Page 19 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

ESPI

“Did you hear what that dumbass said?” Arno hisses the moment we’re alone. “ Spanish .” He snatches up the bottle of rum and drinks right from the rim. After swallowing, he spits onto the floor and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I bet the fucker’s never heard of goddamn Portuguese.”

“That’s quite the leap to make from a woman with an accent—”

“A leap? Do you know of any bitch in the Cartel who gives orders?” He slams the bottle onto the table so hard that most of the booze sloshes out from the top.

“Oh, what’s that?” He tilts the bottle to me like a makeshift microphone.

“I fucking thought so. It’s her. You know, I saw her kill a man once. It was sloppy. Messy.”

Messy …like the murdering of a club full of Russians on Petrov’s payroll. Whoever she is, the lady certainly has a flair for the dramatic. And a death wish.

Could it be Danny, a woman who all but grew up in the heart of the mafia? I don’t know. I don’t want to. Here I was, holding out hope for a happy-ending motorcycle ride into the sunset for her and Dante after he got her out of that hellhole .

“What? That surprise you?” Arno chuckles to rub in my silence and takes another sip of liquor.

Then another. A second later, he’s finished off the whole damn bottle.

“I’ll tell you what would surprise me though.

” He slams the bottle down again, his eyes gleaming in the dim lighting.

“If you heard from Dante or that little bitch and didn’t think to enlighten me. ”

I grit out a sigh. “I haven’t heard from either of them—”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, now would you?” He’s been drinking too much. The violet bruises beneath his eyes warn he hasn’t slept, either—though that can’t be completely blamed on paranoia or grief.

In six months, he’s turned the Gardai from a laughingstock into a force even Piotr Petrov has to acknowledge. Surprise, surprise, revenge fuels most of that newfound ambition. The best of men could forgive someone for bailing on them once.

Never twice.

And I know better than to pour salt into his wounds now. Dante can do his own dirty work.

“You haven’t heard anything?” he presses. “Not even a fucking postcard?”

“If I had, I would have told you.” I sound like a hostage reading a script, though maybe I am. I’ve memorized what to say when he’s like this. It’s become a fucking mantra. “Look. Dante’s my brother—”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“But so are you. You were always there for me. Always. I won’t bail on you.” Tonight, anyway. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Arno hisses out a breath, his shoulders slumping as he braces one hand against the table. “I do—I fucking know that. I know that.”

We both just needed to hear me say it, though for very different reasons.

“It’s probably just a fucking coincidence,” he adds, shaking his head. “Some new gang on the scene that wants a cut of the pie. Whoever they are can get in fucking line.” He runs his hand down the side of his jeans, his palm resting over where he keeps his gun.

That little tea party didn’t cure his itch for violence. Before the week’s out, he’s going to empty that chamber into someone. It’s another addiction he’s developed, in addition to booze.

“You said that guy worked for the Cartel, but he wasn’t from south of the border, if you know what I mean,” I say, changing the subject. “Jose isn’t known for his inclusive employment policy.”

“You’re right. He didn’t,” Arno admits between clenched teeth.

“He was one of the Jersey Devils. Those crack-dealing punks. Their whole den got wiped out two nights ago, courtesy of the so-called Spanish bitch, and he ran to Jose like a little pussy rather than remember who his gang owes their protection to. Word on the street is the arsonists are the same ones who ghosted the Russians, but no one seems to know where they hold base or just who they’re after. ”

“Shit.”

“You got that right.” Arno hauls himself upright and runs a hand through his hair.

The look on his face could be called a smile by some loose definition of the term.

Nothing seems to reach him these days like the threat of a good fight.

“But you didn’t come here about that.” He meets my gaze directly, and I almost think I see a hint of his old self. “You wanted something. What?”

It’s not an ideal subject to tackle while he’s still got Old Besty the revolver in his pocket, but rarely is he this lucid after downing a whole bottle.

“I have some friends who need jobs—and before you even ask, they both could bring trouble.” I inhale sharply, wishing I had a cigarette to take the edge off. “ And …they’re Russians, both from Piotr’s territory.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arno raises an eyebrow, his fingers twitching in and out of fists. “I assume you have a good reason for bringing that shit into my bar.”

“No good reason,” I admit. “They need protection—”

“What makes you think that we won’t need protection if they decide to bring their little Ruskie friends in for a tour?”

“It’s not like that. One of the girls was one of…

one of theirs,” I say for lack of a better word.

“Newly freed this afternoon. She needs someplace to lie low before I can get her out of the city. And she’s the one who fed me all that intel on Vlad and his operation.

Information you can use now to take over some of the bastard’s territory, if you haven’t already. ”

Arno always was an opportunist.

“As for the other… She killed Vladimir Olshenkov that night at the club. With an ashtray. Use your imagination to figure out how.”

“Damn,” Arno grunts. Whether in amusement or appreciation, I can’t tell. “So, Vlad’s dead.”

I nod. “I guess I never got to give you the full story of what happened.”

“I figured as much on my own. The Ruskies are running around the fucking city like rats without a queen. Piotr must not be back in the country yet. I might as well make my mark while I can.” He has that hungry look again. The one he typically wears before playing games of Russian roulette.

“So, can they stay?” I ask, bringing his attention back to the subject at hand.

He shrugs. “I got to meet them first. See for myself where their loyalties may lie.”

“I had Francisco show them around. They just want to make some money. You’ll barely even know they’re here.”

He scoffs. “I doubt that. You have a way of attracting trouble. Just like—” He shakes his head to cut the thought off. “Let’s go. I need another drink.”

He snatches up the empty bottle and carries it with him to the door.

When we reach the main room, jeers and whistles rise up from the crowd, rivaling the intensity of whatever song’s playing.

True to form, Arno smiles fiercely before slapping the ass of the first woman to sidle up to him.

He’ll never let them see the worst the bottle brings out in him.

He’ll never let them see the doubt.

“That one of them?” he grunts once he’s finished putting on his show, having spotted Domi already.

I make out a flash of red hair behind the counter. “Yeah.”

“Where’s the other one?”

That’s a damn good question.

The thought’s barely finished crawling through my head when the music cuts off, and someone grabs a microphone near the front of the stage. “Get ready for a special show, you fucks,” the emcee declares. “We’ve got a newbie to the spotlight. Put your hands together for Angel!”

The name alone draws laughs when paired with the appearance of the woman who climbs onto the stage.

Angel. She definitely doesn’t look like one.

Maybe it’s the dark, unholy gleam in her eye.

Or maybe it’s the dry, lifeless, dark hair and the oversized clothes she’s wearing.

In comparison to Darcy’s skimpy, pink halter, it’s not the type of attire these men are used to.

“The fuck?” Arno hisses.

The music starts up, drowning out any argument he makes.

Only there’s no beat to rile the crowd or pounding bass to dance to.

Apparently, someone thought it would be funny to set Angel up for a humiliating little “audition.” I can’t put a name to what runs through my chest when I see her standing there, frozen solid, her head bowed.

I spot the DJ grinning behind the booth and start in that direction, curling my hands into fists. Once I get my hands on him, he’ll be the one entertaining everyone.

No.

Flashing yellow eyes stop me in my tracks, and I nearly plow into some biker in front of me.

Any protest dies in my throat. Her hips sway as if to spite me, forging her own sensual rhythm from the music.

Slow. Fast. Slower. Brown hair drapes her shoulders as her head rears back, displaying her throat and stealing my fucking breath away.

At Moe’s, I was too busy making sure not to blow my cover to watch her dance. A beautiful blonde was a dime a dozen in a place like that—it felt wrong to look.

But here…

The defiant tilt of her chin dares me to look away— “And here I was, assuming you really were a pervert.”

Fuck it. I am. Her swaying limbs capture my attention and consume it. The longer I stare, the more disoriented I feel. It’s like she’s on another goddamn planet. The noise doesn’t affect her. No one can touch her.

Especially not me.

With an easy shift of her weight, she grabs the pole with one hand and swings herself around it. Only a few words trickle across my brain to describe the movement—sloppy, wild…fucking beautiful.

She peels the sweatshirt off first, building tension with every slow raise of her fingers. It hits the floor as the stage lights reflect off the sweat on her skin like glitter. The smooth curve of her back is all I see. Then her hip. The top of her thigh…

Gritting my teeth, I turn away and find that Domi’s watching me from the bar. When I take the stool across from her, she hands me a drink, but her eyes don’t leave the stage.

The dance could last minutes. Seconds. I just know that I’m still staring at my hands when the emcee reclaims the microphone and shouts something to stir up the crowd.

A hand falls over my shoulder. Arno. “They can stay,” he grunts as he pushes past me.

I should follow him. Anything but wait for the slim figure weaving through the crowd toward me.

She’s still topless, her unbound hair doing little to hide her body from every horny biker clambering for a glance.

As she draws even with my stool, she leans in so that I can hear her above the music.

Her smell affects me more than the booze does.

“Is something wrong? Did I rip any stitches?”

“What?” I look down, hunting for blood. My hands are shaking too badly to touch her. I have to knot them into fists. “They look fine to me.”

She’s trembling though, like a druggie during a wild high. For whatever reason, she seems to think I’m the unstable one. Her hand brushes my arm. “Are you okay?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, raising my voice over the music. “I mean, you don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.” Real smooth, Espi. I don’t even know what I’m trying to fucking say, but I can’t stop talking. “We can find something else for you to do.”

“Is there something wrong with dancing?” Her wary tone warns that I’ve stepped on a landmine.

“No. Of course not. Here.” I shrug my hoodie off and offer it to her.

She accepts it without comment, draping it around herself and zipping it up to her chin.

“You got the job, by the way.”

“Good.” Her expression doesn’t change as she claims the shot meant for me and drains it. Then she wipes her hand across her mouth and turns away. “But I won’t stick around for long. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable .”

Shit. She slips through the crowd before I can say anything. Going off the slight flush to her cheeks, I’ve pissed her off.

Way to go, Espi . I start after her, but in the end, I just order another drink. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself for one night.

God willing, it won’t happen again. Maybe she should make good on her promise to skip town. I tell myself that’s what I want.

But a part of me doesn’t buy it, no matter how many shots I down.

Not one fucking bit.