Page 50 of Refrain

He leads me out into the main bar in silence, though we don’t stray too far from the stage. I go on again in an hour—and then an hour after that until the bar closes at four. Already, I can tell it’s a tiring schedule, but at least it has an ending time. I even get to keep some of the money, it seems, as a stern-faced bouncer dressed in black approaches me to tuck a wad of bills into my hands.

“You earned it,” he grunts before pushing his way back through the crowd.

I guess it’s what was thrown at the stage during my last set. I don’t bother to count it when I slam it down onto the counter infront of Domi as she struggles to pour drinks for the horde of drunks crowding the bar.

“You want a shot?”

I nod. “As many as you can pour.”

She smiles mischievously and palms the cash. “Can do.”

A minute later, a shot glass slides in my direction. I down it without asking as to the contents and then demand another. I’m on the third glass when my silent shadow speaks.

“Do you like it?” he wonders, jerking his chin toward the stage. “Dancing. You looked different up there.”

“Did I?” I’m genuinely curious. I’ve never seen myself dance. I don’t want to. Or, at least, I didn’t. Blue eyes contain the hints of a creature I don’t recognize. Someone he describes as “different,” but how? I ask him.

He blushes. “I mean…you look alive.” His teeth falter over the word, breaking it into two syllables. Even his hesitation sounds beautiful. “You look tired, too,” he adds. “Like you’ve been doing it for a while.”

I say nothing and knock another shot back. A warm jolt of alcohol imbibes me with fresh stupidity. I look over and meet his gaze, only to instantly regret it. “I don’t like it,” I say, and he nods slowly, dissecting my answer to take note of all the things I don’t voice. Speaking with him is as dangerous as Arno’s game of Russian roulette when drinking is involved. My lips form more words without waiting for input from my brain. “You don’t seem to enjoy watching me?”

I expect him to cringe away in embarrassment, but his lips part fearlessly to deliver an answer. “I—”

“Hey!” Francisco approaches from across the bar. “Arno’s looking for you,” he tells Espi. “He’s…cranky.”

Espi rises, muttering, “See ya around,” to Domi. Then that’s it.

By the time I return to the platform, he’s already gone, and I doubt he’ll return. Maybe I hope he won’t. Wait. No, I don’t mean that. There are worse things to stomach than his pity.

Like thereal possibility of Piotr returning at any moment to do what hedoes best. Destroy me.

So, even as the thought makes my cheeks flame, I hope he does come back.

He has to. Because I’ll be the only one to blame if he doesn’t.

And I’m not sure if I can live with that.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ESPI

Arno is waitingfor me near the back door ofMulligan’s, a bottle in his hand. He leans against the doorway, blocking my way. “You’ve been out a lot lately.”

Damn it. My fingers clench, aching for a cigarette—any excuse to walk away. Arno doesn’t do small talk, and I’m not in the mood for a fight. Not now.

“I’ve been busy,” I grit out, but he doesn’t move, not even whenwe’re toeto toe.

“Out doingwhat?” His breath hits me full in the face, practically acidic with liquor. “More of your little side projects? You think I don’t know what shit you get up to when my back is turned?”

Does he? If so, he’s taking the idea of my leaving better than expected.

“You’re looking forhim,” he says as his knuckles whiten over the liquor bottle.

Dante?

“If you have been,” he adds before I can deny it, “I’ve got a lead…” He takes another swig directly from the bottle and spits the swill out at his feet.

My common sense warns me to step back, but he doesn’t seem liable to strike out with either the bottle or his fists. Yet.

---