Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

"Now, okay, that was me," he says, pushing away from the car to stand up, popping another wedge of orange in his mouth. "I warned them first, though. Not my fault they didn't take me seriously. Guess they will now."

"Yeah, the ones who survived."

His brow furrows as he steps around my car, toward the passenger door. "Don't tell me you had some sort of emotional attachment to that place."

"I spent a lot of time there," I say. "I wouldn't say I was attached, but it hit a little too close to home for my liking."

"Oh, well, then in that case..." He holds up his hands, smirking. "Innocent."

He's a lying son of a bitch.

I know he's being sarcastic, but by no means do I find it funny.

"In my defense," he continues, lowering his hands, "well, you know, there's really no defending it. You know as well as I do that sometimes things just have to be done. You've been there."

I have.

He knows it.

I know it.

I've done more than my fair share of bad because I felt it was just what had to be done. I never bothered trying to defend my actions.

I'm not surprised he isn't bothering, either.

"And yeah, okay, maybe I picked off a guy or two," he says, holding his hand up like a gun and shooting. Pew-pew. "But I have no reason to target you, Ignazio."

He doesn't need a reason, I think, and I start to point that out, when a loud, obnoxious ruckus shatters the air around us. My pocket vibrates, and I reach into it, grabbing my phone. The song... it's coming from it. Shit.

The fucking boy band.

I silence it, pressing the button on the side, just to stop the annoying blaring. Karissa's face is plastered on the screen, and as much as I hate doing it, I ignore her call.

Now's not the time for it.

Slipping the phone back away, I glance at Lorenzo. His eyes are wide, the orange halfway to his mouth, like he's forgotten about everything else for the moment.

"Was that...?" He gapes at me. "What was that? Do I even want to know?"

"No," I admit, "you don't."

He shakes his head before tossing what's left of his orange right into the gutter beside my car. He wipes his hands on his black pants like they just don't matter. He's dressed casual, his light blue button down halfway open, exposing part of his chest.

At least it's not jeans and a t-shirt today.

"Great seeing you, as always," he says, just as a black car whips around the corner of the block, heading our direction. Bingo. "We should get together again soon. I'd love to meet this wife of yours. I've heard so much about her."

"From who?"

"The streets talk, remember?" He steps off the curb behind my car just as the black sedan pulls up beside us, blocking me in. "Besides, you seem to forget I once knew her parents. You aren't the only one."

With that, he's gone, yanking open the passenger door and ducking inside before it drives away. I stare at it as it accelerates, my eyes scanning the Florida license plate.

No, I haven't forgotten he knew her parents.

I was just hoping like hell it wouldn't come up.

High-waist jean shorts.

Pastel pink leg warmers.

Matching distressed sweatshirt, hanging off my right shoulder.

I feel utterly ridiculous and completely out of place, even though, okay, I just bought this outfit today. It was all there, in the store, waiting on the rack. Apparently the eighties are making a comeback.

Who knew?

I certainly didn't.

Clothes surround me in my bedroom, some with the tags still on, others dragged here from Melody's closet… or her floor… or bed… or whenever they'd last been. Enough crazy outfits to dress a dozen people.

I'd managed to nab the most modest get-up of the bunch.

The faint bruise around my neck has mostly faded. I can barely see it anymore. Nobody around me has mentioned it, not even Melody, who I know for a fact would've rang the alarm had she noticed.

I'm looking myself over in the full-length mirror beside the dresser—another one of my purchases today. The only mirror Naz ever had in this place was the small one in the bathroom, and well, let's just say Melody noticed last time she tried getting ready here. "Ugh, no wonder you're always so… you," she'd said, motioning at me. "How do you pick out pants in the morning without, you know, checking out your ass?"

Wasn't sure how to answer that question.

Wasn't sure there was even an answer for it.

But still, I bought a mirror this afternoon, because she had a point somewhere in there, I think.

And okay, I have to admit… my ass does look kind of nice in these shorts.

Looks bigger than it used to be.

"You got anything lace?" Melody asks, walking right over to my drawers to scour through my things. She starts with the top drawer, shooting me a smirk as she yanks out a pair of my underwear. "Anything other than this thong?"

She shoots it at me, like it's a damn slingshot, before turning back to the rest of my drawers and opening them to find nothing she wants.

"Don't wear much lace," I admit. "It itches."

"So?"

"So I like to be comfortable."

She looks at me again, closing the last drawer. "Sometimes we have to suffer for fashion, Kissimmee."

I grimace. "You, maybe. I'll pass."

Rolling her eyes, she gives up her search for lace and dives into the pile of clothes strewn around my bed, finding a pair of leggings with a stich of lace on the bottom of them. "Ha!"

Apparently leggings are back, too.

And harem pants.

Hammer pants.

Melody bought a pair of them today.

I don't know what's wrong with her, honestly.

She shimmies out of said pants right where she stands beside the bed, tossing them onto the pile, already regretting that purchase, I think. She's situating the leggings, about to pull them on, when a voice calls out through the room.

A voice that isn't ours.

"Do you—?"

Naz steps into the doorway, cutting off mid-question. His reaction is automatic, his expression shifting to one of surprise as he turns his head, away from us, and closes his eyes, raising his hands as if to ward of whatever the hell he'd just seen.