Monster in His Eyes
Page 19
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 real, 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.
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 real, 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.
