Monster in His Eyes Read online

  Either way, I'm impressed.

  Despite maybe, possibly (but hopefully not) being a hell of a lot older than me, I have to admit he's drop-dead gorgeous. So good looking, in fact, that I can hardly stop myself from ogling him, my eyes meeting his bright blue ones after a long moment of practically eye-fucking him every which way imaginable.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. It would probably be comical if it weren't so goddamn sexy.

  "Yours?" he says again.

  It isn't until he repeats the word that I even realize he's holding something. I freeze, spotting the familiar cell phone with the pink glittery case in his palm. His hand dwarfs the phone, his fingers strong and sturdy, the tips calloused, the skin scarred. I don't know what this man does, but he uses his hands.

  A lot.

  "Oh, uh, yeah." I reach for my phone, hesitating before taking it from him. "How did you—?"

  I don't finish my question, and he doesn't answer it. Instead, a small smirk tugs the corners of his lips, revealing a set of deep dimples as he drops his hand. He stands there for a moment, staring down as he towers over me, at least six inches taller. He's staring at me intently, as if there's going to be some kind of test he's studying for.

  He might pass it, as hard as he's looking.

  Shaking his head, the man turns and strides away, not saying another word.

  "Hey, it's me," I sigh into the phone after the beep. My mother's probably the last person on earth with an old school tape recording answering machine. "I was just giving you a call back. So, uh, ring me when you get the chance. Love you!"

  Melody laughs when I hang up. She's standing in front of the mirror, fixing her hair, already dressed for the night at Timbers I still haven't technically agreed to. She looks ridiculous, covered in neon, a headband on like she just stepped out of an Olivia Newton John music video. "How's Mama Reed?"

  I shrug, tossing my phone down on my desk. She was who had been calling when my phone was in the classroom.

  Melody doesn't wait for any sort of explanation, turning to me as she changes the subject. "What are you wearing?"

  "Uh..." I glance down at myself. "Clothes."

  "Not now. I mean tonight."

  "Clothes," I repeat. What the hell else would I wear? "Probably some jeans and—"

  "Jeans?" She gasps, interrupting me. "Oh no, no… that's not gonna work."

  She goes straight for my closet, sliding the door open to root through my clothes. There isn't much in there—at least, not compared to her side. I have to do laundry every two weeks or I'll be naked, whereas I'm pretty sure she has enough clothes shoved in her closet to last all year.

  The dirty laundry surrounding her seems to confirm it. Less than ten feet separates her bed from mine, her entire half of the room a mountain of belongings haphazardly strewn wherever there is space, whereas my half tends to be little more than an open trail leading her to the door.

  It's not possible for us to be any more different. Melody's an F5 tornado, and I've easily settled into my roll of playing National Guard and cleaning up her messes.

  It's hard to believe we've only known each other for a few months. We moved in the beginning of freshman year, complete strangers, acquiescing to live together in a virtual walk-in closet. Melody did it for character building, she says. I did it because I had no other choice.

  Where else would I find a place to live in Manhattan for four thousand a semester? Nowhere.

  "You have, like, nothing in here," Melody complains, moving from my closet to my dresser. Much to her disappointment, there's even less in there. Giving up, she retreats back to her side, opening her own closet to fight the avalanche of fabric. "Lucky for you, we wear the same size."

  I have quite a bit more ass and thighs, but she scoffs when I bring that up, like I'm bragging. Melody is downright gorgeous, sleek blonde hair and unnaturally green eyes. She looks like she belongs on a Victoria's Secret catwalk.

  When she doesn't look like Neon Barbie, that is.

  She pulls out clothes and flings them across the room at me. I grimace. Spandex. "You're just prepared for everything, aren't you?"

  "You have to be," she says, turning her focus back to the mirror again. "You never know what life with throw at you."

  Those words take me back an hour, to the hunk of man I'd encountered at the philosophy classroom. I don't mention it to Melody. I'm not sure why. Maybe because it was nothing.

  Or maybe because I wish it could have been something.

  Either way, I keep it locked in my head, sealed inside of me, where it's only mine. Talking about it meant rationalizing it, when I prefer to let it simmer instead.

  The reality is never as fascinating as the fantasy.

  Hours later I'm standing in front of the mirror, the skintight black spandex bodysuit making me feel like sausage squeezed into the casing. Over top of it I'm wearing an oversize hot pink shirt, falling off one shoulder, the outfit complete with a pair of blue leg warmers. It might've passed for gym attire had I not been wearing pointy black high heels, my wavy brown hair teased to unfathomable heights, my face covered in makeup.

  "I look like bozo the clown," I whine, gazing at my reflection in the mirror. Bright blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick does not go well together, no matter what Cyndi Lauper might've thought back in 1983.

  "You look hot," Melody says, smacking my ass as she struts past, heading for the door. She has changed again, for probably the fifth time, settling on what looks like a frilly blue prom dress. "Come on, the party awaits!"

  I grab my things, stuffing it all in my bra since I have no pockets, and head out after Melody before I have time to change my mind. Timbers is just down the block from the dorms, a few minute stagger home at four in the morning. It's dark out now, the air starting to cool from the sun going down, the more typical March temperature creeping it. It doesn't seem to faze Melody, but I shiver.

  My footsteps stall. "I should grab my scarf."

  "Puh-lease," Melody says, slipping her arm around mine to yank me on. "It doesn't go with that outfit."

  "Nothing goes with this outfit," I point out.

  She laughs, casting me an amusing look as we stroll down the street. Music pours out of the door of Timbers, already alive with activity at a quarter after nine. We get in line, waiting along the grungy brick building as Melody fluffs her hair, fixing the gigantic bow she's using as a headband. When it's our turn, I pull my ID out of my bra and hand it over to the bouncer at the door, a big burly guy with a thick Long Island accent. He glances at it, and looks at me, before handing it back over.

  As I slip it back to safekeeping, the man pulls out a permanent marker and yanks off the cap with his teeth. The noxious fumes burn my nostrils as he waves it my way, and I hold my hands out so he can mark big black X's on my skin.

  I glare at them as I step aside.

  Melody, on the other hand, gets a lime green wristband. She smiles, holding it up to show it off to me. She's only nineteen, not much older than I am, but her fake ID puts her at the ripe ol' age of twenty-one.

  I stick my tongue out at her as she laughs, slipping her arm around mine again and dragging me inside. The bar is decked out in an array of eighties memorabilia, movie posters affixed to the walls as The Breakfast Club plays muted on a giant television.

  We make our way to the dance floor, where New Kids on the Block bumps from the speakers. We get lost in a sea of color, crimped hair and leather jackets, surrounded by wannabe pop princesses and douchebags in black sunglasses.

  The music shifts and continues as we infuse ourselves into the crowd to dance. From Vanilla Ice to MC Hammer, Madonna to Poison, the bass flows through my veins like blood, spiked with adrenaline as the lyrics wash over me, shouted out enthusiastically from the overeager not-born-in-the-eighties-but-fuck-if-we-don't-still-love-it college crowd. It's like stepping back in time, back into another decade, and leaving our imprint in a moment we never got to touch before.

  Melody gets drinks—drink af
ter drink after drink—some paid for; others bought for her by guys in the club hoping the night won't end here. I'm not sure where half of them come from, or even what they are, to be honest, but I sure didn't pay for them, so I don't care.

  I steal sips when nobody's looking, needing the boost as I dance my heart out, spinning and jumping, laughing and trying to stay on my own two feet as the alcohol seeps in.

  I'm a sweaty mess, my feet on fire, the shoes pinching my toes when I eventually lose track of my friend. Last I saw her she was talking to a pseudo-Maverick, straight out of Top Gun, the two of them hot and heavy, halfway to the danger zone.

  I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, and wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. The black marks there are still going strong, not even the least bit smudged, but I've long ago given up the façade of not drinking, a half-full cup of something in my hand, bought and paid for by Maverick.

  He didn't look happy when I swiped it from my friend.

  I glance around as I sip it, moving through the crowd, seeking out the frilly blue prom dress, but it's nowhere to be seen. She's not on the dance floor, not at the bar, and not in line for the bathroom. The air is thick and stuffy, and I feel light-headed, like I'm not getting enough oxygen. Sighing, I chug the rest of the drink and toss the cup as I make my way to the exit, moving past people to push my way outside.

  I take a deep breath as soon as I'm out on the sidewalk, the night air so cold it feels like tiny little needles jabbing my skin as my body adjusts to the abrupt change in temperature. It's late… one, maybe two in the morning from what I can tell, the streets still alive but the line to get inside down to only a few.

  Melody's not out here, either.

  The bouncer eyes me peculiarly. I step away from the door, away from him, as I reach into my bra to grab my phone to call Melody. It slips from my hand, along with my ID, both falling to the ground. I hold my breath as the phone hits the sidewalk with a loud crack.

  "No, no, no," I chant, crouching down to snatch it back up. I glance at the screen, grimacing at the long jagged scratch right down the middle of it. "Oh, fuck."

  Frowning, I reach for my ID, but before I can grab it someone else gets to it first. Brow furrowing, I look up, expecting it to be the nosey bouncer.

  What I see nearly knocks me on my ass.

  It's him.

  Him, all six-feet and some change of his glorious frame, still clad in his all black suit, looking exactly as he had hours ago. I should be alarmed, but I only feel a slight tingle trickle down my spine, a vague sense of awareness that in a city of nearly two million people, the odds of ever running into him twice are slim to none, much less twice in one day.

  Maybe it's fate.

  Or maybe I'm in trouble…

  He stands there, glancing at my ID, before his blue eyes shift to me. I stand up again, swaying, my head swimming, everything around me delayed. It's hard to think straight, the alcohol kicking in. I've been drunk before, but this… this isn't the drunk I'm used to. I'm dizzy, and sweaty, and damn if I don't feel like I might puke.

  Please don't puke.

  "That's a terrible picture," I mutter as his eyes shift once more from me to the ID. He gazes at it for a moment—a moment that feels like an eternity as I try not to pass out on the sidewalk—before he holds it out to me.

  "There's nothing wrong with the picture, Karissa."

  I take the ID to slip it back away as the alarm finally sinks in. "How do you--?" I shake my head, the motion making me even woozier. My vision blacks out for a second, a second where I fear it won't come back. "How do you know my name?"

  My voice comes out as a strained croak, and although my vision's blurred, I see his forehead crease with confusion. "It's on your license."

  Oh. I mean to say it out loud, but I can't seem to get my lips to work anymore. I blink rapidly, trying to take a deep breath, but it's senseless. No amount of air will keep me afloat when I'm already falling. My knees give out, everything fading to blackness.

  BAM

  Musk.

  It surrounds me, infiltrating my senses as I creep toward consciousness. It smells earthy, woodsy and aquatic, all male with just a hint of sweetness. It seems to waft around me in a slight breeze I can feel against my skin, warm, and fragrant, and…

  Oh God, it's cologne.

  My eyes drift open when that thought hits me, the scent stronger as I come around. Blinking a few times, I stare up at a foreign white ceiling. A fan spins round and round right above me, the setting so low my eyes can follow the blades, the air blowing against my face. The room is dim, faint light streaming through a window.

  Close to dawn, I gather, from the soft orange glow that bathes part of the floor.

  Or is it dusk?

  My heart races in my chest, each beat painful, as it seems to reverberate through my body. I'm achy, my head pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat. Panic bubbles in my gut that I try to ignore, to push back, but it's no use. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here, or how long I've been in this place. I'm confused, sore, disoriented...

  And my bladder feels like it's about to explode.

  Slowly, I sit up in the bed. It's fit for a king—way bigger than any bed I've ever owned. The mattress feels like fluffy clouds and the intoxicating scent clings to the pillows and the sheets. Everything is bright white, crisp and clean, and I'd think it was a hotel room, with how impersonal it feels, if it wasn't for the fact that there's no goddamn bathroom in the vicinity.

  I strain my ears to hear, but it's dead silent, except for the soft sound of air swishing from the fan. My panic eases a little when I see I'm still fully dressed, wearing the god-awful eighties clothes from last night.

  That was last night, right?

  As I contemplate what to do, I hear footsteps off in the distance, calculated and exaggerated as they grow near. I hold my breath when the knob across the room turns, the door opening.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  The moment I see him, memories start to trickle in. The bar, dancing, drinking, stepping outside as I search for Melody but somehow find him there instead. I remember looking at him, talking to him, and then there's nothing.

  I'm drawing a blank.

  He's wearing the exact same thing as last time I saw him, though, having still not changed.

  Or maybe black suits are all he owns.

  He hesitates in the doorway when he sees me sitting up, his hand still grasping the knob, but after a moment he lets go of it and takes a few steps toward me. Instinctively, I grab the blanket and pull it up, shielding myself, despite the fact that I'm still clothed.

  The act makes him hesitate a second time. He pauses, and stares, but he doesn't speak.

  I'm not sure what to do, or say, or how I should feel or even what to fucking think, so I just stare back. Awkward.

  After a moment the corner of his lip twitches, revealing the deep dimple. "You're awake."

  "I am."

  Ugh, my voice sounds like sandpaper and feels just as raw.

  "I was worried," he says. "You've been out for a while."

  "Where is this?" I glance around the room anxiously. "Where are we?"

  "My place."

  His place. Oh, God… "How did I—?"

  "You were drugged."

  Those words stall me as my stomach sinks. I gape at him. Drugged? I was drugged? That panic surfaces again so quickly that I can feel it viciously rising, bile burning my throat. "You drugged me?"

  His expression shifts, all amusement dying away at my question. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring as he regards me with an anger that makes my blood run cold. "I did nothing to you."

  "I, uh… I didn't mean…" Pulling my legs up, I try to fold into myself, slinking away from his tone. "I didn't know."

  "You were slurring and struggled to stand up when I ran into you," he says. "Your breathing was
shallow, your eyes distant, and you were confused, couldn't keep ahold of anything. You went unconscious on the sidewalk, and your pulse was slow. You were practically wearing a sign, sweetheart. Drugged."

  The word 'sweetheart' slips from his lips with ease, but there's little warmth to it. The cold tone makes a chill creep down my spine. The man's intense.

  "So you, uh, brought me to your place?" I ask incredulously. "When you saw I was drugged?"

  "What else was I supposed to do?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in question. "Take you to the hospital, to the police, after you'd been drinking… underage, none-the-less."

  "You could've taken me home."

  "I could've... had I known where that was. You were alone, and your license lists a PO Box upstate. I couldn't very well drop you off at the post office in Syracuse, now could I?"

  "No," I say. I didn't think about that. I never bothered to have my address changed. I haven't lived in Syracuse since right after I got my license at sixteen.

  "So I brought you here," he continues, "because I couldn't in good conscience leave you out there."

  I stare at him as those words sink in. Ignoring the fact that I'm in a stranger's house, in a stranger's bed, with no memory of getting there, I feel a peculiar sense of relief. If what he says is true, that makes him my savior… my knight in shining armor, even if I refuse to buy into being the damsel in distress.

  "Thank you," I say. "I'm, uh… I'm Karissa."

  He knows my name, but it feels like the right thing to do, to introduce myself. Maybe it will be slightly less awkward if he isn't a complete stranger to me anymore.

  "My name's Ignazio."

  My brow furrows in confusion at his unique name, my reaction causing his hardened expression to break. He smiles again, this time letting out a light laugh.