Monster in His Eyes

  "He knew my—" He pauses for a beat. "My family."

  I don't know what answer I expect, but that's not it. "So you're friends?"

  That thought creeps me out.

  "Hardly," he says. "I only see him in a professional capacity."

  "Thank God," I mutter. "I don't know how I'd feel about you being friends with the devil."

  "The devil?"

  "Santino... I'm pretty sure he's Satan."

  "Nonsense," he says. "The man is little more than a pesky cockroach."

  "Yeah, well, in that case, I wish someone would squash him."

  Naz laughs. "Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

  He stands up and grabs his tie, laying it around his neck, not bothering to fix it. "You hungry?"

  "Uh, yeah, but I really should get going," I say, pulling out my phone to glance at the time. "I can just grab something back at the dorms."

  "I'll drive you."

  "You don't have to."

  "Nonsense."

  Nonsense. I think that might be his favorite word. "But—"

  "But what?" He cuts me off before I can answer. "You don't want to inconvenience me? Waste my time? Waste my gas? Don't want me to have to go out of my way? You don't want to be a bother?"

  "Well... yes."

  "What did I tell you that night in your room? I said there was no turning back. So don't start getting cold feet on me now. I'm yours, Karissa, anytime, day or night."

  "I'm not getting cold feet."

  "But you're thinking and not feeling. You're overthinking."

  I can't really argue with that.

  Guilty.

  "Let me drive you to the dorm," he says. "It's the least I can do."

  He drives me back to Manhattan.

  Despite my earlier words, he buys me dinner on the way. Nothing fancy, nothing he would even eat, but it's definitely more my speed.

  I'm still sipping on a chocolate milkshake when he pulls the car into the parking garage beside my dorm to drop me off. I thank him, leaning over and kissing his cheek. I'm about to get out when he says my name, drawing my attention to him.

  "I have a party to go to this weekend," he says. "Come with me."

  My eyes widen. "A party? Like, with people and dancing?"

  "It's more of a dinner party, but yes, there may be some dancing."

  "A dinner party," I echo. "Like with… dinner?"

  I have no idea what a dinner party is really like, but I watch TV. I watch Real Housewives of wherever the fuck they are these days. I've seen what they call dinner parties.

  "Yes, with dinner," he says with a laugh. "They're not usually my thing, but it's business, and I'd rather not go alone, if I have someone to go with me."

  "Uh… I don't really have anything to wear to a dinner party."

  "Don't worry about that. I'll have something dropped off. You're, what, a size two?"

  I bark with laughter, still sipping my milkshake. "Maybe one of my ass cheeks."

  He smirks. "Just say you'll go with me and I'll handle the rest."

  I consider it for a moment, wanting to say no because of my nerves, but I can't get the word to come out. How can I deny him when he's been so great to me? "Yeah, okay, sure."

  "Great," he says. "I'll be in touch."

  I get another C- on my paper on happiness. It's all marked up, more red marring the pristine white paper than black ink from my words. Santino has critiqued every line to the point that I can practically hear his ridiculing voice when I read his comments. On the very top, in all capitals, underlined half a dozen times, is the word PRETENTIOUS.

  Pretentious. Me.

  The man with a flashy pointer and a stick up his ass called me pretentious. I'm stunned. I'm pissed. I'm upset on the trek home from class, so furious that Melody doesn't even try to speak to me as she clutches her paper on Disney World.

  She got a B+.

  I caught a peek at it when he handed them back, seeing very little red scribbled on hers, so little, in fact, that it made what was written up top stand out even more.

  REFRESHING.

  I quote Walt Disney in class and am mocked. She writes an entire paper on the subject and he calls it refreshing.

  As if I couldn't be any more dismayed.

  I stride right into the building, swiping my student ID for entrance. Melody's right behind me, treading lightly. We walk to the elevator and cram inside when my phone starts to ring. I consider not even looking at it, in no mood to talk to my mother, but I pull it out to silence it. I just happen to catch sight of the screen right before I hit the button and stall, seeing Naz's name.

  "Hello?" I answer hesitantly.

  "Are you busy?"

  "No."

  "Good, because there's a car waiting downstairs to take you to Fifth Avenue."

  "Right now?"

  "Yes, right now," he says. "You need a dress, don't you?"

  "Uh, yeah."

  "And take your roommate," he says. "I seem to remember owing her a dress, too."

  I don't know what to say, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't wait for me to respond, anyway. I lean against the side of the elevator, waiting, as we seem to stop on every floor on the way up. By the time we reach thirteen, Melody and I are the only ones left. It dings and Melody starts to step out, but I grab ahold of her and pull her back in, pressing the lobby button.

  Her brow furrows as she looks at me. "Where are we going?"

  "I don't know," I admit. "Fifth Avenue somewhere."

  "Why?"

  "I guess we're going shopping."

  She looks torn between confusion and excitement, like she wants to jump up and down but she has no clue how the hell we can be going shopping when we've been living off of noodles all week. I don't explain, still stewing on my grade, as she crams her paper in her bag. She cuts her eyes at me, frowning as I watch. "I don't know why that man has a hard-on for you. You're a lot better at that crap than me. You should be getting all A's."

  I just shrug, having no idea how to respond, as we stride out of the elevator and make our way outside. I notice it then, parked along the curb right in front of the dorm: a sleek black town car with a man leaning against the side of it, waiting. He glances up, pushing away from the car when he sees us. "Miss Reed?"

  "Yes."

  He smiles politely, opening the door for us to get in. I hesitate, but Melody pushes right past me, climbing in the back seat. I join her, sighing as the driver shuts the door and climbs in up front. Melody is chatting non-stop on the drive, excited, even though she has no idea where we're going or what we're doing.

  Hell, I don't know myself.

  All I know is I need a dress.

  The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue in Midtown West and drops us off in front of an upscale boutique. I stand there along the curb, staring through the glass doors, as the town car pulls away, disappearing into traffic and leaving us there. Melody's wide eyes regard the store with much the same excitement as in the car, but even she seems a little hesitant.

  "What now?" she asks.

  "I guess we go in."

  She shrugs, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the boutique. It's swathed in a soft glow, faint classical music playing. The store is arranged by color and scheme, with sections of different designers, the clothes along the walls while the middle section is sprinkled with furniture like we're in someone's home.

  It's not like the stores I'm used to, with racks upon racks crammed together of every size imaginable, mass-produced and distributed to anyone who wants it. These are one-of-a-kinds, where you hold your breath and pick a dress and hope like hell you can squeeze into it.

  I pause right inside the door, glancing around, as the saleswoman appears. She struts, poised, eyebrows raised like she's potentially approaching feral animals and she thinks we might bite. I'm about to blurt out that this is a mistake, that I'm most definitely in the wrong place, when she says my name. "Karissa Reed?"

  I gape at her. "Yes."

&nb
sp; "Mr. Vitale said he would be sending you by this afternoon," she says, giving me what I surmise is her warmest smile, although it still looks quite frigid. "He left instructions, evening attire for you and a dress for your friend… to replace one that was damaged?"

  "A damaged dress?" Melody glances at me. "You mean my sweater dress? The black one?"

  I nod slowly. "Yeah, we kind of… I mean, he kind of…"

  She holds her hands up to stop me. "Enough said."

  I laugh nervously, glancing back at the saleswoman as she eyes us, her gaze even icier than just a moment ago. She clears her throat dramatically, waving around the store. "Well, help yourselves to anything in the store. The dressing rooms are through there." She points toward the back. "I'm here to help if you need it."

  "Thanks," I mumble as she walks away. I turn to Melody, about to say something—anything—when she lets out a squeal and drops her school bag in the middle of the store, grabbing my hand and yanking me over to a rack of clothes.

  She's thrown into fast-forward as she descends upon the store, picking up dresses and holding them up to herself, running to the closest mirror and twirling around. The girl is a shopping machine. I scan some racks, noticing not a single piece has a price tag. "How am I supposed to know how much they cost?"

  That icy voice clears nearby. "Mr. Vitale said you're to pick out what you like, not what you think you can have."

  "That sounds like him," I mutter, picking up a sleek black dress and surveying it before sticking it back on the rack. I doubt I could squeeze a thigh into the thing.

  Melody accumulates a dozen dresses she wants to try on, forcing a few on me along the way. I humor her, trying them on before pushing them aside. They're flashy and revealing, nothing I would be caught dead in. I find a simple black dress in my size and pick it up, heading toward the dressing rooms with it when another catches my eye. It's on a rack of pink and purple dresses, but the color falls somewhere in between, like raspberry.

  I walk over to it, running my hand along the material. The gown is soft with an embroidered see-through overlay, giving the illusion of it being strapless but with three-quarter length sleeves. I don't know much about fashion besides that—don't recognize the designer's name or know what it's made of—but it's utterly beautiful.

  And it's my size.

  I take it into the dressing room, forgetting all about the black dress, and set to work putting on the gown. I struggle zipping it the whole way up in the back and step out of the dressing room wearing it, finding Melody admiring herself in a full-length mirror. She's wearing a black dress that seems to be made of leather and lace, low cut and skin tight. Her gaze catches mine in the mirror and she freezes.

  "Can you zip this?" I ask, turning around so my back is to her. As soon as I do, I catch sight of a familiar set of eyes along the street. Naz.

  He steps into the boutique. The saleswoman greets him warmly—a hell of a lot warmer than she greeted us—but his eyes are fixed solely on me as Melody zips me up. The dress is snug, tight around my chest, but it's bearable.

  And damn, it's beautiful.

  Naz walks toward us, ignoring the saleswoman as she attempts to strike up conversation. His eyes scan me as he approaches, but as soon as he's right up on us he focuses on Melody instead. He holds his hand out. "I haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting you yet. Melody Carmichael, I presume?"

  My brow furrows. I most definitely didn't tell him her full name, but for some reason I'm not surprised he knows it.

  Melody's flustered, blinking a few times as she takes his hand.

  "Ignazio Vitale," he says, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Miss Carmichael."

  "I, uh… you, too."

  He laughs, letting go as he turns to me. "I doubt that."

  His eyes scan me, lingering on my breasts before trailing down my stomach, following the curve of my hips and the whole way down to my feet. A slight smirk touches his lips, just enough to flash a dimple. "Nice dress."

  "You think so?" I ask, glancing down.

  "Yes," he says. "It looks great on you."

  Melody's gaze shifts between the two of us as she waves our way. "Isn't this like, against the rules? You're not supposed to see the dress beforehand."

  "That's only when you get married," I mutter, grasping the dress where it starts to flare beneath my hips and twirl it a bit.

  "We're not quite at that point," Naz says, pausing before offering a quiet "yet" that hits me so hard I blanch. He's not looking at me, though, as he seeks out the saleswoman. He waves her over, and she plasters a smile to her face as she approaches. Naz motions toward the dress I'm wearing. "How much is this one going to run me?"

  The woman looks it over. "The Monique Lhuillier is eleven."

  I gasp. "Eleven hundred bucks?"

  The woman's eyes burn through me. "Eleven thousand."

  The moment she says it, I feel like I can't breath, the dress suddenly too tight, constricting my airflow. I'm on the verge of panicking as Naz motions towards Melody's. "And for Miss Carmichael's?"

  "The Stella McCartney is on sale for eight-fifty."

  "Eight-fifty what?" I demand.

  "Dollars," the woman says.

  "Oh." I glance at Melody's dress. Still expensive, but that's a hell of a lot better. "Can I have one of those instead?"

  Before the woman can speak, Naz interjects, telling her he'll take both dresses. He turns to me, a hint of amusement in his expression. "Pick out some shoes to go with it."

  I start to say I don't need shoes, just like I don't need an eleven thousand dollar dress, but Melody grabs my arm to drag me away before I can argue. I stumble, nearly tripping over the bottom of the dress.

  "I don't know how the hell you snagged that man, Kissimmee, but you keep him. You hear me? Any man that offers to buy you new shoes to go with your new dress needs to be kept. You don't let him go for anything."

  I laugh incredulously. I feel like I'm caught in a whirlwind as I plop down on one of the comfortable chairs, slipping my feet into shoes Melody thrusts at me. She picks out a pair of metallic beige pumps she says look perfect with my dress, and I don't contradict her, or ask how much they cost.

  I'm afraid to know.

  Naz pays with an American Express card. It's the first time I've ever seen him use anything other than cash. I quietly mention it, not sure if he's even paying me any attention, but his soft laugh tells me he heard. After signing the receipt, everything paid, he turns to me. His eyes flit around the shop, seeing Melody as she checks out the mannequins by the front door, before he speaks. "It's not often I spend so much I don't have the cash on hand to cover it."

  "Why do you carry so much cash?" I ask, trying not to dwell on the fact that he spent that much on me. "Aren't you afraid of someone robbing you?"

  He lets out a sharp bark of laughter like that's the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "Who's going to rob me, Karissa?"

  "Someone," I say, shrugging. "This city's dangerous. There are bad people everywhere here. I mean, maybe it's safe in other places, but not New York City. It's safe for nobody here."

  He reaches out and grasps my arm when I try to take a step away, keeping me locked in place. His expression is serious, his eyes once more surveying our surroundings before settling on me again. "Who told you that? Your mother?"

  "Yes. She's terrified I'm going to get robbed or raped or killed. She thinks it's bound to happen the longer I stay here."

  "Nonsense," he says right away. "This is the safest big city in the country. I'm not saying there aren't bad people out there, because there are. I know there are. But it's nobody I'm afraid of, and I don't want you to be afraid of anyone out there, either."

  I don't know what to say, so I merely nod. He grabs our things, the dresses and my shoes, and lugs them to the door with me beside him. Melody begrudgingly follows us out after grabbing our school bags, frowning as she stares back at the windows longingly. "I could live in that place." br />
  "Not me," I say. "One dress and a pair of shoes later, and I already feel like Vivian in Pretty Woman."

  "There's no comparison," Naz interjects. "Besides, you haven't seen your necklace yet."

  I thought he'd been joking.

  I was hoping he was joking.

  He'd done enough for me already.

  But as I stand in his living room and stare at the large black velvet box in his hand, I realize he meant it. The man bought me jewelry.

  I don't know how to react, standing there in the long raspberry colored dress, my knees weak as I try to balance in the pair of the highest high heels. They make me nearly as tall as him, the two of us eye-level for the first time. And in his eyes I see that darkness, the murkiness I discover whenever his mask slips.

  It should probably terrify me, but I feel only a slight chill.

  At first glance I thought he was dressed normally, but closer inspection tells me differently. He's wearing a three-piece suit, the vest making him look sturdier than ever, the tie just as dark as the rest of it. Glittery cuff links accent his white shirt—diamonds, I think. Something tells me the man wouldn't wear anything fake. His shoes are shined, his suit fitted, and a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket is the same pristine white as his shirt.

  He looks like he just stepped off the end of a runway and strutted right toward me. His age shows in the crinkle around his eyes, the shadow of hair on his face that he never seems to fully shave, but he carries it well. He doesn't make me feel as young as I am, or as young as he probably should make me feel. When he looks at me, I don't feel like an eighteen-year-old girl, freshman at NYU, still trying to find her way.

  When he looks at me, I feel like a woman, a woman worthy of the look he gives, worthy of his admiration, worthy of a designer gown, and a dinner party, and whatever the hell is in the box in his hand.

  He opens it without saying a word. My eyes leave his to look at it. It's simple, relatively speaking, nothing like the one Edward gave to Vivian, but that was a movie and this is real life, and I'm starting to wonder if I will ever deserve any of this.

  The necklace is beautiful, the gold chain sparkling under the soft lights. There's a small pendant on the end of it, completely round, a crystal stone surrounded by gold. Something is written along the shiny metal but I can't make it out from where I stand, and I want to step closer, to see what it is, but I can't move.