Page 48 of Refrain

But hell, if I knew it would work, maybe I’d play that role to its fullest. Beg.

Stick around.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, reaching up to adjust his hood. It’s raining out, and droplets of water splatter my kitchen floor. Near the door, he pauses, rocking on the balls of his feet. “It won’t be this way forever,” he adds. “I promise. But this…this is something I need to do.”

He’s gone before I can even get a word in edgewise.

I utter my reply anyway, letting the rain snatch the words away. “Isn’t it always.”

I wipe the counters down and reshuffle the stuff on the table—anything to delay the inevitable. Arno gets antsy if I don’t poke my head into the club at least once, but tonight, I’m not in a hurry to make my customary appearance. After today, I can’t stomach Arno’s paranoid bullshit, but he’s not the person I picture waiting for me at Mulligan’s.

She’s still beneath my fingertips. Yellow paint. Yellow eyes. Yellow—now dark—hair.

It doesn’t take remembering what happened to Vlad to suspect that tangling with her isn’t a good idea. Though it’s not like I’ve had a lot of those lately, either.

I take a seat at the table. I could find another job tonight, if I wanted. With this new gang on the loose, it seems there are plenty of gangbangers willing to be patched up off the books.

I could always chase after Dante, or better yet, I could makesome money. Enough to buy a plane ticket in addition to Domi’s. France. London. Someplace far from here.

No matter what, I won’t get distracted again.

Not by Dante.

Not by her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHLOE

By midnight,Espisido still hasn’t shown when I take my place on stage. I should be relieved; he wouldn’t approve anyway. The lacy, black thong and a matching bra were one of the few sets that fit me, but they reveal the most skin. A pair of knee-high boots minimizes the damage somewhat—Darcy’s idea.

“They make you look hot,” she insisted.

I look deranged. From my position near the stage, I can’t go a second without eyeing the door. The longer his absence stretches on, the more my anxious stomach twists into knots. But the sentiment isn’t the popular one tonight. A wild energy electrifies the interior of the club, chafing against my raw nerves.

Are they all this selfish? Arno doesn’t look worried, considering that he’s trying to balance a busty blonde on his lap with one hand while holding a shot glass in the other. I assume he wouldn’t relax if his friend were in danger.

Or so I prefer to imagine.

Admittedly, my imagination’s taken a hit lately. I’m too tired to hide anymore, even inside my head. When the emcee announces the performance of “Angel,” I move sluggishly,weighed down by a million guilty thoughts vying for my attention.

I should be looking for Anna. Not lying. Not hiding. Certainly not trying to evade Piotr through the art form he taught me so well. I shouldn’t befeeling.

So I don’t.

My audience is unforgiving. They boo and hiss when I circle the pole with as much enthusiasm as a dead bird croaking its last song from inside its gilded cage. I’m on my final exhausted lap when the main door flies open, and a lone figure walks in. He has his head bowed at first, and droplets of rain drip from his black curls and bounce off his shoulders.

Then he looks up, and my mouth goes dry. I’m frozen solid in the path of his stare, wobbling on unsteady heels. Go,a part of me urges in vain. I should collect what little money was thrown at my feet and flee. Something about his expression makes mestay.

It could be the raised eyebrow. The slight quirk to his mouth. Pity? No…

Interest. It consumes his expression before he can hide it, making those pink lips part and his pupils dilate. In this moment, I have his full attention.

So I take it.

I grip the pole again with shaking fingers and swing myself high. This time, he stares. Haunting blue eyes remain on my skin, viewing every ripple and twist of muscle. Stripping my tiny lace bra feels more like removing a deeper part of myself and laying it bare. Not for the crowd.

For him.

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