by Lana Sky
It’s only when I’m knuckles-deep in acrylic that I let myself think about what I’m doing. It’s not too late to take more jobs and save up enough to skip town. Run. Hitch a one-way ride on a plane and never look back. I could pull a Dante-esque move, only I wouldn’t be self-righteous enough to pretend like I was doing it out of anything other than selfish greed.
I’m almost twenty-one years old, and I don’t know what it feels like to want something. Not really. Something real. Something worth turning my back on the whole fucking world for.
Maybe if I find it, I’ll finally understand what it’s like to be him.
Or maybe I’ll just learn what it’s like to be Espisido. Someone other than the punk kid stuck doing the dirty work or holding the short end of the stick. Someone who crawls through life alone no matter how hard it knocks them down.
Like her, Miss Yellow. She’s here beneath my fingertips, judging me from the surface of a canvas. Yellow paint forms the base of her features, sharp and focused. After picking up a brush, I use hints of green and red to flesh out the details, extending the line of her mouth until she’s no longer judging me.
Just watching. She stares beyond my head, seeing what I can’t. Like the figure I catch from the corner of my eye, lurking beyond the screen door that leads into the backyard.
The man standing there is tall, towering nearly to the doorframe. A jacket shrouds his body, the hood drawn low over his face. The line of his jaw is visible, moving as he speaks.
“You’re still smoking,” he says. “I can smell that shit out here.”
Sure enough, there’s fresh ash smoking in a bowl on my table. I step back from my easel and swipe my hands along my pants. Then I grab the makeshift ashtray and pitch the ash into the trash.
“I didn’t think you’d know where to find me,” I admit without facing the door. I eye my shadow instead as it flickers along the wall opposite from where I stand. “Considering you haven’t come around in six months—”
“I’m always watching out for you,” he says. “You know that.”
“Do I?”
He doesn’t answer. Nervous energy builds in my muscles the longer the silence wears on.
Finally, I sigh. “You can come in.”
My back door always creaks, and I use the sharp squeal as cover to flick my lighter. At the same time, I snatch a fresh cig from a pile on the table. Two puffs don’t make it any easier to face him. The cold air ghosting the back of my neck warns me that this isn’t a hallucination, at least. That’s a good sign. Maybe.
Dante keeps his distance, watching me from his side of the room, I bet. Tallying up the differences in the punk he left behind and whoever he sees now.
“I’m not going to make excuses,” he says.
A bitter laugh comes out of me. “You might want to tell Arno that.”
“There’s something I’ve got to take care of,” he says like I didn’t speak at all. “Something I don’t want you being a part of—”
“I’m always a part of it.” His life. His mistakes. I’ve always been caught in the wake of Dante Vialle. To be fair, I’ve never complained. Until now. “And you never give me an answer.”
I look over my shoulder and find him standing awkwardly near the door, ready to slip out of it at a moment’s notice. Before he can, I take notice of the things I couldn’t before. He’s bulked up some, and his hair is longer, falling into his eyes, the main feature we share. His narrow in a way that signals that he’s not here for idle chitchat.
“So, what is it?” I ask. “What reason are you going to spew for bailing on me now?”
“Espi.” He shakes his head. “Look. I know you don’t understand—”
“Just tell me what you want.”
He sighs. Then he nods. “I need you to warn Arno that whatever he’s sticking his nose in will only bring him trouble.”
Like that narrows it down. Arno sticks his nose into everything.
“Why not warn him yourself?”
His mouth twitches into something that could be called a smile on someone else. “You know Arno. It takes more than talk to distract him from one of his schemes.”
“But I can?”
He shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. “He listens to you.”
“And if I don’t?”
His mouth falls flat. “Nothing good. Trust me on that.”
“It’s kind of hard to do that lately,” I admit. God, I sound like such a whiny punk. So desperate for my big brother’s attention.
But hell, if I knew it would work, maybe I’d play that role to its fullest. Beg.
Stick around.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, reaching up to adjust his hood. It’s raining out, and droplets of water splatter my kitchen floor. Near the door, he pauses, rocking on the balls of his feet. “It won’t be this way forever,” he adds. “I promise. But this…this is something I need to do.”
He’s gone before I can even get a word in edgewise.
I utter my reply anyway, letting the rain snatch the words away. “Isn’t it always.”
I wipe the counters down and reshuffle the stuff on the table—anything to delay the inevitable. Arno gets antsy if I don’t poke my head into the club at least once, but tonight, I’m not in a hurry to make my customary appearance. After today, I can’t stomach Arno’s paranoid bullshit, but he’s not the person I picture waiting for me at Mulligan’s.
She’s still beneath my fingertips. Yellow paint. Yellow eyes. Yellow—now dark—hair.
It doesn’t take remembering what happened to Vlad to suspect that tangling with her isn’t a good idea. Though it’s not like I’ve had a lot of those lately, either.
I take a seat at the table. I could find another job tonight, if I wanted. With this new gang on the loose, it seems there are plenty of gangbangers willing to be patched up off the books.
I could always chase after Dante, or better yet, I could make some money. Enough to buy a plane ticket in addition to Domi’s. France. London. Someplace far from here.
No matter what, I won’t get distracted again.
Not by Dante.
Not by her.
Chapter Fifteen
Chloe
By midnight, Espisido still hasn’t shown when I take my place on stage. I should be relieved; he wouldn’t approve anyway. The lacy, black thong and a matching bra were one of the few sets that fit me, but they reveal the most skin. A pair of knee-high boots minimizes the damage somewhat—Darcy’s idea.
“They make you look hot,” she insisted.
I look deranged. From my position near the stage, I can’t go a second without eyeing the door. The longer his absence stretches on, the more my anxious stomach twists into knots. But the sentiment isn’t the popular one tonight. A wild energy electrifies the interior of the club, chafing against my raw nerves.
Are they all this selfish? Arno doesn’t look worried, considering that he’s trying to balance a busty blonde on his lap with one hand while holding a shot glass in the other. I assume he wouldn’t relax if his friend were in danger.
Or so I prefer to imagine.
Admittedly, my imagination’s taken a hit lately. I’m too tired to hide anymore, even inside my head. When the emcee announces the performance of “Angel,” I move sluggishly, weighed down by a million guilty thoughts vying for my attention.
I should be looking for Anna. Not lying. Not hiding. Certainly not trying to evade Piotr through the art form he taught me so well. I shouldn’t be feeling.
So I don’t.
My audience is unforgiving. They boo and hiss when I circle the pole with as much enthusiasm as a dead bird croaking its last song from inside its gilded cage. I’m on my final exhausted lap when the main door flies open, and a lone figure walks in. He has his head bowed at first, and droplets of rain drip from his black curls and bounce off his shoulders.
Then he looks up, and my mouth goes dry. I’m frozen solid in the path of his stare, wobbling on unstea
dy heels. Go, a part of me urges in vain. I should collect what little money was thrown at my feet and flee. Something about his expression makes me stay.
It could be the raised eyebrow. The slight quirk to his mouth. Pity? No…
Interest. It consumes his expression before he can hide it, making those pink lips part and his pupils dilate. In this moment, I have his full attention.
So I take it.
I grip the pole again with shaking fingers and swing myself high. This time, he stares. Haunting blue eyes remain on my skin, viewing every ripple and twist of muscle. Stripping my tiny lace bra feels more like removing a deeper part of myself and laying it bare. Not for the crowd.
For him.
I’ve never been much of an exhibitionist before this, but I want him to see. Everything. I want to give him a real reason to disapprove of my dancing or cast his pitying looks. I’m proud of my scars and my damaged soul. Or I was.
He peruses those broken pieces of me as the jeers and whistles of the other men fade. Soon, there’s only him left behind, and god knows what he thinks—though I suppose that’s the irony of it. He judges me with more scrutiny than any higher power ever could.
It’s not fair. I want his disgust, not his curiosity. My traitorous body reacts to it in ways I don’t like. My nipples harden beneath his gaze. Muscles quake. Nerves tense and fire off at random.
He makes me sloppy.
Every limb is on fire when I swing myself around to face him again. I’m already anticipating what I’ll find—a frown. Instead, he merely nods as if giving me permission to climb down, so I do, trembling and slick with exhaustion.
Then he turns and walks away, denying my unconscious wish for a final verdict.
Only now do I feel naked. I barely notice when another smiling girl prances onto the stage, and the music switches over to something more upbeat. I make my way backstage in a daze and push past the other girls for the dressing room. The two cackling brunettes inside do their best to ignore me as I find a spot near the mirror on the far wall and catch my breath.
Focus. I flatten my palm against the table to reinforce the command. Focus! I snatch a wad of tissue from a nearby box and scrub at the lipstick Darcy insisted I wear. It’s a dark red that somehow minimizes the shadows lurking beneath my eyes.
But makeup can’t minimize the desperation. I reek of it, the need to hide, the itch to run. The confusion…
Little Ksei failed at many things in her short, tormented life, but dancing for men was never one of them.
Until now.
My nostrils flare, which draws my attention back to the present. Noise comes from the opposite corner of the room, someone entering.
“Espi!” one of the other women shrieks. “What the hell?”
“Sorry,” he says, his voice gruffer than I’ve heard it before. “You two mind clearing out for a second? I’ll leave after that. I promise.”
The two women sigh but gather up their things, and then I’m left alone with the intruder. Escape briefly flits across my mind, but it’s already too late. The steady thud of his footsteps marks his approach, and I watch him over the surface of the mirror in front of me.
“You looked…good out there,” he says once he’s a few steps away.
A sigh I didn’t even realize I was holding escapes in a rush, leaving me weightless.
“So do the stitches,” he adds, betraying the real reason behind his visit. His breath feathers over my neck, followed by the delicate brush of warm fingertips along my left arm. He’s touching me without permission, but my tongue can’t form a protest. “I mean—I don’t really know what I mean.” He laughs. “I sound like an idiot, don’t I?”
“An idiot?” My nostrils flare again, catching cigarette smoke. And whiskey? Reddened eyes confirm that suspicion. He’s been drinking, but the liquor didn’t chase away whatever’s clouding his gaze. I’m too much of a coward to ask what caused it. “Good is not the best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” I admit. “But it’s not the worst.”
“Well, that’s good too, I guess.” Another laugh doesn’t displace his unease. The worry lingers as he runs his fingers down my arm. Long after he should be satisfied by the state of my wound, he just keeps…feeling.
And the entire damn time he does, the mirror mocks me with a grotesque caricature of the woman I’ve become. I don’t recognize the way her brown eyes widen, so damn empty. I don’t recognize the way her bottom lip trembles, either, or how many times she has to flick her tongue along the flesh to moisten it.
Every brush of his fingertips jolts through my skin like an electric current. Soft. Softer. Blinding.
So much for Arno’s warning.
“I should get back…” My voice falls flat, and I don’t move.
Neither does he. I find an unreadable expression lurking beyond the glass. More pity? His gaze skims my shoulders before I can be sure, impossible to decipher.
Exhaustion and nerves make for a reckless combination. He takes a small step closer, and I inhale him even more deeply—mint, rainwater, fresh air. Wherever he was during the day, he spent most of it outdoors. He’s shivering beneath his jacket, but his hands feel steady. Too steady. There’s nothing sexual about them—no groping or wandering fingertips. Does that make this easier?
Regardless, my lungs deflate as he pulls away. With relief, or so I tell myself.
“I should probably let you get dressed now,” he says, his voice thick.
It’s only now that I realize that my bra is still undone. Confusing me further, he averts his gaze as I reach behind my back to refasten the clasp.
I grab his borrowed hoodie from a nearby hook and drape it around my shoulders. “I’m ready.”
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 in front 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, mutter
ing, “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 the real possibility of Piotr returning at any moment to do what he does 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 waiting for me near the back door of Mulligan’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 when we’re toe to toe.
“Out doing what?” 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 for him,” 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.
“A good one—so don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snaps. “I didn’t want to let you know until it panned out, but I can’t have your ass running around the city every fucking day. I need you here.”
“A lead,” I repeat carefully. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to mention my impromptu family reunion. “What kind?”