Page 17 of Refrain

“You’re going to need a lot more than ten stitches.”

I’m not sure how many it takes to seal me up by the time he finally swipes at the wound with more alcohol and wraps the whole thing in gauze fished from his kit. No answer comes as he carries his bloodied tools over to the sink. I watch him as my eyelids flutter, memorizing the careful way he scrubs each tool before neatly laying them out on a dishtowel. The ease alone gives me the answer to the question he wouldn’t acknowledge.

He’s done thisa lot.

“I’ll put you up on the couch,” he declares while cutting the faucet off.

I suspect he leaves the prospect of the cot out on purpose. Out of respect or a simple desire not to have his sheets bloodstained some more? I can’t tell.

It’s too hard to focus. It’s too hard to care. But his eyes hold me captive, the sole feature of his I can make out clearly. They’re electric, outlasting the darkness calling my name.

“Don’t die,” he tells me sternly. If his voice weren’t so soft, the words could be mistaken for a command. Not a plea. “I used my last bit of nylon thread on you.”

CHAPTER SIX

ESPI

Yellow isthe 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 goodhead. 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—Shewasundercover. 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.

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