Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

"I do, but we don't," I say, pulling off a wedge and holding it out to her. "Got this while I was out."

She doesn't hesitate to snatch it right from my hand, eating it before motioning toward me, silently asking for another piece. Or more like demanding it, since she knows I'll give it to her. She doesn't need to ask. I break what's left in half, forfeiting part to her, as my attention turns back to the movie.

I'm not paying her any attention.

That's why it catches me off guard when she throws her part of the orange down and jumps up from the couch, accidentally kicking me to get around where I'm sitting. I jolt, startled, and turn to her, but she's gone.

She's already out of the room.

She's running.

I'm not one to fall victim to herd mentality, but I'm on my feet without a thought, following her. She's up the stairs and down the hallway.

I catch up to her in the bathroom.

The door is wide open, and she's on her knees in front of the toilet, losing everything in her stomach. Panic sweeps through me. It's a rare sensation. It makes me sick to my stomach.

That's all it is, isn't it?

I look at my hand, at the remnants of the orange that I'm clutching. Son of a bitch. I should've known better than to actually eat something he gave me. The thought didn't even cross my mind that it might not be safe.

I'm getting soft.

Too soft.

This isn't like me.

This soft, flawed idiot I've become is nothing like the strong-willed man I always prided myself as being. That man didn't take candy from strangers and just fucking eat it like he had no reason to be worried. That man knew the cost of being soft.

I toss what's left of the fruit in the trashcan before crouching beside Karissa, my hand on her back. It seems to have let up already, and now she's just laying there, against the toilet, her head down, like she's planning to go to sleep.

I'm trying hard not to be disturbed by that.

I scrubbed it not long ago, one night when I couldn't sleep.

But, still... I piss in that thing.

"Karissa, baby..." My voice is quiet. I'm not trying to alarm her. "Talk to me."

She turns her head, opening her eyes. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"What makes you think that?"

Her face contorts at that question. "Other than the fact that I'm laying halfway in the toilet?"

"Other than that."

"I've felt like crap all day. I'm queasy. Exhausted. I almost feel hung-over, but I didn't drink last night, so…"

"So you're coming down with something."

"Yep."

I rub her back a moment longer before standing up, offering her a hand. She lets me help her stand up, not at all arguing when I grab her, sweeping her right off of her feet, and carry her down the hall to the bedroom. Yeah, must be coming down with something to not put up a fight over that.

I get her settled into the bed and run my hand along her forehead. She's clammy but not hot. "How about some soup?"

"You going to have some delivered?"

"No, I'm going to cook."

"We don't have any Campbell's."

"I don't need any," I tell her. "I know how to make soup from scratch."

She stares at me with disbelief as she throws the covers off that I just got on her. "If you're cooking, I'm watching."

Laughing, I force her back into the bed and once again put the covers over her. "Relax. You can watch some other time. Right now you need to take it easy."

She pouts but again doesn't argue, staying put. I plug my phone in to charge, laying it on the bedside stand, as I leave the bedroom.

Killer stands in the hallway between the bedroom and the stairs, watching me. He growls a bit as I pass, but I ignore him, heading downstairs.

The pantry is loaded with ingredients, thanks to her incessant desire to learn how to cook everything she sees on television. I want to make her my mother's Italian Chicken Soup, and pull out everything I remember her using for it when I was a kid, but I'm drawing a blank and having to wing some of it.

Or most of it, rather.

It has been a long time since she last made it for me.

I spend a while getting it together and letting it simmer on the stove before heading back into the den, this time alone. The theme from The Godfather echoes through the room as the credits roll on the television screen. Grabbing the remote again, I flip through channels, stalling when I reach the local news, catching a breaking report about a small corner store in Hell's Kitchen exploding, taking out the entire apartment building above it.

Gas leak, they're calling it, but I know better.

Because I know that store. I know those apartments.

I was just inside them, visiting Armando, threatening him for information.

I'm staring at the live feed playing from the site, barely listening to what the reporter's saying, but I catch a few of her words, the tail end of her segment.

A black car seen lurking near the business, missing a license plate.

I wonder why that is.

I turn off the television and sit in silence for a moment, letting that sink in.

I didn't give up any names, but I wouldn't be surprised if Lorenzo riddled it out. If he figured out where I got my information and decided to silence the source.

I may have very well gotten Armando killed this afternoon.

And I might've even helped Lorenzo get away with it.

When the soup's finished, I carry a bowl of it upstairs, finding Karissa lying in bed, playing on a phone. My phone.

The sight of it stalls me.

Not that I've got anything to hide from her. I try not to keep any secrets. If she wants to know, I'll tell her. But still, my natural instinct is to balk. "What are you doing?"

She looks up at me, smiling, and sets the phone down. She doesn't look alarmed, like she's been caught doing anything she shouldn't have been doing. "Just changing your ringtone to something more you."