"My place."

His place. Oh, God… "How did I—?"

"You were drugged."

Those words stall me as my stomach sinks. I gape at him. Drugged? I was drugged? That panic surfaces again so quickly that I can feel it viciously rising, bile burning my throat. "You drugged me?"

His expression shifts, all amusement dying away at my question. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring as he regards me with an anger that makes my blood run cold. "I did nothing to you."

"I, uh… I didn't mean…" Pulling my legs up, I try to fold into myself, slinking away from his tone. "I didn't know."

"You were slurring and struggled to stand up when I ran into you," he says. "Your breathing was shallow, your eyes distant, and you were confused, couldn't keep ahold of anything. You went unconscious on the sidewalk, and your pulse was slow. You were practically wearing a sign, sweetheart. Drugged."

The word 'sweetheart' slips from his lips with ease, but there's little warmth to it. The cold tone makes a chill creep down my spine. The man's intense.

"So you, uh, brought me to your place?" I ask incredulously. "When you saw I was drugged?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in question. "Take you to the hospital, to the police, after you'd been drinking… underage, none-the-less."

"You could've taken me home."

"I could've... had I known where that was. You were alone, and your license lists a PO Box upstate. I couldn't very well drop you off at the post office in Syracuse, now could I?"

"No," I say. I didn't think about that. I never bothered to have my address changed. I haven't lived in Syracuse since right after I got my license at sixteen.

"So I brought you here," he continues, "because I couldn't in good conscience leave you out there."

I stare at him as those words sink in. Ignoring the fact that I'm in a stranger's house, in a stranger's bed, with no memory of getting there, I feel a peculiar sense of relief. If what he says is true, that makes him my savior… my knight in shining armor, even if I refuse to buy into being the damsel in distress.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm, uh… I'm Karissa."

He knows my name, but it feels like the right thing to do, to introduce myself. Maybe it will be slightly less awkward if he isn't a complete stranger to me anymore.

"My name's Ignazio."

My brow furrows in confusion at his unique name, my reaction causing his hardened expression to break. He smiles again, this time letting out a light laugh.

"You can call me Naz, if you prefer," he says.

"Naz." The name sounds weird on my tongue. "I've never met a Naz before."

"I like to think I'm one of a kind."

He stares at me, and once again, I'm not sure what to say. I feel like a fool, just sitting here, wrapped up in his sheets that smell so masculine, like I imagine he smells if I get close enough to inhale the scent of him. Although my heart has slowed down, my anxiety lessening, my head hurts like a son of a bitch.

And not to mention I still have to pee.

"I, uh…" I feel my cheeks flushing. "Do you have a bathroom I can use?"

He nods, breaking eye contact, and turns toward the open door behind him. "Just down the hall, last door on the left."

I climb out of the bed, my legs wobbly as I stand up. Geez, how long have I been out? Ducking my head, unable to look at Naz, I scurry past him, down the hall. The bathroom is massive, everything bright white just like the bedroom, the marble floor cold under my bare feet. The light burns my eyes when I flip it on, and I squint, trying to adjust to the brightness. I take care of business, groaning when I catch sight of my reflection in a mirror afterward.

I look like death.

My eyes are bloodshot, makeup streaked all over my face, a big smudge of color marring my skin. My hair is little more than a tangled rats nest perched on top of my head, and I'm still wearing the godforsaken spandex.

Grimacing, I try to fix myself up, splashing water on my face and running my fingers through my hair, but it does little to help. Giving up, I head back out, my steps unhurried.

I'm in no rush to face him again, knowing how I look.

He's still standing just in the doorway of the bedroom, his hands in his pocket, his stance full of ease. He's not at all uncomfortable having a strange girl in his home… in his bedroom.

Does anything bother him?

He turns, catching my eye when I approach the doorway, but I stop there, not going back into that room.

"I don't usually look this way," I say, motioning toward myself, feeling the need to explain my disaster of an appearance.

He smiles again. He has a nice smile—the kind that's warm but not overly friendly. It's genuine, nothing forced about it. He smiles like he means it. I don't know much about this man, but he doesn’t seem like the type to do anything needlessly.

"I figured," he says, his eyes scanning me, making my cheeks flush again. "Eighties night."

"Yeah."

"As a man who was around back then, I can tell you that most people didn't dress that way."

"Ugh, I know. Acid-wash and shoulder pads were all the rage, right?"

"Yes."

I eye him peculiarly, trying again to guess his age. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle, but I don't spot any wrinkles. "So you remember the eighties well?"