Monster in His Eyes
Page 39
"I don't like people coming into my house. I don't trust them."
The drive into Manhattan flies by, as the champagne once again seems to evaporate right before my eyes. By the time we make it to the party, I'm a little lightheaded, and his hands are already doing crazy things to me. Just a simple stroke of my arm, his thumb caressing the clothed skin, seems to set my entire body on fire.
The fundraiser is at a swanky hotel on Park Avenue. The limo drops us off and Naz puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. I feel him press a kiss to my hair before he whispers, "You're going to do great."
I hope he's speaking the truth.
He hands over our tickets and the second we're through the door, Naz's face lights up, his dimples out in full force, as he greets people by name. He introduces me as simply 'Karissa' as we make our way through a sea of large round tables to one toward the center of the room. Name cards are placed at every seat, and I spot his easily. Ignazio Vitale. Beside it, the card also bears his name with the word 'guest' beneath it.
He pulls the chair out for me, and I sit down, eyeing the other cards at our table but not recognizing any of the names. The seats fill with people Naz seems to know. He introduces me to them, but they pay me no mind, too engrossed in striking up conversation with my date.
My date.
It sounds so weird.
A waiter fills my glass with champagne when he reaches our table, not asking my age, not even hesitating as he looks at me. I pick up my glass and sip it right away, earning a chuckle from Naz. He puts his arm around me, and leans closer, nuzzling into my neck, kissing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "my beautiful little jailbird."
Although it surprises me, nobody bats an eyelash at his playful display of affection. I wonder if it's because he does this often, if he brings women around and shows them off to these people, until I realize nobody's looking. Nobody's watching, their eyes everywhere but on the two of us, like they're purposely giving him privacy.
A political fundraiser is everything I thought it would be, yet nothing like I expected. There are tuxedos, and speeches, and a few snooty people I peg as politicians, but most of the crowd is relaxed. The food is fancy, the champagne expensive, and the people engrossing. The atmosphere seems to flow in waves: the first course prim and proper, the second a little more lax, the third casual, and by the forth everyone's chatting and laughing like old friends.
Or maybe everyone's just drunk by then.
"Dance with me," Naz says, throwing his napkin down on the table as he stands. A band is playing some sort of slow melody on a stage across the room, the floor in front of them clear of tables as couples dance the night away. I shake my head, but he doesn't notice, or else he doesn't care, as he pulls me to my feet and leads me that way.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I say as soon as we're on the dance floor.
"Come on." He pulls me into his arms. "Don't tell me you can't dance."
"Oh, I can dance," I say. "I just can't dance to this."
It sounds like elevator music.
He chuckles, placing his hands on my hips to draw me even closer to him. "Just follow my lead."
I wrap my arms around his neck as my fingers tinker with the wayward curls at his nape. It's easy, mindless, as we really just stand there and sway. It lasts a good minute before I let out a deep sigh. "Okay, this is boring."
As soon as I say it, the song changes, the tempo picking up. Naz swings me around, twirling me, and I nearly fall on my ass without a warning. Every step he takes makes me stumble, but he doesn't seem to mind, and I'm just too drunk to care what anybody thinks… anybody except for him.
He's all that matters.
I'm swaying and twirling, staggering and laughing, tripping over his feet and he just laughs along with me. He dips me once, dips me so low my feet come out from beneath me and I land flat on my back. He bends down, smirking as he yanks me to my feet again, as a male voice cuts through the music behind me. "Mind if I cut in?"
The voice is rough, not gritty in the sexy way, but more like grating sandpaper against sensitive skin. I turn quickly, seeing a vaguely familiar man, a man I've never met before, but I've seen him in pictures and on the television.
The news, mainly.
The front page of the newspaper.
Tucked in the crime section day after day.
His name is a written warning, his face synonymous with 'dangerous'. Growing up, my mother never talked about the boogeyman in the closet or the creature hiding under the bed. She told me about real monsters, and that includes the one standing in front of me.
Raymond Angelo.
The man's question is clearly meant for Naz, although his cold eyes are on me. He's mid-sixties and graying, tall and stocky. He looks like leather and smells like cigars.
I'm grateful Naz said he was possessive, because I think there's no way in hell he'd turn me over to a man like Raymond. My heart pounds hard as Naz hesitates for a moment before he scoffs. "You wouldn't know what to do with her if you had her, old man."
Raymond cocks an eyebrow. "Maybe not, but I'd sure try."
Both men laugh.
They laugh.
My heart somehow pounds even harder at that.
Naz waves toward Raymond, introducing us as Ray and Karissa. The man regards me strangely before his eyes flicker to Naz, holding his gaze, like they're having a silent conversation than ends in a nod.
Raymond looks at me again. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Karissa. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just need to borrow Vitale here for a moment."
The drive into Manhattan flies by, as the champagne once again seems to evaporate right before my eyes. By the time we make it to the party, I'm a little lightheaded, and his hands are already doing crazy things to me. Just a simple stroke of my arm, his thumb caressing the clothed skin, seems to set my entire body on fire.
The fundraiser is at a swanky hotel on Park Avenue. The limo drops us off and Naz puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. I feel him press a kiss to my hair before he whispers, "You're going to do great."
I hope he's speaking the truth.
He hands over our tickets and the second we're through the door, Naz's face lights up, his dimples out in full force, as he greets people by name. He introduces me as simply 'Karissa' as we make our way through a sea of large round tables to one toward the center of the room. Name cards are placed at every seat, and I spot his easily. Ignazio Vitale. Beside it, the card also bears his name with the word 'guest' beneath it.
He pulls the chair out for me, and I sit down, eyeing the other cards at our table but not recognizing any of the names. The seats fill with people Naz seems to know. He introduces me to them, but they pay me no mind, too engrossed in striking up conversation with my date.
My date.
It sounds so weird.
A waiter fills my glass with champagne when he reaches our table, not asking my age, not even hesitating as he looks at me. I pick up my glass and sip it right away, earning a chuckle from Naz. He puts his arm around me, and leans closer, nuzzling into my neck, kissing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "my beautiful little jailbird."
Although it surprises me, nobody bats an eyelash at his playful display of affection. I wonder if it's because he does this often, if he brings women around and shows them off to these people, until I realize nobody's looking. Nobody's watching, their eyes everywhere but on the two of us, like they're purposely giving him privacy.
A political fundraiser is everything I thought it would be, yet nothing like I expected. There are tuxedos, and speeches, and a few snooty people I peg as politicians, but most of the crowd is relaxed. The food is fancy, the champagne expensive, and the people engrossing. The atmosphere seems to flow in waves: the first course prim and proper, the second a little more lax, the third casual, and by the forth everyone's chatting and laughing like old friends.
Or maybe everyone's just drunk by then.
"Dance with me," Naz says, throwing his napkin down on the table as he stands. A band is playing some sort of slow melody on a stage across the room, the floor in front of them clear of tables as couples dance the night away. I shake my head, but he doesn't notice, or else he doesn't care, as he pulls me to my feet and leads me that way.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I say as soon as we're on the dance floor.
"Come on." He pulls me into his arms. "Don't tell me you can't dance."
"Oh, I can dance," I say. "I just can't dance to this."
It sounds like elevator music.
He chuckles, placing his hands on my hips to draw me even closer to him. "Just follow my lead."
I wrap my arms around his neck as my fingers tinker with the wayward curls at his nape. It's easy, mindless, as we really just stand there and sway. It lasts a good minute before I let out a deep sigh. "Okay, this is boring."
As soon as I say it, the song changes, the tempo picking up. Naz swings me around, twirling me, and I nearly fall on my ass without a warning. Every step he takes makes me stumble, but he doesn't seem to mind, and I'm just too drunk to care what anybody thinks… anybody except for him.
He's all that matters.
I'm swaying and twirling, staggering and laughing, tripping over his feet and he just laughs along with me. He dips me once, dips me so low my feet come out from beneath me and I land flat on my back. He bends down, smirking as he yanks me to my feet again, as a male voice cuts through the music behind me. "Mind if I cut in?"
The voice is rough, not gritty in the sexy way, but more like grating sandpaper against sensitive skin. I turn quickly, seeing a vaguely familiar man, a man I've never met before, but I've seen him in pictures and on the television.
The news, mainly.
The front page of the newspaper.
Tucked in the crime section day after day.
His name is a written warning, his face synonymous with 'dangerous'. Growing up, my mother never talked about the boogeyman in the closet or the creature hiding under the bed. She told me about real monsters, and that includes the one standing in front of me.
Raymond Angelo.
The man's question is clearly meant for Naz, although his cold eyes are on me. He's mid-sixties and graying, tall and stocky. He looks like leather and smells like cigars.
I'm grateful Naz said he was possessive, because I think there's no way in hell he'd turn me over to a man like Raymond. My heart pounds hard as Naz hesitates for a moment before he scoffs. "You wouldn't know what to do with her if you had her, old man."
Raymond cocks an eyebrow. "Maybe not, but I'd sure try."
Both men laugh.
They laugh.
My heart somehow pounds even harder at that.
Naz waves toward Raymond, introducing us as Ray and Karissa. The man regards me strangely before his eyes flicker to Naz, holding his gaze, like they're having a silent conversation than ends in a nod.
Raymond looks at me again. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Karissa. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just need to borrow Vitale here for a moment."
