Page 2 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER TWO

CHLOE

The real Devil sets up shop in a brick building downtown, where a flashing neon sign above the door reads Moe’s . He doesn’t require fire or brimstone to keep his captured souls in line, either.

Just money. A lot of it.

Workers and patrons alike congregate near the entrance to the club, and I squint to tally up what little features I can decipher. Dark hair, not red. Thin, but not petite. One question lingers no matter how many details I hunt for. After all this time, will I even recognize her?

The engine of the truck cuts off with a death rattle–like hiss, mercifully drowning out the thought. “Take it all in,” my partner, Grey, warns as he rolls down his window and spits onto the pavement. “ This is what you volunteered for rather than taking that nice, cushy desk job.”

“Very funny,” I counter, making my voice snappy on purpose. After less than a month of working with him, I’ve learned that he doesn’t tolerate fear from anyone. “Are you going to suggest I wear kid gloves, too?”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But this isn’t like our usual beat. And it certainly isn’t like that Podunk town in Montana you transferred from. Welcome to the goddamn strip.”

He doesn’t know of my past. The horror unfolding in my gaze could be a result of my so-called innocence as far as he’s concerned.

Not painful recognition.

Seven years later, the rundown block looks untouched, as if the past few years only affected me.

“Parker?” Grey snaps his fingers beneath my nose.

“Huh? Oh.” Parker. That’s right. I’m not Ksenia anymore, the urchin who escaped to the west. It’s Chloe Parker now, someone supposedly stronger. Harder. Braver?

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out,” Grey adds. “Though I wouldn’t blame you.” With twenty years of experience on the force, he doesn’t miss my nervous swallow. His eyes narrow. “Remember, it’s straightforward, but let’s go over the basics. You are here because…”

“Because I’m the only one who could fit into a size two.”

“Smart ass,” Grey mutters. “For real, kid. Why are you here?”

Because I’m stupid. Because I’m an idiot for returning to this damn city. Because I’m desperate enough to chase a ghost.

“Because I spent two years in special victims,” I say out loud, “even if it was in a ‘Podunk’ town in Montana. I’m trained to carry a weapon, as well as consult on sex crimes, and I transferred here to make a difference—”

“And you’re our cover if any of the press find out about this fucking suicide mission and whine about how we’re taking advantage of a bunch of hookers.”

“Or that,” I say. He always did have a way of getting to the heart of the matter.

“Let’s cut to the chase. You mingle. You see if you hear anything interesting.

Piotr’s been busy these days. Word on the street is that he’s cutting a deal with Arno Mackenzie, the gun runner.

Not to mention his dealings with the Cartel.

See what you can learn, but then you leave.

Don’t speak to anyone for too long. They may seem like harmless little girls, but don’t buy the act.

They’d sell your ass out in a heartbeat. ”

He’s referring to the women gathered along the sidewalk with even less patience than me and my so-called humble roots.

So many haunted, battered faces. Hope and dread mingle into a painful mixture that lumps in my throat.

No red hair or blue eyes. Maybe I don’t want to find her after all. Not like this.

“I’ll let you off here,” Grey announces.

“And for god’s sake, stop fidgeting. You never wear a dress before?

I could blend in better than you.” He scoffs at the black fabric clinging to me like a second skin, and I let my hand fall from the plunging neckline.

“Don’t forget. You’re the one who volunteered for this.

Though, if you’ve changed your mind, I could get us another assignment before the end of the shift—”

“No.” I push the door on my end open and climb out without giving him the chance to reach for his radio. “I can do this.”

I adjust the red wig shielding my natural hair and spot my destination.

Memories taint the air, as tangible as the cigarette smoke and polka music seeping through the walls of the nearby club—a repulsive enough combination to deter even the drunkest local.

If not, the burly bouncers stationed on either side of the entrance do the trick.

They stare right through me as I pick my way across the street. Either luck is on my side, or something else consumes their attention. Keeping my head down, I don’t question. In and out. Information. That’s all I need.

Red hair. Blue eyes. Petite.

“The fuck are you?” Someone nudges my hip the moment I mount the curb.

Not a redhead, but a lanky brunette with a thick Russian accent.

The remnants of a healing bruise circle her left eye, and she hasn’t even bothered to hide her mark—the indigo tattoo at the nape of her neck that proclaims her name and her number. 23 .

I ignore her, pushing through the thick of the crowd, but her breath remains hot on the back of my neck.

“This street is Piotr’s territory,” she hisses. “He doesn’t like competition.”

I stop cold. That name shouldn’t affect me the way it does. Not now.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the girl adds, continuing to follow me the moment I remember how to move. “Most girls usually don’t look so…clean.”

She’s right. Everyone here is sporting some bruise or another. Each injury serves as a painful incentive to fight for the next car that slows before the curb. A panting blonde wins this round and claims the passenger’s seat of some creep’s Volvo, slamming the door behind her.

I stare long after the car has turned the corner. Once upon a time, I was that girl.

Not anymore . The night air sinks into my lungs, acting as an anchor against the memories, and I blink, focusing on the club once again.

The bouncers guarding the doors are alert tonight, but it’s not the girls they’re watching.

The road has their sole attention. They don’t even trade a joke like they would have in the old days. It’s as if they’re waiting for someone.

Or some thing .

“They’ll beat your ass if they know you don’t belong here,” my newfound shadow snarls into my ear, following my gaze. “I suggest you leave, or—”

“Have you seen this girl?”

The change of subject throws her off, and she steps back.

“She’s fifteen. Red hair. Her name…” I reach into my bra and withdraw a crumpled photograph I printed from a police database what feels like a lifetime ago. The edges flutter in the wind as I shove it beneath the girl’s nose without looking at it myself. “Her name is Anna. ”

The girl raises an eyebrow, cutting her gaze to the photo and then away. “No.”

Disappointment claws through my chest, but I swallow hard and return the picture to its place nestled against my rib cage.

This could be a blessing in disguise. After all, there’s a reason Grey wanted to focus his operation here.

More girls than usual have been washing up in rivers or winding up dead in alleyways.

All of them sport the same infamous indigo tattoo.

The syndicate is getting sloppy.

Or fearless.

“You said Piotr owns this block?” Somehow, I don’t choke on the name.

“Yes, Piotr. He runs the entire strip. And you don’t want him to see you,” the girl whispers. “You’re pretty. He likes that.”

“Is he here?” My voice shakes this time. But I’m here for Anna, not him. I’m here for Anna…

“No, he isn’t,” the girl says.

“What?” My confusion is genuine. Piotr’s absence is a new development. An alarming one.

The brunette blinks, her gaze a fraction sharper as she hones in on my ill-fitting wig and then my thigh as if sensing the holster strapped to it.

“I need to work.” Her gaze flickers away, and she’s already backing out of my reach. “I’m not sleeping in the alley again, and Vlad said he’d break my jaw next time I—”

“Vlad’s in charge now?” Old fear seeps into my tone, impossible to smother.

Suddenly, the microphone hidden against my chest weighs a ton. I don’t even have to picture Grey’s reaction to know I’ve gone too far. Focus, girl, he’d snarl . If you can’t keep your shit together, then cut and run.

“Thanks,” I croak, turning on my heel. “I’ll take my chances on another corner—”

“Wait.” The girl grabs my wrist, stopping me mid-step. “Oleg,” she calls to one of the bouncers. “New girl feels sick. I’ll show her where to wash up.”

Oleg, a beefy man with a bald head and a beer gut, grunts. “Five minutes.”

The girl pulls me along, and I do my best to stagger, keeping up the act.

“Where are we going?” I ask when we reach the back of the club.

A bony hand slams into my lower back, shoving me forward. Shit! I stagger into the wall, helpless as my wig is yanked from behind. Not off, but up , revealing the nape of my neck.

“Let go!” I twist, swatting her hand away, but it’s too fucking late.

Without resistance, the brunette takes two steps back, a smug smile tugging at her mouth. “Everyone’s heard of Piotr,” she says. “ Everyone —”

“So what if I have?” I can’t stop myself from rubbing the back of my neck, where my own tattoo lurks.

“Listen.” With a wary glance at the mouth of the alley, the girl steps closer. “I’ve been here six months, and I’ve seen six number tens come and go since then. It’s like he hates the number more than the girl who wears it—wait!” She looks back as a fire door opens from the inside of the club.

A man is standing behind it. He’s tall, with a buzz cut, a tailored suit, and a cold expression. A bouncer. “You two,” he snarls in Russian. “Get back to the fucking road—” He breaks off, cocking his head as someone shouts something from within. “Wait. Come. You dance tonight.”

The girl beside me doesn’t hesitate. She hastens to the door, her eyes downcast.

“Did you fucking hear me?” The man whistles to me as if beckoning an animal. “Come.”