Page 57 of Refrain

Not that I care.Ksei’sregained some of that old fire. I owned the stage at Piotr’s little playground. I danced for his associates to keep him happy. I danced to save myself.

My old outlook on life paints everything in front of me like I’m wearing blood-colored glasses. The world is an inferno, but as long as I move, blinded by the pulsing strobe lights, I’m safe. I canbreathein this sliver ofheaven. I can contort my body in any fucking way I want and never feel any pain.

That all changes the moment I come down, though, and am forced to traipse backstage.The pounding headachebehind mytemples returns. My left armsearsat full force. My throat is on fire. Agony, after agony, after agony…

If I were a good girl, Piotr would give me something to chase the discomfort away before sending me back on stage. To dance again. To make him more money. To plunge further down the rabbit hole of viciousness and vice he’d dropped me into.

But here… One step into the dressing room, one whiff of a familiar scent, and it all comes to a screeching halt without the need for a powder to sniff. A hooded figure is waiting for me at the back corner of the room, and my chest tightens at the sight ofhim. It was easier to breathe while being strangled by Jose. He showed mercy. My new tormentor seems well aware of the effect he has on me, yet the look in his eyes won’t let me go.

It’s open. It’s raw. He’s had a bad day—we both have. I don’t speak when I approach him though. I eye the mirror, and he silently creeps in behind me, his hand finding my shoulder.

“You’re bleeding.” He grits the words out against the back of my neck.

I am. I glance down and find blood seeping through the gaps in the stitches. Some of it is dried. Someisn’t.

“Sorry.”

Sighing,Espisidoruns his hand along the wound once, but he doesn’t pull away to get fresh gauze or a rag to wipe the area clean. He just stands there, inhaling me, feeling me. It’s a brutal game of tit-for-tat we play. With every breath he takes, I suck in two. When his hand starts to trail down my arm again, I reach for the other, blindly lacing my fingers with his.

Consequences are easier to face when he’s not around. I guide his hand higher and inchbackwarduntil he’s closer—until the heat from his body disrupts every nerve in mine, and I have to lean against the table for balance. His captive hand cups my breast. The one he still has control over drifts down to my waist. I flex my fingers, forcing his to curl.

It’s lightning. He’s a million watts bursting through my skin,frying everything he touches. I bite my lower lip in vain, but he breaks through my defenses, drawing a moan from my throat. I don’t have to guide him anymore—he digs his fingers in, clutching. Groping.

One hit just isn’t enough. I need more. He already knows just how and where. One brush of his fingertips makes my nipple harden into a sharp point, but he’s forsaken that needy bit of flesh in favor of a new domain. My stomach. My hips. Maybe I’m the one steering him there all along, but when his palm ghosts down to the apex of my thighs, the fingers spread, eagerly searching. Studying. He’s an artist, after all.

With steady determination, he breaks me open, painting the air with the gasp I can’t smother. He doesn’t seem to realize just where his fingers are aiming—and that’s the worst part. He’s merely feeling. I’m exploding. Colors ripple beneath my skin. My head is bouncing off the ceiling. I’m higher than I’ve ever been.

I’m needier. Hungrier. More selfish. Feeling him through the cotton of my black shorts isn’t enough. I can’t stop myself from steering him lower, slipping beneath the waistband and directly against the skin underneath.

I squeeze my eyes shut, rocking back on my heels. Back and forth. Side to side. I don’t even let him touch me where every nerve is screaming for stimulation. Just at the ridge of my stomach and it’s still too much.

I’m too much of a coward to look upatthe mirror and see his reaction. I hunch over the table instead, eyeing a tube of lipstick in a bloody shade while my traitorous body yearns for more. He doesn’t resist my grip, even when my fingers tighten over his, my palm slick against the softness of his skin. He never makes a move on his own, but one firm nudge and…

It’s like having an entire row of cocaine all to myself. The first hit is the hardest. You placate yourself with memories of how you used to be such a good little girl. Once the burning sting goes away and the high sets in, you loseyourself,however. The goodgirl makes short work of the remaining lines. Then she licks the surface underneath for any traces of powder.

And he is more potent than any hit. I shove his hand between my legs and shiver at the coursing brush of every callused fingertip. My nerves are a million tripwires he’s carelessly triggering. Over and over again.

It’s like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing to me or how. I feel him breathing against the back of my neck. His free hand comes to flick a lock of hair aside, baring my throat to him. It’s bruised, and he exhales sharply against the sore flesh.

“I’m sorry.”

I’mcoming. It happens so quickly that I don’t have time to catch my breath before everything tightens and clenches. My head goes back. My teeth skewer my bottom lip to keep any sound inside. It’s a slowly broiling, torturous climax I doubt he even senses.

When I finally come back down to earth, it’s a rough landing. I have to shove his hand away and catch myself against the table, gasping for air. He steps back, taking a cue from the way my shoulders hunch away from him as I struggle to readjust my shorts.

“I…I have to get back on stage,” I croak. It’s a lie, not that he counters it.

I feel his gaze on the back of my neck as I stagger past him and down the hall. A blonde is gyrating on the pole now. Maybe Darcy or someone else. I can’t tell. She falters when I climb on stage and approach her. The crowd roars, but my only goal is to smother every shred of confusion as I step against her, grabbing her waist with one hand while swaying my hips.

She moves awkwardly at first until the increase in bills flying our way spurs her to move faster and grind her body against mine. We give the crowd what they holler for. Her fingers tangle in my hair, drawing my mouth to hers. She tastes like mint-flavored gum, but it’s a pale imitation of the scent in my head.The shouts and jeers of the men watching us don’t drown out his voice. No matter how fast I move, the slickness of sweat can’t erase his touch.

It’s a pathetic, pitiful attempt, but I keep fucking trying until I’m breathless and panting and it’s time for another girl to take the stage. The act did nothing to counter the high. I’ll ride him out all night, and I suspect that it will be one hell of a withdrawal when I finally purge him from my system.

I wakeup and find Domi gone. Her bed’s been made, the other side of the room carefully tidied. I don’t find her in the hall when I finally haul myself upright and pull a pair of sweats on. Another figure’s taken her place though. They’re standing at the mouth of the narrow kitchen, their back turned to me, their shoulders hunched as they rummage through the fridge.

“There isn’t much to choose from,” they tell me tiredly before glancing over their shoulder to focus a pair of brilliant, blue eyes in my direction. “We’ll have to settle for just eggs.”

Before I can protest, he snags a carton from the fridge and approaches the stove. He must know the contents of the cupboards, because he easily fishes out a frying pan and a few utensils. By the time he cracks the first egg over an open flame, I’ve finally mustered up the energy to speak.

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