Page 56 of Refrain

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ESPI

Some people can staysane without art. Good for them—but I need the release that comes from spilling my emotions in color and ink. My soul bleeds onto the pages of my sketchbook, and I’m disgusted by the picture I paint.

But at least I can still feel something.

I don’t run from it like Arno or ignore my baggage like Dante.

I spread it out in strokes and lines, and I feel every fucking thing.

In the end, I guess it’s only fitting that I’m left with a drawing of her. This time, she glares at me. Judges me. Charcoal shading has stripped her yellow away, but she’s just as conflicting. Just as volatile. Smearing the details around her eyes with the pad of my thumb doesn’t disrupt their intensity. If anything, they burn brighter, demanding answers I’m too chicken to give.

Such as why hearing that she’d gone off with Arno bothered me more than it should have. Or that I felt relieved to find out they’d met with Jose. Only to feel more pissed in the end.

And guilty.

If Arno was desperate enough to go to the Cartel for information,then things are worse off than he’s letting on. Suddenly, Dante’s warning makes a whole lot of sense.

But it’s too late. I can’t just run out like he did. I have to face my problems.

Or not.

I ball the drawing up in my fist and toss it into the trash. Then I pour a shot glass of whiskey only to dump it down the sink without taking a sip. For the first time in over a day, my thoughts turn back to escape. Catching the first plane out of here and never looking back.

Not out of spite, either. Maybe fear.

I’m fucking afraid of who I’ll turn into if I stick around here. I barely recognize the punk staring back at me from the basin of the sink already. He’s not smiling like happy Espi should. If anything, he’s scowling.

I try washing him down the drain with water, but he doesn’t budge. I’m too much of a coward to see if I’ll still find him if I look in the mirror.

So I kill time with violence and paint something dark. I miss the canvas and wind up splattering the walls with blank acrylic. I leave it there and let even more drops drip onto the floor.

My phone is buzzing in my pocket, but I don’t answer it. Instead, I pace. Clench the air between my fingers. Kick the fridge on my way past it.

The sound of my ringtone continues to build, drowning out my frantic breathing until I have no choice but to pick up.

“We need to talk about this,” Arno says before I can even voice a hello. “Come to the bar.”

He hangs up, and I collapse onto a seat near the table.

The bar. She’ll be there tonight, probably working. Or maybe not, depending on how badly she tangled with Jose. I grit my teeth against my own memories. I know from experience that he’s a hard son of a bitch to forget.

She saw the scars on my back the first night, but she hasn’tasked me about them yet. Maybe she’s too polite, or maybe she just doesn’t care. I can’t figure out why the thought bothers me so damn much. Knowing she has ample ammunition to use against me that, for whatever reason, she hasn’t yet.

I could always beat her to the punch. Tell Arno that she could be a cop. Or ask her directly where she learned to dance like that.

Instead, I return to the whiskey bottle and take a sip right from the rim. Then I head out for the pub, if only to avoid being by myself.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHLOE

Grey can suffer another day.I’m not a cop tonight. I’m not even human. I’m an animal with a bruise for a shackle. It’s a familiar feeling. It’s a maddening one.

I’m addicted to the stage. The lure of abandon. The silence that floods my own thoughts when I’m riding so high that no one can fucking touch me. I’m ruthless. I’m selfish. Each set lasts longer than the one before it. I’m cutting into the other dancers’ times without a single fuck given.

The crowd loves it. The other girls don’t.

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