Page 34 of Refrain

“In theory.”

“There’s a friend I know,” he adds after a moment’s silence. “He has a bar where she can work for a few days. Lie low. It’s not ideal, but then again…”

I finish the statement for him. “It’s not being forced to work a street corner, either.”

“That too.” He lights the end of his cigarette with a jet-black lighter.

Hypnotized, I watch him inhale the first puff. He drags on itas though it’s more vital than oxygen, his lips parted and glistening pink.

“What about you?” he wonders, exhaling a cloud of smoke. It obscures his face, making it impossible to read him. “What does an informant do as her day job?”

“Keep her mouth shut,” I say, dodging the question. “How does an ‘artist’ come to rub shoulders with one of the main players in the Russian Syndicate?”

“Well, you don’t mince words, do ya?” He takes another drag on his cigarette and then lets it dangle between two of his fingers. “You tell me something. I’ll answer a question of yours in return. That’s how this game will go.Khorosho?”

“Okay.” I take a step closer to the table and meet his gaze directly. “I’ll go first. How did you meet Vlad?”

“I think it might be better ifhetold you that story.” He flicks the end of his cigarette into an ashtray. “My turn. Who are you running from? Really. Don’t feed me some line about Vlad.”

“Vlad’s dead—”

“And you’re even more spookednowthan you were around him,” he declares, so damn smug. With one flick of his gaze, he strips me naked, but it’s not my body he wants. Just the pitiful soul shivering underneath. “Why?”

I can’t help the tired laugh that trickles out of me. Hell, maybe it’s genuine. He’s unknowingly pointed out the utter depth of my stupidity, and I don’t even have the energy to play pretend.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t want me here. Believe me.”

“Try me.” He takes another puff.

Suddenly, it’s impossible to maintain eye contact. I break it and stare down at the table. He has his other hand pressed flat against it. For all of his bravado, he’s just as on edge as I am.

“You’ve stuck around for a reason,” he suspects. “At first, I thought it was because you wanted something. Maybe you really cared about Domi. But, now, I know there’s more to it—”

“Like what?” I look up, eyeing him through loose strands of my hair.

“You don’t have anywhere else to go. Do you?”

The truth hurts, they say.

Rather than respond, I reach for the box of unused dye, scanning the name printed beneath a smiling model—buxom brown. “Can I use your bathroom?” I hear his sharp intake of air and rush to cut him off. “I’ll play your game. I just need… I just need…”

I need to scrub. Erase. Drown my screams in the shower spray and try to fucking think. I need tothink. I need to remember.

Piotr’s coming for me, but that familiar mantra of escape is surprisingly absent. A foreboding whisper has replaced it, running through my mind on a morbid, incessant loop—moya lyubov.

Espisido stands as if the act alone gives me permission. He stoops for one of the grocery bags and unpacks the items. Some of the things I don’t even remember buying. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Deodorant. Body wash.

He forms them all into a shapeless stack and holds them out to me. “Take this stuff while you’re at it.”

I obey, carrying the pile into the bathroom. It’s small, decorated in simple, dark shades—a black shower curtain, a navy rug, and a gray curtain shielding the only window. I strip my borrowed clothing, shivering once I’m naked in the center of the cramped space.

It’s like the smoke-laced cotton kept it all at bay—the pain, the fear, the guilt…

Not for Vlad. Oh, no. It’shim. I can’t get his fucking voice out of my head—“You don’t have anywhere else to go. Do you?”Something tells me he wasn’t talking about a home, either. Heknew, peering deep beneath my skin without permission.

The most alarming part? He didn’t need my permission.

Snap out of it.I shake my head in an effort to. When that doesn’t work, I run the shower and assemble the dye kit. With every glob of black over gold, I breathe a little easier. It’s like every fucking strand belongs to Piotr. I can still feel his fingers running through it. I can still hear his voice in my ear.

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