Page 58 of Refrain

“I’m not hungry—”

“We need to talk.” He sounds so casual. The only clue that betrays even a hint of uncertainty is how the second egg shatters right in his grip as he attempts to crack it along the end of the counter. He pitches the mess into the sink and starts over with a fresh egg and another attempt. This unbroken yolk joins the first to sizzle in the pan.

I watch him against my own better judgment. He’s good with his hands—even the prosthetic fingers. He works quickly toscramble the yolks before they can set and then scrapes two servings onto two mismatched plates. He offers one to me.

I shake my head, but my stomach contradicts the refusal and makes its hunger known in a loud, gurgling rumble. Jerking his head toward the couch, Espi sits first, taking up a corner and leaving me to perch myself on the opposite end. He sets one of the plates down between us and greedily attacks the food piled onto the other one.

I watch him until my fingers start to twitch, desperate for something to do. I snatch up the other plate and balance it on my lap while taking a bite of the eggs. Then another.

“I don’t want you to think I’m some sick pervert,” Espisido says once I’ve gathered up enough of a mouthful to swallow.

I promptly choke, spraying egg across the floor. “What…what are you talking about?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll stop coming into the dressing room at night.” He opens his mouth, seemingly on the verge of saying more, but then he closes it.

And I don’t know whether to laugh or count my damn blessings. Without him there, the world is gray again, dominated by Piotr. I’ll have no excuse to dwell on feelings and needs that shouldn’t matter. An addict only ever knows how to survive on the verge of needing a fix.

“Okay.”

We both tentatively swallow another steaming mouthful of eggs.

He exhales sharply as the food goes down his throat. “But…I still need to check out those stitches.”

Of course, he does. I shift around so that he’s facing my left side. With a clinical precision, he helps me peel off the sleeve of the hoodie I’m wearing—his. He breathes out sharply when he sees my arm—bruised from Arno’s manhandling, inflamed from my nights at the bar, still leaking tiny droplets of blood in places.

He rises and gets a rag from the kitchen counter. When hecomes back, it’s damp with the water from the faucet, and he gingerly dabs away at the area around the stitches. When all is said and done, they’ve held at least.

But Espisido doesn’t finish his examination just yet. His hand goes to my shoulder, flicking back the hair shielding my neck from his gaze. At the moment, Jose’s marks take precedence over Vladimir’s little wound. Whenever I swallow, the muscles throb in torment. I know from experience that most of the danger from strangulation comes after the fact, when the sore muscle swelled and damaged the windpipe. I’ve seen girls suffocate a day after having been choked, but I don’t have any trouble breathing. For now.

Or at least any difficulty caused by the injuries. My lungs are frozen due to an entirely different reason.

“That crazy motherfucker,” Espisido says softly while his fingertips feather over the bruising.

Is he referring to Arno or Jose? I don’t know, and I don’t bother to ask. There’s a certain look in his eyes that I vaguely recognize. Something distant and pained.

“I take it he’s not a ‘friend’ of yours?”

He flinches, his gaze cutting down to the floor. After a minute, he shakes his head. “You could say that.”

I’m satisfied with his gruff admission—until he continues to speak.

“A few years ago, I was doing something for Arno. Something stupid. Something he technically wouldn’t allow me to do, but I thought I could make him some decent money, so I tried it anyway.”

“What was it?”

He shrugs. “Running drugs. Look, Arno’s no citizen of the year, but he’s not entirely insane.” He cracks a worn, small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I did it on my own. Thought I could make a quick buck. Make him proud so that he’d let me handle bigger jobs. I was almost out of school by then. I had nowhereelse to go but the Gardai. Thought I had to earn my keep. It was stupid. I know.”

“So, what happened?”

“My dumb ass cut through territory run by the Cartel. I didn’t know it at the time, but Arno and Jose had already tussled over ‘boundaries’ before. When he caught me, Jose thought Arno was breaking their little treaty.” He draws back so swiftly that my entire body resonates with the loss of his heat. His eyes shut as he tears a trembling hand through his hair, holding the black curls away from his face. “He decided to make an example out of me.”

The memory of the man chained to the floor, Jose’s breakfast companion, makes my blood run cold, numbing my skin.

“He strung me up against the wall,” Espisido says. “He went at me with whips. Different shapes. Different kinds. For hours.”

The view of his back springs to my mind—the scars, lengthy and jagged. I’m already reaching out for him. My fingers grip his shoulder and tug. After a moment’s hesitation, he allows me to lift the corner of his shirt.

With single-minded determination, I paw the dark cotton away and peer at the pale skin underneath. The worst of the scars are easy to see, bulging against taut muscle and the ridges of his shoulder blades. The full extent of the damage, however, can only be felt through my fingertips. Every twitch and shudder of scar tissue. Every bumpy stretch of tendon where I assume he can’t feel sensation anymore.

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