Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

Another attack.

Another message.

I slip back out of the building and make my way to my car, my eyes studiously scanning the neighborhood. It wouldn't surprise me if someone were watching, if eyes weren't still on the building.

I never looked back.

I didn't loiter.

But I know others like to watch.

They like to stick around and bask in their destruction, to oversee the aftermath.

The sun is starting to set as I head back to Brooklyn. By the time I reach the house, it's dark outside. It has only been about two hours since I left her, but Karissa is already in her pajamas, like she's ready for bed. When I walk in, she's standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, holding a bowl of something in her hand.

"You're back already," she says, sounding surprised.

"I told you I wouldn't be long."

She blows into her bowl, stirring whatever it is with a fork.

"What are you eating?"

I can't remember the last time I actually sat down and ate something.

It has been a long week.

Too damn long.

"Noodles," she says, holding up a forkful to show me. "Want some?"

"I'd rather starve."

She laughs, shrugging, and takes a bite. "I saw some recipes on the Internet of how to jazz them up with like, cream of chicken soup and cheese or whatever. Thought I'd give it a try."

She's jazzing up noodles that cost a quarter.

What am I going to do with her?

"Is that what you plan to make for these hypothetical dinner parties when you miraculously befriend people in this neighborhood?"

"Pfft, no," she says. "They're doing the cooking. We're just going to eat."

"Eat their cooking."

"Yes."

"Food prepared by strangers."

"No, they're going to be our friends, remember?"

"Even worse," I say. "You've got to watch the people you let near you. They can't stick a knife in your back if you don't let them get close enough to do it."

She doesn't say anything to that, just staring at me as she takes another bite of noodles. She's staring hard, like she's looking for something.

"What?"

"There's soot on your shirt."

I glance down when she says that, seeing the smudge. Shit. I try to brush it off, which is impossible. The shirt is white and it only extends the black streak.

"Or at least I think it's soot," she says. "Either that or it's makeup, like dark eye shadow or maybe mascara, and if that's the case then I think you have some other kind of explaining to do."

"It's not makeup."

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

She's staring at me again.

When did this woman get so fearless?

The minute I convince her I'm never going to kill her, suddenly she's the one trying to intimidate me.

"I didn't do it," I tell her, knowing what she's thinking, "but I went to see."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good." She pauses. "I think."

She shovels another bite into her mouth.

As much as I don't want to admit it, it's making me hungry.

But I'm not eating what she's eating.

Never doing that again.

"Look, let's go out for dinner."

"I'm wearing pajamas," she says. "Besides, I'm already eating."

"You can't change?"

"I could," she says, "but why can't we just stay in? I have class in the morning, and I'm already kind of tired, and the last time you and I ate somewhere... well, look what happened. I'm just not in the mood for another shoot out tonight."

"It wasn't a shoot out."

"What was it?"

"A drive-by."

She sighs loudly. "What's the difference, honestly?"

"I didn't shoot back."

She shakes her head, muttering, "Maybe you should've."

It takes a moment for those words to register.

I almost don't believe my own ears.

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing, just ignore me... I don't know what I'm saying." Sighing again, she tosses her bowl of noodles onto the counter, ignoring when some of them splash out, making a mess. "Maybe we should go get some food, but I get to pick the place."

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys. "That's fine by me. Just let me put on a different shirt."

"Don't bother," she says. "I'm not changing."

I think she's joking.

Really, I do, because she's wearing a pair of my plaid lounge pants that are about three sizes too big for her. But instead of changing, she just slips on a pair of shoes and says, "Okay, let's go now."

I look her over once before motioning toward the door. "After you."

Who am I to tell her what to wear?

We get in the car and I pull away from the house, waiting until I reach the end of the street before asking her which way I'm supposed to turn.

"Uh, depends," she says, looking both ways, her brow furrowed.

"On what?"

"On which way the closest Wendy's is. You don't happen know, do you?"

I just look at her.

Sighing dramatically, like I'm being irrational by not answering that question, she pulls out her phone and asks Siri, hitting a button when Siri answers to open up a map. "There, just follow those directions."

I do it, because I agreed to let her pick.

I don't like to go back on my word, not if I can help it.

So that's how, ten minutes later, I end up standing inside a busy little Wendy's, ordering French fries and a Frosty for Karissa and some kind of chicken sandwich for myself.

After I order, I stand there.

And I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Karissa is sitting at a small plastic table, as I continue to stand here, about to lose my patience. I'm three seconds away from snapping when they slap my food down on a tray, shoving it toward the edge of the counter. I grab the tray and join Karissa at the table, watching as she snatches up the Frosty and immediately, without hesitation, dips a fry into it.

She eats it then.

I don't know what to say.

"What?" she says, noticing my expression. "Come on, you can't tell me you've never done it."

"I haven't," I say. "But then again, I don't make a habit of ordering ice cream with my dinner."

"You should. You don't know what you're missing." She grabs another fry and dips it into her Frosty before holding it out to me. "Here, try it."