Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
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.
I'm afraid I'll bust my ass in these heels.
He pulls the necklace out and sets the box aside as he walks around behind me. My hair is already pulled up and pinned—Melody's handiwork—so it's easy for him to slip it on and fasten it. He leans down, kissing the back of my neck, as I grasp the pendant to gaze at it.
Carpe Diem. Seize the Day.
"Why me?" I whisper as he steps back around to pause right in front of me. It's a question I've asked before, but one I just can't understand. Out of all the women in the world, why would he choose me?
He answers the exact same way he did the other time. "Why not you?"
Smiling, I let go of the pendant and meet his eyes. "You spoil me, you know."
"No, I don't. Not nearly enough, anyway." He reaches out and cups my chin, making it so I can't look away. "It could be like this all the time, Karissa, every moment of every day. I can give you the best of everything. You just have to let me."
"Why would you?" I ask. "What do you get out of this?"
He leans forward and lightly kisses my lips. "I get you."
"You act like I'm a treasure."
"Aren't you?" he asks. "The way I see it, I hit the jackpot."
I laugh. "I'm more like a five dollar scratch-off than the mega-millions lottery."
"You just don't know your own worth."
His phone rings, shattering the moment. Pulling it from his pocket, he glances at the screen. "Time to go. The car's here."
"You're not driving?" I ask.
"No," he says. "Drunk driving is reckless and stupid."
"You've driven before after you drank."
"I didn't drink enough to get drunk then."
I scoff. "We shared a whole bottle."
"Did we?" he asks. "Because I remember you drinking three quarters of it on your own both times."
My face flushes. "No way."
He nods.
"Ugh." I make a face. "So, what, you're going to drink your fair share tonight?"
"I'm going to drink more than my fair share," he says. "As much as I paid for these tickets, I intend to drink every drop of alcohol they have in the place."
My eyes narrow at those words. "Tickets? What kind of dinner party is this?"
"It's more of a fundraiser, but I figured calling it a party would make it more appealing for you."
"Fundraiser? What kind?"
"The political kind."
I'm stunned, and stammer a bit, but have no idea what to say. He's taking me to a political fundraiser? I'm imagining formal speeches and tuxedos and uptight old men with bitter young wives wanting to bomb other countries and trample civil liberties. Are those the kind of people Naz hangs around? Are those the kind of people we're supposed to be?
But that's not me, and it never will be, and I'm not so sure that could ever be him. I'm imagining a room full of Santinos, judging, deriding, and pointing their sticks at people who they think don't belong. "I don't think I can do this."
"I think you can," Naz says, taking my hand as he leads me outside. There, parked in front of his house, is a stretch limo. The driver opens the back door and Naz ushers me inside. The leather seats are cool, the air temperate, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice in front of me.
"This is absurd."
Naz merely laughs as he pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. "Drink. Relax."
I take the glass and sip it as he pours himself one. "I'm only eighteen, you know, in case you don't remember."
"I haven't forgotten."
"I can't be drinking." Contrary to my words, I guzzle my champagne, downing it so fast that he pours me a second one before he takes his first sip. "I'm not old enough."
"Don't worry about it," he says, relaxing back and putting his arm around me like it's nothing. "It's fine."
"It's illegal."
"Does that bother you?"
"What?"
"Breaking the law," he says. "Do you feel remorse? Do you want to do penance? Ask for forgiveness? Turn yourself in? Beg for leniency? Swear you'll never do it again, that you'll be a good girl forever, that you'll never so much as litter or speed or steal Wi-Fi or jaywalk or pee outside again?"