Page 20 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHLOE

A half-naked woman gapes at me from the surface of a mirror.

She’s a wreck. God, I barely recognize her.

Brown, bloodshot eyes flutter in a losing battle against exhaustion.

Her pretty face is her saving grace. If I squint, and in the right lighting, I’d still call her attractive enough.

She might even hold my attention during a dance.

But she couldn’t hold his. How pathetic is that? I finger his sweatshirt, unable to forget his face or that tight, hollow expression. The more of my clothes I took off, the less he bothered to hide his thoughts. The confusion. The curiosity. The pity…

He pitied me.

“Think these will fit?”

“Huh?” Distracted, I turn my attention to the blonde beside me, who is presumably in the middle of finding me something “hotter” to wear than my current attire.

“You look like a size two.” She holds up a pair of tiny denim shorts and a white bustier and tosses them both onto a rapidly growing stack compiled against the back of a metal folding chair.

We’re in what I assume is the equivalent of Mulligan’s dressing room.

There are no brooding guards here to enforce a code of strict silence—just a burly man lurking outside the door, whom the blonde cheerfully referred to as Joe.

His job seems to revolve more around keeping unwanted visitors out rather than anyone in.

“You looked good out there,” the woman continues as she fishes through the wardrobe and surfaces with a bit of slinky, black material that I think is meant to be worn as a skirt. “You must have danced before. Where at? Murphy’s? Sirens? Big Daddy’s?”

“I don’t think you’d know it,” I tell her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “They…they didn’t pay well.”

“Oh.” The blonde frowns and tugs yet another garment from the closet.

“You can take these, too. The last girl to fit this stuff hasn’t worked here in ages.

I’m Darcy, by the way.” She turns to me with her hands on her hips and extends one in my direction.

“Welcome aboard. Our slots typically start at nine,” she adds once I’ve shaken her hand.

“Ten minutes a girl. We rotate every hour. You can take Molly’s spot.

She got herself knocked up a few months ago, so she’s out on ‘maternity leave’ until next week.

” She makes air quotes around the words, her voice colored by double meaning.

“It’s nearly the end of the shift, so you’ll meet the rest of the girls tomorrow night.

The key players you really need to know are Arno—big guy, red hair, crazy as shit.

He owns this place. As long as you don’t piss him off, he’ll have your back. ”

“Sounds fair enough.”

“Right? Then there’s Francisco, the bartender. Arno’sright-handguy. He can make you any fucking drink on the house—but he’s always listening. If you want to talk shit about this place, don’t do it while he’s around. And then there’s Espi…”

“What about him?” My lungs tense up as if they’re fighting to inhale every trace of that name. Curiosity? Maybe that’s it, explaining the way my pulse hammers even as I picture his face.

“He’s Espi,” Darcy declares. “He’s a good kid, but don’t underestimate him. A lot of people try to because of his age. ”

“How old is he?” I’m caught off guard by the way my stomach clenches in anticipation of the answer. Does it really matter? Maybe. That angelic face could leave even Grey guessing.

“Twenty, I think,” Darcy says offhandedly. “He won’t botheryou,if that’s what you’re worried about. He usually keeps to himself.”

I watch her flip through another series of hangers, desperate to suppress the relief I shouldn’t feel.

She’s pretty. Piotr would have put her on his stage as well, but not because of her looks. I saw the way she counted the stash kept inside her sparkly, pink bra.

This isn’t a game to her. This isbusiness.

“That’s all I can tell you for now,” she says as she shoves the remainder of the approved clothing into a duffel bag. “The rest, you just have to learn as you go along. I guess you can enjoy the rest of the show. Tomorrow, the fun begins. Anyway, I’m on in five.”

She flashes a grin before running a hand through her loose hair and prancing down the hallway that leads to the stage. I hear the usher announcing her arrival from here. Bunny.

Left alone, I don’t know whether or not to take her advice. Enjoy the show. From what little I’ve already seen, there isn’t much to enjoy. The girls are pretty. They’re shapely. They’re harmless.

They’ve never learned to swing on a pole while Piotr watched from his throne and cracked each knuckle in warning. They’ve never had Vlad to contend with should they bore their audience.

They’ve never had to crave the safety of the stage.

Is this the life Anna’s been forced to lead? I picture her swaying against a metal pole, and my throat becomes painfully tight.

Desperate to clear my head, I leave the dressing room with the bag of clothing and hunt for a familiar face.

The bar is packed nearly wall to wall, but I still don’t have trouble differentiating one haunting scent from that of booze and vomit. I follow it over to the bar counter, where I find Espi watching Domi serve up liquor.

Noticing my approach, he lifts a bottle of beer in salute. At least he isn’t holding a grudge for earlier. “How do you like the place so far?”

It’s a rhetorical question. I think he’s just hunting for anything to say at all.

Despite the noise and our raucous surroundings, it’s easy to sense the tension lying underneath.

Arno may hide his emotions well when there isn’t a gun to wave around, but at the heart, he’s no better than Vlad.

They emit their poison subconsciously, infecting everyone around them.

He’s anxious. He’s worried. Unsurprisingly, Espi seems to be of the same mind. He indicates for me to follow before stepping away from the bar and down a narrow hallway that opens up to a rickety stairwell.

“I got you a place,” he announces, turning to face me directly. “If you wanted to stick around here. You and Domi can share it for now. It’s above the club.” He looks pointedly at the steps.

“Oh.” I let the offer sink in, digesting what it really means without him having to explain it out loud—He’ll get his house back, at least. “You think she’ll be safe here?” I can’t hide my skepticism if I tried.

As if to punctuate my words, the sound of shouting followed by glass breaking reaches our corner. A second later, we hear Arno bellow out, “Let ’em fight!”

“Trust me,”Espisays. “This place may look rough, but it’s safe. But just in case”—he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small object—“there’s always this…”

He slides something across my palm, and my hand instinctively cradles it. It’s heavy. Familiar. I relish the weight as my forefinger seeks the trigger out. It’s a gun. Espi’s expression never wavers, and it takes my tongue three attempts to spit out any words at all .

“Why…why would you give me this?”

“If you don’t want it, I can teach Domi to use it—”

“No. It’s fine.” It’s better than fine. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the familiarity of the weapon, but I do now that I’m holding one in my hands again.

The memory of Piotr feels a little further away. Not by much, but it helps.

Still, the bigger question springs to my lips. “You would trust me with this?”

He shrugs casually. “Why not?” He makes it seem so spur of the moment.

But it’s not like that. I can see it in his eyes, which attempt to avoid mine for once.

He’s thought about this long and hard. He knows it’s not his only option—but he also knows that I could kill a man with an ashtray or attack him with a whiskey bottle unprovoked.

He’s already seen the truth—I’m much safer with a gun.

“I’ve got some stuff to take care of tomorrow,” he tells me, shifting his weight from side to side.

“Is something wrong?” Cotton and warmth tickle my fingertips. I’ve touched his shoulder without realizing it.

“I’m fine,” he says, gingerly shrugging me off. “You and Domi can settle in. I’ll be around tomorrow night to check in on you.”

“And that’s it?” I find myself asking. “You take in two women you barely know. You set them up in your ‘friend’s’ bar—a man I just saw torture someone into a game of Russian roulette. Then you leave, and that’s it?”

If he were attracted to me, that would be one thing—but he maintains a healthy distance between us andjust offers up another halfhearted shrug.

“That’s it.” He heads back toward the bar but hesitates over the threshold of the hallway.

“You can head on up and check out the place if you’re sick of hanging out around here.

Francisco will watch over Domi. It’s the last door on the left. Key’s under the mat. ”

After another prolonged second, he leaves without waiting for an answer. Keeping the gun in one hand, I feel my face with the other. Maybe it’s written there? Everything I’m thinking? Or is it just that damn easy to read me these days?

In contrast, his emotions are transcribed in an archaic language. One minute, I think I’ve deciphered the code. The next, a new symbol comes into play, and I have to start all over again.

I find myself taking the stairs two at a time out of a need to do something else than wallow in self-pity.

A short hallway is lined by a row of closed doors.

I follow his instruction and approach the last one on the left, finding a key hidden underneath a black welcome mat when I arrive.

Once I get the door open, I have a decent view of the entire apartment.

It’s small and cramped but clean. There’s only onebedroom,however, right near the front door, two twin beds placed on either side of it.

In addition are a gray couch in the middle of a small living room and a narrow kitchen.

It’s not much, butit’s definitelymore than the average person would dish out to a stranger.