Page 20 of Refrain

“You almost getyourself blown up, and all you can do is fucking pout.” Arno means well—usually. Most days, he’s just full of shit. “You need to get laid,” he tells me on his way to the bar counter, a woman draped on either arm.

Beer is his poison of choice tonight. One of the women is holding an open can against his mouth, ready to pour on command.

“I need to getpaid,” I counter. God knows I need the money—anything to salvage the shitfest this day turned into. Domi will need every penny I can spare if she isn’t already back under the Syndicate’s thumb. It’s nearing twenty-four hours without a call, and each passing minute diminishes the chances that she got away.

If she didn’t, it’s my fault. I should have taken her with me and left the blonde behind.

“Pour,” Arno grunts to the brunette, who obediently tips her can. He drains the entire thing before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then slapping her ass with it.

“You don’t seem to mind that your business partner’s taken ahit,” I say. “Or did you change your mind about working with the Syndicate?”

God, I hope so.

“I’m drunk, Espi,” Arno says as if that explains everything. “Tomorrow, I’ll worry about that shit. For now, how about I pay you double? Francisco!” He gestures to the man behind the bar. “Pay up. Our little Espi’s going to party tonight.”

“Is he now?” Chuckling, Francisco wrenches the register drawer open and counts out double the amount Arno initially promised. Combined with what I found on good old Vlad, it’s…it’s enough to get by.

“Thanks.” I pocket the bills and rise from my stool.

The bar’s packed tonight. Naked girls gyrate on the stage for cash. Fighters cast bets in the back before slugging it out in the basement. Arno’s done his best to make the place “bigger and better than the old piece of shit” by letting nearly every vice under the sun fly. When asked why, he claims that doing it all for the money—but that’s only part of it. He’s trying to forget every fucked-up thing that happened this past year. Dante’s leaving. His sister’s death. Somehow, the chaos helps.

“Leaving already?” he slurs in my direction when I start past him.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow? You should have some fun now.” He shoves one of the women clinging to him toward me. “This kid,” he slurs into her ear. “This kid is the fucking best. He’s happy, that’s what he is. Happy all the fucking time—”

“Bye, Arno.” I slip past him, and he’s too wasted already to follow me to the door.

It’s dark out. Druggies perch on the corners, dishing out whatever their clients are willing to pay for. The man I pass knows what I want. I don’t even have to ask before slipping a fifty into his hand in exchange for a vial I tuck into my pocket.

I take the long way home, cutting through alleys whilewishing I had a can of paint. Some things are better left scrawled onto the sides of buildings rather than said out loud. Or drawn. Like the fact that an entire branch of the Russian Syndicate went up in smoke without a fucking trace as to who set the first match. Or that Dante seems to think my life is a revolving door. Not to mention my cell phone hasn’t rung yet, and a certain woman with yellow, catlike eyes keeps popping into my head.

She’s probably bled out by now…

I cut the thought off by fishing three new cigs from the new pack in my pocket and lighting them up one after the other. I drag on them all at once, and three puffs later, she’s locked away behind a nicotine buzz. The rest of the whiskey in the fridge might drown her out for good.

If not, I could always head back to the bar and take Arno up on his offer. Have some “fun.” Get wasted. Be happy. Try to forget the shit in my head—it’s so easy for him. Thougheverythingmust seem easy when you choose to battle your demons with a shot glass and a bullet. Maybe he has the right idea, considering I don’t know how I’ll deal with my own.

And they just keep multiplying.

I round the corner and find the front door to my place swinging loose on the frame and glass all over the fucking walkway. The pieces glitter in the dark as if to taunt me. Shit. There goes most of my goddamn money.

I cross the street and shove all three cigs between my lips as I reach into the rusted mailbox hanging near the door. I withdraw the knife I keep there, testing the edge over the thumb of my left hand. It’s sharp, but I’ll still have to call Arno for backup, cutting his own fun short.

Or maybe not. Fresh blood paints a vibrant trail across the entryway, leading down the hall. I follow it, expecting a druggie or, at worst, some punk who might flee at the sight of the knife. The weapon turns out to be just for show, as my intruder can barely hold themselves upright.Herself.

“Damn it.” She staggers against the table, swiping at my sketchbook, hunting for something. Her spine stiffens when I come closer. “The money Vlad gave you. Where is it?” Her accent’s returned in full force, mangling her English. Her hands leave blood over the pages of my sketchbook as she flips through them. Red… Her face is green when she glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes bloodshot. “Where? I need it. Where is it?”

“I spent most of it,” I admit. I have to juggle all three cigs in one hand while I reach into my pocket and withdraw the new vial, holding it up to the light. “I had to replenish my stock. I used the last bit on you.”

She stares right through me, her eyes unfocused. Like how Arno looks when he’s more upset than simply drunk. Old pain makes him reckless. Senseless. Dangerous. She moves the same disjointed way as she turns to the table and flicks through the shit piled in the center—empty cig packs, loose pages, and pens. “I need that money—”

“Why?” I toss two cigs onto the table, freeing my hands. From experience, I know they won’t burn through the surface. “You want to get high?”

She doesn’t look like a druggie—not that there really is a look. A hooker might shoot up heroin in an alley, while some doctor’s wife snorts cocaine in her fancy boudoir. To each his own.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I need the money. Ineedit.”

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