Page 5 of Refrain

The girl beside me doesn’t hesitate. She hastens to the door, her eyes downcast.

“Did you fucking hear me?” The man whistles to me as if beckoning an animal. “Come.”

My feet drag me forward. The moment I reach the doorway, I’m shoved inside and transported seven years in the past. Thehall even looks the same—peeling linoleum and gray walls. Up ahead, the faint pulse of music—different than the polka blaring in the front office—seeps out.

We’re herded down the hall, into the main club. At least a hundred men crowd a barroom, all facing a raised platform in the center of the darkened space. For their entertainment, a handful of topless girls barely out of puberty prance around to the beat of pounding bass.

Dancing, they call it.

My only consolation is that none of them have red hair.

None of them are Anna.

“Hey! You there!”

A man in a leather jacket barrels in our direction. I don’t recognize him. Built like a bear, he’s the epitome of the bouncer Piotr liked to employ. Every nerve in my body hums with awareness. Just how many marks in my file might I earn if I blow my cover now?

My fingers flutter to my hip, but someone pushes past me, knocking me off-balance.

“We have to change,” the dark-haired girl says, raising her voice above the music. She snatches my wrist, tugging me along the outskirts of the club and down another hallway. With no one in sight, she leans in close. “No sudden moves,” she mutters into my ear. “Trust me.”

She turns, leading me inside a cramped room lined with shelves. It’s one of the “dressing rooms,” stocked with enough tacky lingerie to supply a pornography studio. Bustiers. Thongs.

“You have to get dressed,” the girl warns. She shimmies out of her dress and pulls an even more risqué outfit from a hanger—a black thong and bra. “You might be able to sneak out if you can make it to the front. But not like that.” She frowns disapprovingly at my body. “Here.” She fishes something from a shelf, and a shudder runs through me at the sight of a white bustier and a matching pair of shorts. It can’t be thesamepair. Itcan’t.

My fingers shake as I accept the garments anyway. She’s right. Swallowing hard, I pull my dress off, and the microphone clatters as it hits the floor.

“You’re a cop.” The girl eyes the device while tugging on her thong. “Thought so—”

“What are you doing?” Not running to tell, for one. Why?

“I don’t want to get killed tonight.” Already dressed, she points to the bundle of fabric in my hands. “Hurry, before they come back.”

I pull the bra on first before trading my underwear for a pair of white shorts. They’re not nearly long enough to hide the gun.

“You have to leave it,” the girl whispers.

I shouldn’t, but my fingers are already unfastening the straps of the holster. With my free hand, I rip the wig off and shove the gun inside it before hiding everything on the lowest rung of the nearest shelf. The last item I tuck away is a discolored picture on printer paper. A haunted girl stares at me from the surface of it, almost as if accusing me of leaving her a second time.

“Wait.” The brunette bites her lower lip, eyeing my back and the second tattoo etched there. “You’ll need to hide that too. Here.” She strains on her tiptoes and grabs something from a higher shelf. “Put these on—”

“No.” I cringe into the wall and trip over my heels. “I’ll wear something else.”

“There’s no time!” She presses the gaudy prop into my hands.

An ivory harness makes up the bulk of the costume piece. Two enormous white wings large enough to obscure my lower back spring from it. My throat tightens as I woodenly insert my arms through the frame.

“Better.” Still chewing on her lip, the girl nods in approval. “Let’s hope you remember how to blend in.”

That sounds like something Grey would say. He’s probably pitching a bitch fit by now. If I’m lucky, the least he’ll do is ensureI’m fired. Though maybe not. Snippets of conversation might get him a warrant. But if I could get him Vlad…

“Hey!” A knock rattles the door. “Hurry the fuck up!”

I square my shoulders as the door is thrown open.

The bouncer appraises us and gives the dark-haired girl a scoff. “Go get a tray,” he says, sending her off. Then he fingers my hair and frowns. “Who said you could switch the wig? Whatever. Come with me.” He inclines his chin for me to follow but continues to speak over his shoulder. “You dance. If you prove your worth, Vlad may not dump your skinny ass in the river tonight.”

How many of the girls juggling trays of vodka or dancing on stage hope to avoid that grisly outcome? With Vladimir Olshenkov’s name thrown into the mix, there is no boast too brutal to be proven correct. If I ever felt fear in my days as Ksenia, Vlad is one of the few bastards I might have ever harbored it for.

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