Page 36 of Refrain

Whenever I touch him, he reacts the same way—defensively.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.” He approaches the couch and plumps the pillows, arranging them in a more ideal position to sleep. Then he surprises me by stepping back. “You can crash here tonight. I’ll take the floor.”

“You don’t have to,” I protest, but he’s already backing up against the wall.

His back hits the surface, and he uses it for support to slide down to his knees. “I’m good here. Go ahead.” He closes his eyes before I can argue. In an instant, his expression relaxes, but the stern set to his shoulders gives him away. He’s awake and alert, sensing my every move.

Maybe it’s the noose of my own lies that finally draws me over to the couch. I smell him in the cushions, muddling my brain and combining with the dark, violent thoughts that threaten to descend. I don’t know if he serves as an antidote or merely a more potent poison, but my mind clears a little.

Just as long as I breathe him in.

It feelslike I’ve only had my eyes closed for a second before I’m peeling them open again. A melody of hushed voices is all that gives context to the darkness looming around me. My chest constricts. For a sharp, blistering moment, I’m not sure where I am…

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Just like that, I’m rescued from the grip of the nightmare, even as my heartbeat quickens at the lie.Safe?When I finally turn my head and spot a pair of familiar blue eyes, they seem more serious than mocking. He might believe those words.

Standing in the center of the kitchen, he’s wearing a pair of dark pants and another hoodie. Domi is beside him, wearing jeans and a shirt similar to his. A jacket is draped over her arm, and she found a pair of tennis shoes, too.

“You want that job I mentioned?” Espisido wonders, drawing my attention back to him. He has the hood of a sweatshirt pulled low over his face, and a lit cigarette held to his mouth—what I’m beginning to suspect is his signature look.

When I don’t answer, he seems to take my silence as a yes.

“Come on, then,” he says. “You ladies are late for your interviews.”

The playful humor doesn’t disguise what lurks underneath. Tension laces his posture as he drags on the cigarette for a second too long. For our destination being a supposedly “safe” place, he seems pretty reluctant to head there.

Rather than ask why, I stand and do my best to shake off any lingering exhaustion.

“Here.” He already has a hoodie and a pair of sneakers that look slightly too big waiting for me.

I pull them on, and together, the three of us leave the house. I can’t tell from the pitch-black sky above, or the silence encasing the streets, whether it’s late at night or early in the morning. The time seems to be irrelevant anyway, as this part of the city lives well after the sun goes down. Poverty and grime form a beautifulmonochromatic blend of shadow, perfumed by the stench wafting from overflowing dumpsters. Judging from the abundance of empty warehouses, I suspect we’re on the farthest outskirts of the industrial district, well beyond Grey’s and my beat. It’s an infamous area, known to be controlled by one gang in particular.

My gaze flickers to the man walking steadily in front of me, this angel with cotton wings. First, he mingles with Russians. Who else?

The question has more weight to it when we turn the corner and approach a bar at the end of this block. I recognize the name instantly, if only from the rumors of who owns it.Mulligan’s.On the battered sign above the door, someone crudely scribbledIIin permanent marker beside the name. Taken in all of its ratty glory, the strip of wood shines like a beacon, christening the castle of this self-proclaimed king.

“Let me do the talking.” Espisido pulls up beside me, his mouth near my ear, his breath fanning my throat. Too warm. Too real. I have to shift slightly out of his reach to avoid the crossfire. “I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, but just…just trust me.”

Trust him.A laugh trickles from my throat. It’salmostpossible to overlook the audacity of the request for one reason alone—He’s anxious again, his jaw rigid as he pulls ahead. Feeding off his unease, Domi falls into step between us, and we march almost single-file through the wooden door marking the entrance.

What place might an angel deem safe? Well, hell, of course.

It’s loud inside—louder than Moe’s. A deafening rift of shouting melds with the heavy rock music hammering against my eardrums. There are peopleeverywhere,a sea of flailing limbs and blurred faces crammed within a backdrop of dark walls and wooden floors. It’s a sweaty, claustrophobic version of the fiery pit.

A bar counter resides along one wall, across from a row of pool tables. At the back of the space is a stage where a half-nakedwoman demonstrates just how many ways she can swing from a metal pole without falling off. In one of the corners, men openly count obscene stacks of money while bellowing out bets, apparently on “Who says Arno kills that fuck?”

The winning odds lean overwhelmingly toward “yes.”

“This way.” Espisido takes my wrist, guiding me down a narrow hallway where some of the intensity of the noise fades. “He’s up here,” he tosses back over Domi’s head. I suspect that the commentary is for my benefit, reinforcing his previous warning. “Just follow my lead and take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

It’s a subtler way of phrasingkeep your mouth shut, no matter what.As if to illustrate the urgency, he tenses as we approach a closed door.

A man is standing beside it, his arms crossed. “You might want to come back later, kid,” he warns. “Arno’s busy right now.”

Espi opens the door despite the warning, revealing the chilling scene within.

Two men are sitting on either side of a table. One of them is holding a gun to his head, nestled in a sea of red hair, while a crowd of at least ten men watch on.

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