Page 8 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER SIX

ESPI

Yellow is the color of crazy. Some art professor claimed that once during a lecture on additive color theory. Eight hundred dollars for those credits and it’s the only advice I remember. What do you get when you mix something as volatile as red with something as vibrant as green? You get yellow.

This woman—she’s the definition of the color yellow. Vibrant. Volatile. Her hair. Her skin. Even her eyes seem yellow in the right lighting—not to mention crazy. She has to be insane to have gone into that club alone.

Vlad sure knew how to pick his girls. He even gave me a rundown of what he looked for. Vlad liked them meek. Pretty. “A bitch who knows how to give good head.” Ironically for him, this one gave him very good head . The cops won’t have much of his left to identify him by.

He tried his best to take her with him though.

At least she’s still breathing, her chest rising and falling at a steady rate.

I attempted to drape a sweater over her, but she shrugged it off.

My brother was like that. Too fucking proud to accept so much as a Band-Aid if he hadn’t earned it himself .

He’d know what to do if he were in my shoes right now. He’d do the smart thing and pass the buck. Or cut and run.

I grit my teeth at the thought and fish a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I slip two cigs in on either side of my mouth and flick a lighter, burning both ends. One drag clears my head.

And Little Miss Yellow must take my sigh as her cue to wake up. “Where am I?” The brave Russian stripper’s been replaced by a tired, weary American.

“Your accent’s gone,” I tell her. So Domi was right—She was undercover. Though as a cop? I’m still not sure.

“Where am I?” she wonders, her voice hoarse.

I kick back from the table, flipping my sketchbook closed. With one hand, I snatch the cigarettes from my mouth. “My place. It’s safe,” I add as her teeth skewer her lower lip. “Look, do you have some family I could call or something? I’ll admit it—I looked for ID, but you’ve got nothing.”

Just like that, her expression falls flat. She feels along her chest as if searching for something. Her fingers shake as they pull away empty. “I guess I don’t,” she says. “But why help me?” Her gaze darts to the front door. Even though she’s sewn up, I doubt she can stand on her own yet.

“I don’t know.” I take another drag on both cigs and then put one out on the surface of the table, observing the trail of ash left behind. “I think it’s a good idea if you stick around for a while though. You can crash here as long as you need to.”

“Thank you.” With her good arm, she feels around for the edge of the discarded sweater and drags it over her, blocking my view of any clues that might give her away.

Like the scars on her legs. Or how the blood on her hands doesn’t seem to bother her as much as my doubt does. “But I should get going.”

“You should take this.” I reach into my pocket and withdraw a wad of cash. She merely stares when I toss it onto the table. “I got that from…our little friend. It’s yours—”

“Keep it,” she says. “Consider it a gift. ”

I exhale, and the smoke distorts my view of her, Little Miss Yellow. Even so, her emotions are as easy to decipher as paint on a blank canvas. She’s in pain. She’s tired. Scared.

Don’t I know the feeling.

“Let me get you something to eat.” I stand and head for the fridge. “Do you want eggs? Or…” I yank on the fridge door and scan the contents inside it. So much for being generous. I don’t even have milk. “Or eggs.”

“I’m not hungry.”

I glance over my shoulder and find her still on the couch, her head braced against the cushions. The act doesn’t fool me. Her fingers keep fidgeting with the sleeves of the sweater. She’s antsy.

“I know this isn’t the ideal hotel, but again, I think you should stay here for a while, if that’s all right with you,” I suggest as I close the door.

“Or you’ll handcuff me again?”

“I apologize for that.” Going off her strained frown, I don’t think she accepts it.

“What’s your name?” she asks. This time, she doesn’t even try to aim for tact in steering the conversation.

“Ksei. Is that your real name?” I dare her to tell me it is.

Her mouth opens and her pink tongue darts around the rim of her bottom lip. “It’s Ksenia.”

It’s the truth. It’s a lie. She’s red and green, wavering between two sides of the same color. I don’t challenge her though.

“Espisido,” I say. “Everyone calls me Espi for short.”

“Espisido.” She draws it out like she’s memorizing each letter, and I find myself gripping the fridge handle tighter. “That’s an unusual name.”

“So is Ksenia.” When she doesn’t run off, I decide to push my luck. “So, if you’re not a cop, then what were you really doing at Piotr Petrov’s little playground, Ksenia?”

“These will have to come out, won’t they?” She innocently runs her good hand down the arm wrapped in gauze as if counting the stitches underneath.

“Five days,” I tell her. “Ten tops. Don’t go over that.”

“Will it scar?” She’s stalling. No. On second thought, she’s trying to distract me from my original question.

“Yes.” Only god knows why I play along. “It’s gonna be a nasty one. If you like wearing tank tops, don’t. Keep it out of the sun. Unless you want a nice, dark—”

“Thank you.” She purses her lips as if she’s not used to saying the words.

“Don’t,” I say. “I didn’t disinfect it well enough. If that sucker turns gangrene and falls off, you can’t sue me. Khorosho ?”

“ Da … You know Russian?”

“Enough to get by. I’m not a part of the Syndicate though. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Fair enough.” She extends one of her legs along the length of the couch, still anxious.

If she’s not stupid, she won’t try to stand. Though the smart thing to do would be to let her leave. All I need is to get mixed up with another Russian.

“So, you’re not a part of the Syndicate,” she says carefully. “Then who are you? Part of some other gang? Or is that tattoo on your chest just for show?”

Touché. “I prefer the term artist.”

She raises an eyebrow, silently demanding more. An explanation. Something concrete.

I hate to disappoint the lady. “That’s it. Espi, the artist. Not a part of the syndicate or any other gang. I do commissions at request.”

“An artist.” She eyes her arm with renewed interest. “You do your commissions often?”

“Only for the people I like.”

“And for those you don’t? ”

I have to laugh even as I look away, hoping I smother the disgust that claws through my skin. “I prefer to make friends.”

“Friends,” she says carefully. “Who you like to keep captive?”

There’s no way to skirt the loaded question, so I say nothing.

“I…I want to try to stand up,” she says.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She moves anyway, placing her feet onto the floor. To my surprise, she manages to stand on her own. One step and her knees buckle, pitching her forward.

“Hold on.” I’m across the room in an instant, and I reach for her arm.

But she pivots, suddenly steady. Air rushes past my ears as her right arm swings out, brandishing something she must have been hiding beneath the sweater.

Glass. Cylindrical. The whiskey bottle. I dodge the blow, ducking against the couch, only to open myself up to the kick she delivers right between my legs.

“Fuck!” I limp back, gritting my teeth at the pain.

She’s out of the room by the time my vision clears. The moment I make it to my feet, the front door slams shut.

Shit. I could go after her so that she can’t bring her Russian friends back to pay me a visit later. I could. But, in the chaos, I lost my last cigarettes. I need a new pack. I need a shower. The mounting excuses never address the real issue—I’m tired of chasing after people.