Page 40 of Refrain

He shrugs. “I got to meet them first. See for myself where their loyalties may lie.”

“I had Francisco show them around. They just want to make some money. You’ll barely even know they’re here.”

He scoffs. “I doubt that. You have a way of attracting trouble. Just like—” He shakes his head to cut the thought off. “Let’s go. I need another drink.”

He snatches up the empty bottle and carries it with him to thedoor. When we reach the main room, jeers and whistles rise up from the crowd, rivaling the intensity of whatever song’s playing. True to form, Arno smiles fiercely before slapping the ass of the first woman to sidle up to him. He’ll never let them see the worst the bottle brings out in him.

He’ll never let them see the doubt.

“That one of them?” he grunts once he’s finished putting on his show, having spotted Domi already.

I make out a flash of red hair behind the counter. “Yeah.”

“Where’s the other one?”

That’s a damn good question.

The thought’s barely finished crawling through my head when the music cuts off, and someone grabs a microphone near the front of the stage. “Get ready for a special show, you fucks,” the emcee declares. “We’ve got a newbie to the spotlight. Put your hands together for Angel!”

The name alone draws laughs when paired with the appearance of the woman who climbs onto the stage.Angel.She definitely doesn’t look like one. Maybe it’s the dark, unholy gleam in her eye. Or maybe it’s the dry, lifeless, dark hair and the oversized clothes she’s wearing. In comparison to Darcy’s skimpy, pink halter, it’s not the type of attire these men are used to.

“The fuck?” Arno hisses.

The music starts up, drowning out any argument he makes. Only there’s no beat to rile the crowd or pounding bass to dance to. Apparently, someone thought it would be funny to set Angel up for a humiliating little “audition.” I can’t put a name to what runs through my chest when I see her standing there, frozen solid, her head bowed.

I spot the DJ grinning behind the booth and start in that direction, curling my hands into fists. Once I get my hands on him, he’ll be the one entertaining everyone.

No.

Flashing yellow eyes stop me in my tracks, and I nearly plowinto some biker in front of me. Any protest dies in my throat. Her hips sway as if to spite me, forging her own sensual rhythm from the music. Slow. Fast. Slower. Brown hair drapes her shoulders as her head rears back, displaying her throat and stealing my fucking breath away.

At Moe’s, I was too busy making sure not to blow my cover to watch her dance. A beautiful blonde was a dime a dozen in a place like that—it felt wrong to look.

But here…

The defiant tilt of her chin dares me to look away—“And here I was, assuming you really were a pervert.”

Fuck it. Iam.Her swaying limbs capture my attention and consume it. The longer I stare, the more disoriented I feel. It’s like she’s on another goddamn planet. The noise doesn’t affect her. No one can touch her.

Especially not me.

With an easy shift of her weight, she grabs the pole with one hand and swings herself around it. Only a few words trickle across my brain to describe the movement—sloppy, wild…fucking beautiful.

She peels the sweatshirt off first, building tension with every slow raise of her fingers. It hits the floor as the stage lights reflect off the sweat on her skin like glitter. The smooth curve of her back is all I see. Then her hip. The top of her thigh…

Gritting my teeth, I turn away and find that Domi’s watching me from the bar. When I take the stool across from her, she hands me a drink, but her eyes don’t leave the stage.

The dance could last minutes. Seconds. I just know that I’m still staring at my hands when the emcee reclaims the microphone and shouts something to stir up the crowd.

A hand falls over my shoulder. Arno. “They can stay,” he grunts as he pushes past me.

I should follow him. Anything but wait for the slim figure weaving through the crowd toward me. She’s still topless, herunbound hair doing little to hide her body from every horny biker clambering for a glance. As she draws even with my stool, she leans in so that I can hear her above the music. Her smell affects me more than the booze does.

“Is something wrong? Did I rip any stitches?”

“What?” I look down, hunting for blood. My hands are shaking too badly to touch her. I have to knot them into fists. “They look fine to me.”

She’s trembling though, like a druggie during a wild high. For whatever reason, she seems to think I’m the unstable one. Her hand brushes my arm. “Are you okay?”

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