backpack around my shoulders. Stepping out of the building, less than a hundred feet in front of me, is the man I left just hours ago, the man I see even when I close my eyes, dressed impeccably as always.

  Naz.

  He walks a few steps in my direction and pauses, his eyes flickering toward me, but his expression shows none of the recognition I feel inside.

  None of the excitement.

  None of the giddiness.

  My palms start to sweat, my knees weak. I continue walking alongside Melody, trying to listen as she babbles on and on, but his sudden presence is jarring. I keep looking at him; keep waiting for him to see me. His eyes flicker my way a few times, landing straight on my face, but still—he offers no acknowledgment.

  Not a wink.

  Not a smile.

  Not even a cheek twitch.

  My stomach coils. I'm not sure what to do, what to say, what to think. In the moment, I'm not sure of anything. He just stands there casually, fifty… forty… thirty feet in front of me, and eventually turns away, his attention going to the building we're walking toward.

  I glance that way, seeing Santino near the entrance, looking as uptight as ever, and holding his pointer stick like a cane. I glance between them curiously as I approach, ultimately looking away from Naz, too nervous to meet his gaze.

  I'm so close I can smell a whiff of his cologne in the afternoon breeze. I step past him, relishing in the small moment where I inhale the essence of the man, when I'm jerked to a sudden stop. He grabs my arm, swinging me around to face him. I stumble, blinking rapidly, caught off guard as I meet his eyes. A smile lifts his lips. "You're not even going to say hello?"

  "I, uh… I…"

  I get nothing out but foolish stammering before his hands grasp my head, cradling my face in his palms. He kisses me, suddenly, brutally, his lips hard, the kiss full of passion. I gasp as I kiss him back, stunned by the intensity. It lasts forever but no time at all before he pulls away, still holding my face, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  "Hello," I whisper breathlessly.

  He laughs under his breath, his eyes scanning me, and leans over again to press a chaste kiss against my lips. His hands drift down, his thumb rubbing a fresh mark visible on my neck. He seems to admire it for a moment before letting go, turning around to walk away without saying anything more.

  "What the fuck?" Melody hisses in my ear as she steps beside me. "What the hell was that?"

  "That was him."

  "Him? Like, him?"

  I watch him cross the street to the Mercedes, parked along the curb, before turning to my friend. "That's Naz."

  "Jesus, Kissimmee, you didn't tell me he was sex on legs."

  I roll my eyes, unable to stop myself from blushing, as I turn away from her. "Come on, we're going to be late for class."

  I look up as we approach the doorway of the building, my stomach dropping when I see Santino still standing there. His gaze is fixed across the street. He shifts his attention to me, nothing but pure disdain in his eyes. "Miss Reed."

  "Sir."

  He turns to Melody. "Miss Carmichael. I hope you ladies have your essays ready."

  "Of course, sir," Melody says sweetly as we stride past.

  The man is in rare form today, slamming his stick against his desk and calling on me so many times I lose count. Right before class is over he passes our midterms back to us, pausing in front of my desk for a second. I'm staring down at my book, starting on our next essay, but I can feel his gaze on my face. I chance a peek, meeting his eyes as he slips my paper on top of my book.

  "I hope you know what you're doing," he says.

  "Me, too," I mutter, flipping my exam over as he moves on. I stare down at it, cringing.

  C-

  Naz's books are just as diverse as his movie collection.

  I stand in the den, surveying his vast bookshelves, running my fingertips along the spines as I read the titles. He has everything from Shakespeare to self-help, Edgar Allen Poe to poetry. It's peculiar.

  The man even has textbooks on philosophy.

  I stall, my fingertips tracing the spine of The Art of War. "Did you read all of these books?"

  Naz is sitting at his desk. Not sure why, since he's watching me instead of doing anything. I look his way as he nods. "Most of them."

  "Did you go to college?"

  His brow furrows at my question. "Yes."

  "What did you major in?"

  Was independent contracting an option?

  "Nothing," he says. "I dropped out before I had to declare one."

  "Why did you drop out?"

  "I had to."

  "Why?"

  "Because things happened that made it so." I regard him curiously, wondering what things happened, but he motions for me to come close before I can pry anymore. I step toward him as he turns in his chair, tugging me between his legs, his hands on my hips as he squeezes me between him and the desk. "Are you writing a book about my life, Karissa?"

  "No." I place my hands on his shoulders as I gaze at him, my fingertips trailing up his neck, twirling a curl near his ear. "I'm curious."

  "Be careful what you ask," he says quietly, his hands drifting along my jeans to cup my ass. "The answers aren't always pretty."

  Leaning down, I kiss him softly and whisper against his mouth, "I just want to know you."

  He pulls away, leaning back in his chair to gaze at me. He's so quiet I start to get self-conscious, my face flushing at the intensity of his stare, when he lets
out an exaggerated sigh. I watch as he unknots his tie, pulling it off and tossing it on the desk beside me.

  His jacket was discarded the moment we stepped in his house an hour ago.

  Slowly, he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on mine as he pulls it open. I try not to look, try to keep eye contact, but I can't help it. My eyes are drawn down to his chest as he tugs on the neck of his undershirt, pulling it down as far as it will go. I take in the sight of his tanned skin peppered with old scars, my right hand drifting from his hair down his neck.

  I hesitate before running my fingertips along the marred skin, connecting the dots of his old wounds like maybe they can tell me the story. He remains quiet as I draw on his skin before he clutches my wrist, stilling my movements. I meet his eyes then, startled by his strong grasp, and see that look.

  That look.

  It sends a chill down my spine.

  He says nothing as he stares at me. Nothing about what he just did really explains it, but somehow I understand. Whatever happened to him was bad... bad enough to stop life in its tracks and send him on a different path.

  "What would you have majored in," I ask, "if that hadn't happened?"

  "I don't know." He lets go of my wrist. I press my palm flat against his chest, faintly feeling his steady heartbeat as he speaks again. "That's not who I am now. I hardly remember that man anymore."

  He pushes his chair back, my hand dropping from his chest. I take it as my cue to move away when he starts buttoning his shirt again. I stroll back over to the bookshelf, surveying his collection of textbooks. "Did you like philosophy in college or something? You have a lot of books about it."

  He scoffs. "Hated it. Failed it."

  "Funny, me, too. Probably wouldn't be if my professor wasn't such an asshole, though."

  "Ah, Daniel Santino." Naz laughs to himself. "He's always been a bit of a dick."

  I turn to Naz curiously, wondering how much I can question him before he shuts down again. "How do you know him?"