Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

He stares so hard I think he burned right through to my soul, before he tugs on my hand, pulling me closer, and says, "Get in the car."

That's it.

That's all the reaction I get.

I listen and finally let go of his hand, climbing in the car. This isn't the place for it. He shuts the door for me, and I put on my seatbelt, my hands shaking. Ugh, I wish they'd stop. I wipe away my tears and try to pull myself together, expecting we'll have a conversation any second, but instead he just gets in and drives away without a word.

I'm trembling the whole way to Brooklyn.

I don't know what to make of anything.

He pulls into the garage when we arrive, locking the car up, and ushers me through the side door, into the kitchen. Killer starts barking excitedly when he sees me, jumping up and down, nearly knocking me on my ass. I head to the back door, letting him out into the yard, and am considering heading right upstairs when Naz appears behind me. I see his reflection in the glass. "How sure are you?"

Turning, I eye him warily. "On a scale of one to ten?"

He studies my face before saying again, "How sure are you, Karissa?"

"Uh, pretty sure, I guess... as sure as I can be. I haven't, like, peed on a stick or anything..."

"Then how do you know?"

There's a hint of anger in his voice then. He's trying to restrain it, but it's coming out.

"Because the doctor said I was."

"The doctor."

"Yeah, when we were at the hospital."

"At the hospital."

"He ran some tests or whatever, and I guess he kind of just happened upon it."

"He happened upon it."

He's doing it again.

Repeating my words.

"Yes," I say. "He happened upon it."

Naz nods, crossing his arms over his chest, his stance almost defensive, like he's trying to keep me from getting in. His face is still passive, even stoic, but his eyes are blazing. "How far along?"

"Eight weeks."

"So... two months."

He looks away from me, taking a deep breath, like he's trying to steady himself.

"You're angry."

"I am."

Ugh, he's not denying it.

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not the only one."

I try to storm away, but he grabs ahold of me, pulling me to him instead. My instinct kicks in, and I start to fight him, shoving and trying to get around him, but he just tightens his hold, pinning me there.

I give in right away.

When Naz wants something, he gets it, and truthfully, I feel better in his arms. He might be angry for whatever reason, but I'm terrified.

"A month ago," he says quietly. "I choked you."

"So?"

"You were already pregnant."

My stomach drops.

That hadn't even crossed my mind.

Leave it to Naz to fixate on that out of everything going on.

"You didn't hurt me... or us... or whatever."

Us. There's an us.

There's me and this... baby.

"I could've," he says. "I haven't been easy on you."

"That's because I can take it. And this... uh, you know..."

"Baby," he says quietly.

Baby.

Jesus Christ, I can feel the tears coming on again.

"It has your DNA," I say. "So obviously it's stubborn as shit and gonna be resilient."

He doesn't say anything to that.

I don't know if I'm making a difference in how he feels.

Probably not.

Naz already lost a family once. He lost a baby he never got the chance to know, so I'm not really surprised by his overbearing worry.

I just don't want him to beat himself up about it.

People tend to get hurt when that happens.

He lets out a resigned sigh. "So, California, huh?"

"Yes," I whisper.

One of the last conversations I had with my mother, she mentioned running away there. Maybe she was onto something. It's about as far away from New York as we're going to get without leaving the country.

"Well," he says, "better start packing then."

* * *

Most of my life was spent living out of boxes.

No reason to unpack when, sooner or later, I'd just have to pack it all up again.

I never had much as a child, or even as a teenager, so it wasn't hard, living such a life of simplicity, to pick up in the middle of the night and just walk away. It's easier to disappear, to slip into obscurity, without dragging a lifetime of possessions along.

That's something my mother taught me.

But I have a lot of baggage now... literally, figuratively... and I'm not entirely sure how it'll all fit into our new life. Dozens of cardboard boxes clutter every room of the house, most of them still empty. It's been a few days since we made the decision to move, and I feel like I've been packing constantly since, but I've barely made a dent in any of our belongings.

Truth be told, Naz has accumulated a lot of shit.

Although, okay, whatever, I guess I have, too.

I used to be able to fit everything I owned in three boxes, but now I need more than that for just shoes.

Standing in the den, my eyes scan the massive bookshelves packed full of Naz's books. He's sitting at his desk, half-dressed, a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt. It's barely buttoned, not tucked in, the sleeves of it shoved up to his elbows.

He looks exhausted.

He probably is.

He walks around here, quiet, stoic, distracting himself by cleaning, scrubbing the same shit over and over. It's rare I catch him sitting down, like he is now, but even off of his feet, he still manages to look busy. How the hell does he do that? He's flipping through the newspaper, not paying me any attention, as I stress about how to pack up his books.

"You're stressing," he says, not looking at me, his eyes never averting from the newspaper.

"I'm not."

I'm lying.

"You're lying."

Ugh.

"It's just... this is a lot of books."

"I know."

"We're going to need, like, a billion more boxes."

"What for?"

What for?

What kind of fucking question...?

"For the books," I say. "You have a lot."

He slowly sets his paper down as he looks at me. "Doesn't matter. I'm not taking them."

"What? Why?"

"Because they're not necessary."

Somewhere out there, a bookworm's head just exploded. "How can you say the books aren't necessary?"