Page 59 of Refrain

Jose made an “example” out of him, all right. He gave him wings—a twisted, broken mockery of them.

“Did he do this too?” My hand slides down to his right wrist. Two of my fingers slip in between his, ghosting the spaces where his are missing.

Shaking his head, he pulls away. “No. No…that was someone else.”

For a moment, I can only stare, taking him in. Every inch. He wears his scars so differently from mine. Open and guarded atthe same time. He doesn’t cut them away or hide them behind masks and different names.

He justis.

I find the voice to ask when he doesn’t continue the thread of the story himself. “What happened?” There is a reason why he didn’t wind up like Julio, wasting away while Jose ate a meal on his bloodied remains.

“Arno happened,” Espi says gruffly. He readjusts his shirt, pulling the hem back down to his waist and covering the scars. “He found out what I’d done. He came in the nick of time. I know he might seem like a hardass, but the Cartel outnumbers the Gardai two to one. It was suicide for him to go in alone, but he did. He had to beg Jose to let me go. Hebegged.”

I can’t see his face—I merely hear the icy, tormented edge to his words—and have to imagine his expression on my own. Indigo eyes narrowed in pain. Beautiful features chiseled and hardened.

“Even after all that, I’m not sure what he had to promise Jose to make him stop. It took me four months to heal.”

The gravity of the violence washes over me. I have to brace one hand against the couch cushions to find my breath. In the midst of the tumult of emotions raging in my head, one thought sticks out.

“Where was your brother? What did he do when he—”

“Dante?” Espisido chokes out a laugh. “Dante was in prison. By the time he got out, there didn’t seem to be a point in mentioning that little story.”

My throat feels tighter. “Where is he now?”

I don’t know what to expect. A different gamut of emotions comes over him when he speaks of Dante versus Arno. With Arno, he’s angry, loyal, aggravated, and understanding all at the same time. When all thrown together, I think it’s love. With Dante, there’s just…pain.

“He got out of prison about a year ago,” he says, his shouldershunched away from me. “For a while, it was good. Then, six months later, he cut out again. Just left some money on the table for me and was gone.Again.” He shakes his head, his dark hair flying, and fights to suck in air. One ragged breath paints the air between us.

I don’t realize I’ve touched him until I feel him shiver beneath my palm while his heart beats furiously against his skin.

“If he got bored of me or sick of me tagging along or something like that…I could handle it. But Dante only breaks loose when something’s wrong. When he’s trying to protect someone.”

“You and Arno are looking for him?”

He scoffs. “Something like that. We won’t find him, though, until hewantsto be found. But…” He faces me, brushing off the hand I have on his back. “This time, I have a feeling that having him back won’t be as easy as him ditching an orange jumpsuit.”

I don’t answer in favor of scrutinizing the planes of his face and memorizing every angelic detail. Why? The act does little to diminish the inexplicable ache humming through my veins whenever he’s near. It’s not lust—not that I’ve ever felt that emotion for myself. I just watch it unfurl in the men who look at me and only see a body. A hole. A quick fuck and the loss of a maybe a few bucks.

Even after I left the Syndicate, dating didn’t repair any of the damage left behind. So what I feel for him isn’t lust.

It’s something more pathetic than that. Something needy and aching that won’t let me back away from him, even though I can tell he wants me to. I’m not his type.

Maybe he doesn’t like blondes or box-brunettes. Maybe he doesn’t touch dancers on principle. Maybe…

So I’m the one who toucheshim, sliding my hand along the top of his shoulder. Just once. It’s not enough. My fingers curl, catching the muscle underneath. I’m pulling him closer before common sense can warn me to stop. Closer. Too close.

For some reason, he lets my lips brush his—too chaste a touchto even be called a kiss. Even so, I taste him as I breathe him in—cigarette smoke, mint, and the faintest sting of alcohol. He’s virtue and vice in one conflicting taste.

I surface once I’ve gotten my fix, but he has other plans. I don’t think he means to kiss me so much as he intends to feel. How my lips feel. What I taste like. The sounds I make when his body presses into mine. Gasps. Moans. I can’t control it.

He exhales himself into me, and my tongue sneaks out to steal more of him away. More mint. Acidic smoke. Sweetness. Egg. Everything.

We’re fused at the mouth, his body positioned between my legs, his hands surely on my waist. His fingertips graze my stomach while his tongue flutters against the outside of my lower lips. Soft. Tempting. I can’t stop myself from reaching for the waistband of his pants, and I barely brush the denim before he shoves my hand away.

“Stop!”

I’m left panting, staring up at him as he lurches to his feet. His eyes flicker, catching the emotions laid bare in mine. He shakes his head, tearing a hand through his hair, and groans. There’s nothing boyish or cute about the motion. He’s more devil than angel again. Shadows drape his innocent features, adding definition to the ivory.

---