Page 41 of Refrain

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, raising my voice over the music. “I mean, you don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”Real smooth, Espi.I don’t even know what I’m trying to fucking say, but I can’t stop talking. “We can find something else for you to do.”

“Is there something wrong with dancing?” Her wary tone warns that I’ve stepped on a landmine.

“No. Of course not. Here.” I shrug my hoodie off and offer it to her.

She accepts it without comment, draping it around herself and zipping it up to her chin.

“You got the job, by the way.”

“Good.” Her expression doesn’t change as she claims the shot meant for me and drains it. Then she wipes her hand across her mouth and turns away. “But I won’t stick around for long. I wouldn’t want to make anyoneuncomfortable.”

Shit.She slips through the crowd before I can say anything. Going off the slight flush to her cheeks, I’ve pissed her off.

Way to go,Espi. I start after her, but in the end, I just order another drink. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself for one night.

God willing, it won’t happen again. Maybe she should makegood on her promise to skip town. I tell myself that’s what I want.

But a part of me doesn’t buy it, no matter how many shots I down.

Not one fucking bit.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHLOE

A half-naked womangapes at me from the surface of a mirror. She’s a wreck. God, I barely recognize her. Brown, bloodshot eyes flutter in a losing battle against exhaustion. Her pretty face is her saving grace. If I squint, and in the right lighting, I’d still call her attractive enough. She might even hold my attention during a dance.

But she couldn’t hold his. How pathetic is that? I finger his sweatshirt, unable to forget his face or that tight, hollow expression. The more of my clothes I took off, the less he bothered to hide his thoughts. The confusion. The curiosity. The pity…

Hepitiedme.

“Think these will fit?”

“Huh?” Distracted, I turn my attention to the blonde beside me, who is presumably in the middle of finding me something “hotter” to wear than my current attire.

“You look like a size two.” She holds up a pair of tiny denim shorts and a white bustier and tosses them both onto a rapidly growing stack compiled against the back of a metal folding chair.

We’re in what I assume is the equivalent of Mulligan’s dressing room. There are no brooding guards here to enforce acode of strict silence—just a burly man lurking outside the door, whom the blonde cheerfully referred to as Joe. His job seems to revolve more around keeping unwanted visitorsoutrather than anyone in.

“You looked good out there,” the woman continues as she fishes through the wardrobe and surfaces with a bit of slinky, black material that I think is meant to be worn as a skirt. “You must have danced before. Where at? Murphy’s? Sirens? Big Daddy’s?”

“I don’t think you’d know it,” I tell her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “They…they didn’t pay well.”

“Oh.” The blonde frowns and tugs yet another garment from the closet. “You can take these, too. The last girl to fit this stuff hasn’t worked here in ages. I’m Darcy, by the way.” She turns to me with her hands on her hips and extends one in my direction. “Welcome aboard. Our slots typically start at nine,” she adds once I’ve shaken her hand. “Ten minutes a girl. We rotate every hour. You can take Molly’s spot. She got herself knocked up a few months ago, so she’s out on ‘maternity leave’ until next week.” She makes air quotes around the words, her voice colored by double meaning. “It’s nearly the end of the shift, so you’ll meet the rest of the girls tomorrow night. The key players you really need to know are Arno—big guy, red hair, crazy as shit. He owns this place. As long as you don’t piss him off, he’ll have your back.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

“Right? Then there’s Francisco, the bartender. Arno’sright-handguy. He can make you any fucking drink on the house—but he’s always listening. If you want to talk shit about this place, don’t do it while he’s around. And then there’s Espi…”

“What about him?” My lungs tense up as if they’re fighting to inhale every trace of that name. Curiosity? Maybe that’s it, explaining the way my pulse hammers even as I picture his face.

“He’s Espi,” Darcy declares. “He’s a good kid, but don’t underestimate him. A lot of people try to because of his age.”

“How old is he?” I’m caught off guard by the way my stomach clenches in anticipation of the answer. Does it really matter? Maybe. That angelic face could leave even Grey guessing.

“Twenty, I think,” Darcy says offhandedly. “He won’t botheryou,if that’s what you’re worried about. He usually keeps to himself.”

I watch her flip through another series of hangers, desperate to suppress the relief I shouldn’t feel.

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