So while she's at the beach, celebrating freedom and soaking up the sun, I'll be here alone. It is about the money, yeah… I could never afford to keep up with her lifestyle, even if she insists on including me whenever possible. I'm gracious when she buys dinner, or drags me for a night on the town, but I draw the line at a Caribbean vacation. There's a thin line between accepting help and being a charity case, a line I felt myself toeing earlier in the weekend.
But it's more than that, too.
I can't go.
"I told you I don't have a passport."
"Well, I told you we could go to Florida instead."
"And I told you I won't let you change your plans because of me," I say. "So go, have fun. I'm just going to hang around here, maybe panhandle, you know, make a little money."
She laughs as she starts tossing her clothes in her bag. "You don't want to go see your mom?"
"No, I'll see her in a few weeks for Easter."
Melody finishes packing, cramming more clothes into suitcases than I think I even own, before she walks over and flops down on my bed beside me. She lets out a deep, theatrical sigh, wrapping her arms around me. "I'll miss you, Kissimmee! Don't have too much fun without me."
I laugh at the nickname. She overheard my mother say it one day and completely ran with it. "I'll try not to. Might be difficult, though, with all this excitement going on around here. You know… empty halls and vacant classrooms and closed libraries."
"Sounds like Heaven," she says. "Too bad I can't stay."
"Yeah, too bad. You're gonna miss all the fun."
Melody plants a playful sloppy kiss on my cheek before getting her stuff in order, shoving a few last minute things into her bags. She's ready just as her phone rings, alerting her that a car is waiting down by the curb to take her to the airport.
"I'll call you every day," she says. "Every hour."
"Please don't," I reply. "My mother already does that."
With a laugh, she's out the door, hauling her luggage with her. To be honest, I don't expect her to call at all.
Once she's gone, the door clicking closed behind her, I toss my book aside and lay back on my bed.
A whole week.
Seven days of nothingness.
Melody hasn't even been gone a minute and I'm already bored out of my mind.
I clean, and read, and clean some more, and read some more, before my stomach starts growling. I grab a pack of Ramen noodles from the cabinet in the room, making my way to the small kitchen everyone in the suite shares. Most of the building is empty, save for a few wayward students like me who stayed behind. I fill a pot with water and put it on the stove. As I'm waiting on the water to boil, I pull out my phone and scroll through it to call my mom.
No answer.
Sighing, I leave a quick message. For someone who freaks out when I don't answer, she sure sends my calls to her answering machine a lot. Hanging up, I lean back against the counter and stare at the screen, my eyes drifting to the name beneath hers.
Naz.
I could call him. I mean, he put his number in my phone and told me to call him. He wouldn't do that if he didn't really want me to, right?
But what would I say? Hey, remember me, girl you picked up from the sidewalk, drunk as a skunk, high off her ass without even knowing it? You know, the one you felt obligated to take home with you because there was nowhere else to take her? Yeah, her, the one you bought breakfast for the next morning, the one who didn't offer to pay for her own because she didn’t have a penny in her pocket?
You remember her?
I'm so, so sorry if you do.
Groaning, I cut my eyes at the pot of water. There are only a few tiny bubbles on the bottom. It needs to hurry up.
My gaze goes back to the phone, back to his name. It would be rude not to call, though, wouldn't it? He helped me, after all.
Another glance at the pot. Still not boiling. Dammit.
When I turn back to my phone again, my finger hits his name. I press the call button before I can talk myself out of it, because I know I will if given the chance.
I bring the phone up to my ear and listen. The first ring seems exaggerated, like the sound echoes through my body, twisting my insides into knots. I feel like I'm going to puke and need to sit down, my eyes darting around the kitchen but the chair that's usually in here is gone.
Goddamn thieves.
I'm shaky, and edgy, and about to hang up when the line clicks, shutting off mid-ring. There's a pause of silence that feels like it drags on forever before his voice breaks through. "Hello."
Oh God, oh God, oh God… what was I thinking?
"Uh, hey… it's, uh…"
"Karissa."
My name sounds like Heaven from his lips as he says it in his rough, low tone. I want to ask him to say it again, and again, and again. "You remember."
"I do," he says. "How are you?"
"Better." A lot better than when he last saw me. "I just wanted to, you know, thank you."
"I'm glad you called. I thought maybe you lost your phone again."
"No, I still got it," I say. "For now, anyway."
He lets out a laugh, the sound making me smile, easing some of my anxiety. "Good."
"So yeah, like I said, I wanted to thank you again, for everything you did… you know, at the club, and the ride, and my phone. I appreciate it, really, and if I can ever repay you—"
"You can."
I stall at those words. "I can?"
"Yes," he confirms.
"Uh, how much?" I ask. "I don't have much money."
He laughs again, this time a little louder. "I don't want your money, Karissa. I have plenty of my own."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
He says the lone word so confidently that I just stare straight ahead, unable to process it. "Me?"
"Let me take you to dinner," he says. "Then we'll call it even."
"I… I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll be ready in thirty minutes."
"Now?" I ask incredulously.
He wants to take me to dinner right now?
"Why not?" he asks. "No better time than the present."
I can name plenty of times better than now… times that don't include me wearing Oscar the Grouch pajama pants and fuzzy pink slippers, my hair a scraggly ball on top of my head. "I don't know."
"I'll tell you what," he says. "In half an hour, I'm going to pull up at the entrance to the parking garage, right where I dropped you off. If you're there, I'll take you wherever you want to go. If you're not, I'll go on my way."
Before I can respond, the line goes dead, my phone beeping. Call ended. I stand there, hesitating, contemplating, before turning around. Once again I don't give myself a chance to talk myself out of it. I switch the stove off, leaving the pot of freshly boiling water on the burner as I bolt from the kitchen and sprint to the room.
Thirty minutes. That's all I have.
I tear through my closet, throwing clothes around as I search for something to wear, pulling shirts off hangers and holding them up in front of the mirror before tossing them aside. I blast through everything I own, demolishing my side of the room in less than five minutes, putting Melody's mess to shame.
I move from my closet to Melody's, taking a deep breath before diving in. Her clothes are trendier than mine, more revealing… more her and hell of a lot less me. I shift through what's hanging up before scouring through her drawers, changing a few times before settling on a black long-sleeve sweater dress I fish out of the back of the closet.
It'll have to do, because I'm down to fifteen minutes. I let my hair down, running my fingers through it. It's wavy from being up all day, but there isn't anything I can do to straighten it. I swipe lip gloss across my lips and put on a coat of mascara, barely having time to spritz myself with perfume before slipping on my boots.
Sitting on the bed, I glance at the clock and tense. Time is up already.
I practically
Something inside of me soars, the butterflies taking flight, like they'd just discovered their wings for the first time. My feet move again as the driver's side door opens and Naz steps out. He's wearing another suit, all black with a blood red tie, my eyes drawn to the pop of color on his broad chest.
Naz strolls to the passenger side, opening the door for me.
The stories got it right, I see.
Prince Charming has manners.
I offer him a smile, trying to get myself under control as I slip into the seat, taking a deep breath when he walks around to get back in. He hesitates, his hand on the gearshift, as his gaze sweeps along me. I can feel my body flush from the attention and curse my lack of makeup… I know my nervousness is written all over my face.
He meets my eyes, his blue ones bright, twinkling with satisfaction. He says nothing about it, though, turning away to put the car in reverse.
"Where do you want to go?" he asks, easing into traffic.
"Anywhere," I say. "Wherever you go."
"You sound uncertain."
"I guess I do."
My response makes him laugh.
"I just have no preference," I explain. "I was going to eat Ramen noodles tonight, so anything is an upgrade from there."
"Why would you eat that?"
"Because that's all I had in the room," I say. "And besides, they're not so bad. They cost like, twenty cents. You can literally survive off them for a dollar a day."
He cuts his eyes at me, looking not nearly as impressed by that as I am.
"Have you tried them?" I ask curiously.
"No," he says. "Can't say I've ever had the pleasure."
"I'll have to make you some."
He raises his eyebrows, regarding me peculiarly. "I'll hold you to that, but not tonight. I'm taking you out instead. You can treat me another time to your gourmet noodles."
I'm so embarrassed I can feel my face heating. What's wrong with me, babbling to this man about freaking Ramen noodles? I want to slink away, disappear into the cool leather seat and never again resurface. "Just ignore me. I'm an idiot."
"No, you're not. You're just nervous."
"That obvious?"
"I'm just good at reading people. It kind of comes with the territory."
"What territory?"
"Work."
"And what is it you do for work?"
"A little of this, a little of that," he responds. "I'm a freelancer."
I stare at him. That didn't answer my question at all.
He cuts his eyes at me again, and my confusion must be easy to see… or maybe he just is that good at reading people… because he chooses to elaborate for me.
"Let's say a company needs something done… like, say, they're downsizing and need to fire people. Some of them choose to bring in someone else to do it, so they don't have to do the dirty work themselves. They like to keep their hands clean. So they hire an independent contractor, someone with expertise, to handle it for them."
"And what's your expertise?"
"Dealing with people," he says. "Finding things."
As soon as he says it, it takes me back to Santino's classroom and the words I heard that afternoon. 'I know what you're here for.'
"What were you looking for from my philosophy professor?"
A legitimate look of surprise crosses across his face that he wipes away just as quickly. He doesn't answer, shaking his head after a moment as his focus remains on the road. "I can't talk about my work."
Fair enough.
He takes me to a restaurant near Central Park, the kind where you have to make reservations weeks in advance. I've never been—I don't think even Melody has been, the atmosphere too rich for even her upscale tastes—but I've heard of the place. Naz valet parks the car and I get out, glancing around nervously, feeling severely underdressed even in a dress.
I start to point out to Naz that we'll never get a table here when he leads me inside, past couples waiting. The hostess looks up. "Do you have a reservation, sir?"
"No."
"We're fully booked for the night," she says, flipping the page in her reservation book as if double-checking. "Rest of the week, too."
"Do me a favor," he says. "Run and tell the chef that Vitale sends his regards."
The hostess looks like she wants to say no, but it's hard to argue with someone who sounds so confident. She reluctantly excuses herself, disappearing into the kitchen. Less than a minute passes before she returns, grabbing two menus and flashing a forced smile at Naz. "I was mistaken. We have a table for you."
"I figured," Naz says, pressing his hand to my back and motioning for me to follow the hostess. I oblige, not wanting to make any more of a scene than he just caused, everyone waiting already regarding us like we'd come with bombs strapped to our chests.
I slip into the chair the hostess pulls out while Naz sits down across from me.
I gape at him when she walks away. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Get a table so quick?"
"I called ahead."
"So?"
"So I know the chef," he replies. "Called in a favor."
I'm quiet for a moment as the waiter appears, asking what we want to drink. I mutter "water" under my breath as Naz interjects. "Bring us a bottle of your best champagne."
The waiter looks between the two of us, and I'm just waiting for him to ask me for my ID, but he doesn't. Instead, he scurries away, walking off to fulfill Naz's request. It's fascinating, watching people react to him, while at the same time it's alarming. Is there anything this man can't get his way with?
"How'd you do it?" I ask. "Really."
"I just told you."
"How'd you call ahead? I didn't see you."
"I did it before I picked you up."
I shake my head. "But you didn't know where I'd want to go."
"Didn't I?" He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I told you, Karissa. I read people. You have a tendency to just go with the flow and see where the wind blows, so I picked somewhere decent for you to land."
I'm flabbergasted as he picks up his menu and casually relaxes in his chair, his attention on it. I barely know anything about this man, and yet he seems to know me in ways no one ever has before, predicting what I'll do before I even do it.
The waiter returns with a bottle of champagne and tries to fill our glasses, but Naz takes it from him, insisting he do the pouring. I pick up my menu then, glancing at it, my stomach clenching as I scan the list of items.
I don't know what half this shit is.
I'm still staring at it when the waiter returns a second time, ready to take our order. Naz gazes at me from across the table, his lips twitching with amusement. He takes the menu straight from my hand and turns it over to the waiter along with his. "We'll just have the tasting menu."
"His and hers?"
"No," he says. "I don't care which, but make sure there's no difference in the plates. I'd rather the chef not know which is mine."
The waiter nods and disappears as I regard Naz curiously. "Why don't you want the chef to know?"
"Because if he knows which is mine, he might poison it."
I let out a sharp laugh. "Paranoid much?"
"Not paranoid," he responds as he picks up his glass of champagne and takes a sip. "Merely cautious, which you should also be. You can't trust people, Karissa. Haven't you learned that?"
"Yet you want me to trust you?"
"I never asked for your trust." He smirks. "I only asked you to go to dinner with me."
Dinner's a four-course meal of seafood and steak, salad and some other things I can't begin to name. There's even caviar on the table. Gross. I'm stuffed by the third course but I don't decline desert, savoring the rich chocolate soufflé. Naz ignores his, instead sipping champagne.
We've almost drained the entire bottle. Naz has kept our glasses full. My head is fuzzy and my body feels like it's made of air. I'm floating sky high.
I never want to touch the ground again.
"Is it good?" he asks, watching me intently. I'm too intoxicated for the attention to fluster me anymore.
"Amazing," I say. "Best soufflé I've ever had."
"Have you had many before?"
"Nope. Never."
He smirks, pushing his across the table toward me. "You can have mine, too."
"I'll pass."
"Full?"
"More like it might be poisoned."
I'm joking, of course, but he shrugs a shoulder like he really thinks it's a possibility.
I set my spoon down, unable to take another bite. The check comes, and he turns it over, eyeing it as he pulls out his wallet to pay. I sneak a peek as I take a drink, nearly choking on the champagne.
The check is over twelve hundred dollars. No fucking way. I gape at him as he pulls out a wad of cash, paying in strictly hundred dollar bills, not even seeming bothered by the cost.
"That's nuts," I hiss. "I could eat for like a year off of that much money."
"Three years if you just eat your noodles," he points out.
"Seriously. Why's it so expensive?"
"Good food usually is."
I scoff. "You could've taken me to Taco Bell. I would've been happy, and you would've saved a thousand bucks."
"Everyone should indulge at least once," he says. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then it was worth it."
I don't even know what to say. I clutch my glass of champagne, determined to drink every last drop, considering the bottle was nearly half the bill. Naz pours himself a swallow before dumping the rest into mine for me to drink. It's filled to the brim again.
I take a sip. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get me drunk."
"Now why would I do that?"
"I don't know," I say. "Honestly, I don't know much about you."
"I've told you more about me than you've told me about you."
I roll my eyes. "You seem to have me down to a science."
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