Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

Okay, that's not like Naz, not at all.

He pushes his way over to her, and I follow his path. Melody looks up, spotting us, and squeals, instantly abandoning the guy she was dancing with, thrusting herself at her boyfriend. She wraps her arms around him, jumping, so the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground is his grip.

Shit, she's really drunk.

He almost falls trying to hold onto her, but he doesn't seem to mind it.

They start dancing together, slowly, not at all on beat to the music playing. I turn away from them, shrugging it off, and start dancing, too. I don't know what song's playing but I remember it from The Breakfast Club, so I sing what I know and just go with it all.

Time passes.

I'm pouring sweat.

My feet hurt and my muscles burn, but it doesn't stop me from dancing.

Melody drinks more.

Leo drinks nothing at all.

Another cup of water is forced in my hand, and I'm grateful for it, because I'm parched. I don't know how many songs have passed, how many hours we've been here, but the crowd has thinned just a bit, giving me more room to move. I'm singing the last verse of Tainted Love when I turn around, my footsteps faltering, lyrics stalling on my lips.

Holy shit.

He's here.

I have to blink a few times, because I can't even believe my own eyes.

Naz.

He promised. He did. But I never actually expected him to show up, to walk his ass on inside the club.

He's not at all dressed for the place, but he's toned it down a bit, taking off the jacket and tie, loosening his collar. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, which, once again, is the hottest thing there is.

He's looking around, looking for me.

He's looking at everybody, dressed in their fake eighties clothing.

He looks utterly disturbed by it.

Carefully, I slip to the edge of the dance floor, watching him, waiting for him to approach. When he's within earshot, I raise my voice, so he can hear me over the music. "Come here often, stranger?"

He turns toward me right away, and all at once I can see the tension leave his shoulders as relief replaces it. Wow, I don't think I've ever seen him look so uncomfortable.

Talk about stepping out of the box.

"Can't say I do," he says, looking past me, at the dance floor, before focusing on me again. "Can't say I'll ever come here again, either."

"But you came," I point out as he steps closer, pausing right in front of me.

"I did," he says. "I made a promise."

The song changes again.

"Dance with me," I say, grinning as I grab his hand and try to pull him onto the dance floor. It doesn't work. He doesn't budge at all. He's a hell of a lot stronger than me and he's infinitely more stubborn.

"Nobody said anything about dancing."

I stall, glaring at him as I let go of his hand. "You remember that time you took me to that dinner party-slash-political fundraiser-slash-whatever the fuck that was at the hotel in Manhattan?" I reach into my shirt, pulling out the necklace concealed in it. "It was the same night you gave me this."

"Of course I remember."

"You told me to dance with you that night, and I hesitated, and do you remember what you said to me? You told me to stop being chicken shit."

He laughs, loud and genuine, when I say that. "I'm not sure I used those words, sweetheart."

"Whatever," I say. "I danced with you that night, so now it's your turn to pay me back."

"Fair enough." He motions for me to go out on the dance floor, but I just gape at him. He conceded way too quickly. I was prepared for more of a fight. I was conjuring a whole argument to win that one. I was prepared to bring out the tears. "Go on, then."

Shaking it off, I turn around and slip out onto the dance floor, him right behind me. I start to turn around when we reach an open space, but his hands grasp my hips tightly from behind, pulling me back against him.

I dance.

Naz mostly stands there, but I can feel him slightly swaying along, in tune with the beat. Two songs pass, or maybe it's three, before the sound of Bell Biv DeVoe rocks through the speakers.

Poison.

I'm surprised he's giving me this much, but I know it won't last, and I'll probably never get a repeat, so I'm going to make the most of it. Pulling from his grip, I turn around in his arms, glancing at him.

He's singing.

Holy shit, he's singing.

Okay, so not really, because not a sound is coming from his lips, but he's damn sure mouthing the lyrics, which means he knows them. He stops when he realizes I've seen it, and he just stares down at me, but it's too damn late.

I caught him.

"Ignazio Michele Vitale," I say playfully, intentionally flubbing the middle name, just to get more of a rise out of him. "I can't believe you were singing a song from the eighties."

"You were seeing things."

"I don't think so," I say. "I think maybe you like that song. I mean, I know it's no Hotline Bling, but..."

His eyes narrow slightly as his hands slip down, around, resting on my ass. "It's also not from the eighties."

"Of course it is."

"No," he says. "It came out in 1990. I was in middle school. I remember it."

I want to argue but he's probably right, and well, I hadn't been born yet, so I certainly don't remember it. "Well, whatever... doesn't change the fact that you were singing, old man."

His eyes darken when I say that.

It sends a chill down my spine.

"Keep talking to me like that," he says, "and I'll fuck your throat so hard you'll never speak again."

There's no emotion in his voice.

It's matter of fact.

Jesus Christ, that's almost terrifying, but for some reason, I get a thrill out of it. "What if I like that idea?"

"Me destroying your voice box?"

"No, you fucking my throat," I say. "Sounds like it could be a good time."