Page 25 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ESPI

Arno is waiting for me near the back door ofMulligan’s, a bottle in his hand. He leans against the doorway, blocking my way. “You’ve been out a lot lately.”

Damn it. My fingers clench, aching for a cigarette—any excuse to walk away. Arno doesn’t do small talk, and I’m not in the mood for a fight. Not now.

“I’ve been busy,” I grit out, but he doesn’t move, not even whenwe’re toeto toe.

“Out doing what ?” His breath hits me full in the face, practically acidic with liquor. “More of your little side projects? You think I don’t know what shit you get up to when my back is turned?”

Does he? If so, he’s taking the idea of my leaving better than expected.

“You’re looking for him ,” he says as his knuckles whiten over the liquor bottle.

Dante?

“If you have been,” he adds before I can deny it, “I’ve got a lead…” He takes another swig directly from the bottle and spits the swill out at his feet .

My common sense warns me to step back, but he doesn’t seem liable to strike out with either the bottle or his fists. Yet.

“A good one—so don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snaps. “I didn’t want to let you know until it panned out, but I can’t have your ass running around the city every fucking day. I need you here.”

“A lead,” I repeat carefully. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to mention my impromptu family reunion. “What kind?”

“I need more time.” He shakes his head. “I’ll let you know when I hear something—”

“So I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“Is there some reason why you can’t trust me now,Espisido?”

I don’t answer. My problem never was about trusting him. “Fine.”

“Tomorrow at the latest,” he says. “I can promise you that.”

He steps aside, and I push my way past him without digging any further and leave the pub. With Arno, sometimes it’s better to be in the dark.

I wake up sprawled over my sketchbook and waste most of the day avoiding my ringing cell phone. In the end, I miss out on at least two jobs. A few sips of whiskey and I forget why I need the money.

Almost.

Alone, I head to Mulligans after midnight, and the roar of music and laughter swallows me whole the moment I enter the barroom.

It’s a full house tonight. Most of the crowd hovers around the stage, fighting for a glimpse of the main show.

If Darcy’s on, I might as well toss her a wave before asking for another favor—Domi needs clothes that cover her ass.

I look up. Shit. The woman approaching the pole is not Darcy; the features are all wrong. Messy, brown hair. Pale skin.Bodybarely covered by skimpy black lace...

I turn away, but it’s too fucking late. My jeans feel tighter.

The itch beneath my skin bites a little deeper.

My fingers shake. It takes me three tries to lift a cigarette from my pocket as I push my way to the bar counter.

From behind it, Domi tosses me a smile, but the moment I reach an empty stool and sit…

I turn around, driven by the same impulse that has me dragging on the cig so hard that I choke.

She’s already into the start of her set, and her eyes find mine in an instant.

I inhale another puff like it’s an antidote to her poison—but the longer I watch her, the more she floods my veins.

She moves slowly, finding the hidden pulse within the music until her entire body is in motion, like gasoline drizzled on a flame.

Just when the tempo starts to build, she heads for the pole.

I don’t want to watch her climb onto it, but I do.

She’s got the crowd in the palm of her hand.

The same one she’s gliding down to the swell of her ass before she fingers the hem of a lacy, black thong.

She tugs on the strap, and my throat lurches at the sight of creamy, pale skin underneath, marred by scars.

Tainted with secrets. A heartbeat later, the material is in her hands and flung carelessly into the crowd.

Some bastard grabs it, waving the damn thing through the air, but she barely spares him any attention.

Her eyes are on me as she reaches for her bra. She easily peels the material loose, slowly…slowly. In one quick motion, she lets it slip from her fingers.

Like my control. It hits the floor along with everything else.

My cig hangslimplyfrom my lips as I take in her full breasts swaying when she swings. Her hips glisten as she gradually winds herself down from the pole without seeming to notice or care that she’s naked.That hungry eyes are watching her. That her indifference only makes the jeers louder.

She doesn’t even stop to gather the dollar bills flying in her direction on her way off the stage. I’m already on my feet, pushing my way through the crowd. I catch flashes of her in bits and pieces. Heaving shoulders. Pale skin.

She opened the stitches. My brain clings to that excuse as I barge into the dressing room. She’s alone this time, standing in the corner and tugging on a pair of black shorts, still topless. Her fingers freeze when she spots me, her ass stillbare.

“I…” My throat goes drier as I fumble for any goddamn excuse. “I need to check the stitches—”

She flings her arm out without turning around, and I can see for myself that the wound is intact. But I keep moving, ignoring how she backs up with every damn step I take. She’s flush with the wall beside a vanity when I finally manage to dig my heels into the floor.

“I’m sorry… I…”

“Are they torn?” She extends her arm, and my fingers find her skin, circling carefullyalongher wrist. Up to her elbow. Higher, to her shoulder. More.

I should pull away. Selfishness must be anotherViallefamily trait.

The rush I feel… It’s like inhaling on a cigarette—the icy, familiar burn, the fear that I might choke if I take too much too fast. The numbing clarity that comes after.

One hit of her splits my fucking brain in half.

I inhale raggedly and don’t even realize that I’ve pulled away until her free hand grabs mine, clenching tight.

I expect her to break the remaining fingers in warning. She seems like the type. Instead, she forces them open, turning my instinctivefistinto a grasping claw. The pad of her thumb grazes my palm, and she stares at it as if she’s counting each and every individual line and crevice.

Our gazes meet over the mirror’s surface of the nearest vanity, drawing me closer. One step. Two. Three. She doesn’t let up until her ass meets my hip, the back of her head is against my shoulder…and my hand is on her breast .

She holds it there, lightly enough that I could pull away. I fucking should. I can’t. I don’t. My fingers curve instead, sensing the heat running beneath her skin, driven by the rhythm of her pulse. I feel thegaspthat catches in her throat, brief and broken.

My other hand finds her hip. My fingers have a mind of their own when they flatten against it,splayedand searching, feeling the firm bones and delicate skin. I’ve drawn nudes before, but never anyone like her.

She’s art, scribbled and marked over in a million barely visible scars.

One onher lower back catches at my fingertips, just beyond the edge of a series of tattoos—black symbols I vaguely recognize as belonging to the Russian alphabet, Cyrillic.

It’s another detail of her I steal away.

Like the fact that, going off the dark curls I glimpsed between her legs during her show, she really isn’t a natural blond.

Does it matter? Something warns me that it does. Every bit of her seems to add up to one indiscernible picture—Little Miss Yellow. I could draw her using just that one shade and never lose any detail. But it isn’t long before my brain turns to more than sketching.

“They’re still intact,” I tell her, pulling away.

“The stitches, I mean.” I head for the door without looking back and keep moving until I’m in the alley behind the bar.

I lean against the nearest wall, pull out a pack of cigs, and light four of them up one by one.

I inhale them all down to nothing, flicking the ashes at my feet.

I fish out another cig and flick the end of it with my lighter. It’s been a long time since I chain-smoked a whole pack at once. But why quit now? I’m already halfway there.