Monster in His Eyes (Monster in His Eyes 1)
Page 7"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."
"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.
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."
I turn around, wondering why he just can't make this easy on me, and freeze when I see the pink object in his extended hand.
My phone.
Really?
Sighing, I step back that way and reach through the open window, taking it from him. I try to pull away but he grasps my hand, clutching it tightly. It doesn't hurt, but it locks me in place, his skin warm and rough to the touch.
"A word of advice?" he says. "Be careful who you trust. There may not always be someone there to save you."
"I, uh…" Those words are chilling. I have no idea what to say. "Okay."
He lets go, his hand grasping the gearshift to put the car in reverse. I back up a few steps, away from the car.
"Call me sometime," he says. "It would be nice to see what you look like out of those clothes."
"Karissa, it's your Mom… sorry I missed your call…"
"Hey, kiddo, call me back when you get the chance!"
"It's been a few hours and I haven't heard from you, honey. I hope everything's okay. Call me."
"I swear to God, Karissa Maria, if you don't call me back right now—"
"That's it. You're grounded. Forever."
Sighing, I hang up and stare at the screen of my phone. It still works, thankfully, once I got it plugged in and charging. It sprang to life with a whopping thirty-two missed calls—a few from Melody, wondering where I was, but most from my mother. She went from asking to pleading to threatening all within the span of a few hours.
I'm surprised she hasn't called the police to report me missing.
On second thought, she probably did.
If they ever gave out an award for overprotective mother of the year, Carrie Reed would win it, hands down. For eighteen years she kept me on lock down, always two seconds away from a mental break whenever I was out of her sight for too long. I was a bubble wrapped package marked 'fragile'—do not bend, do not break. We moved around so much it was hard for me to keep friends. She was restless, always needing to move on to something else—a new town, a new hobby, and new people—while I just wanted nothing more than to have somewhere I could call home.
Despite migrating and starting over practically every year, homeschooling in a lot of the places we lived, my application and SATs were enough to get me on the waiting list at NYU. I figured it was hopeless, and nearly gave up, when at the last minute a spot opened up and I was offered admission.
She cried when I told her. I thought she would be happy, but she sobbed and pleaded, asking me to reconsider moving to New York City. I told her I had to follow my heart, follow my dreams. She eventually backed off, but she never full accepted my leaving.
Abandonment issues, I guess. My father walked out on her when she was pregnant, and I don't think she has been the same since. I only vaguely remember seeing a photograph once, a flash of a mustached face, like a faded old Polaroid with a name scribbled on the bottom: John. It doesn't bother me—I can't miss someone I never had, can't mourn someone I don't know—but I know she feels the loss.