by Lana Sky
“Good.” I hold my hand out, empowered by my new dress and the creature standing beside me. “Then give me a gun.”
After all, if I’m to destroy my old captor’s world, I have to enter the flames.
Refrain
Beautiful Monsters Book #2
Refrain
Copyright © 2018 by Lana Sky
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Covers by Combs
Cover Photos © Shutterstock
Editing by Erica Russikoff
Formatting by Charity Chimni
Proofreading by Charity Chimni and Mickey Reed Editing
Chapter 1
Espi
Two hundred dollars. Who would have thought you could put a price on one's soul? But, the four crumpled bills lying at the bottom of my med kit are proof enough of the bargain basement price of mine.
Was it worth it? Maybe not. So much for buying a plane ticket out of here any time soon—Hell, I’ll be lucky to afford my rent next month. I just hope my landlord accepts blood money. Literally. Red drops splatter across everything in my kit as I toss a pair of tweezers onto the top rack and slam the lid down.
“Here.” The punk beside me shoves another wad of cash into my hand, which I don’t bother counting. Tattoos streak his fingers, marking him as a gangbanger, though I’m not sure where from. That’s probably a good thing. “Man, thanks. You don’t even—”
“Don’t mention it,” I say over him, rising to my feet. “Seriously.” The way I cut my gaze in his direction makes him back up a step. “Don’t.”
I sidestep the only other person in the room—a man moaning on a cot set up at the back of a narrow apartment. The place is a mess. Old takeout everywhere and lines of coke in plain view on the plastic card table that serves as one of the few pieces of furniture. It’s a stash house, picked more for its obscure location by the docks than anything pretty.
“The stitches need to come out in ten days,” I tell the man beside me on my way to the door.
Whether he listens or not doesn’t really matter. My payment only extends so far. For some reason, I find myself pausing near the door anyway to fish my cell phone from my pocket. A message waits for me, floating on the screen. It’s from Arno.
Don’t forget. Moe’s tonight. Keep him guessing. I’ll pay double.
Great.
I swipe the text aside and rattle my number off to the punk watching me. “Give me a call,” I say. “The price is the same.”
“Thanks, man.”
That word haunts me as I leave the apartment building and step out onto the street. Thanks. A small consolation considering that the guy on the cot has a gunshot wound the size of a nickel. Chances are he didn’t get that injury from a harmless accident, and the remaining possibilities aren’t that innocent. An ambush by a rival gang? The police? Maybe he was one of the punks featured on the news last week who held a family captive or robbed that liquor store. He probably got what was coming to him.
I didn’t ask.
I never do.
I never dwell, either. Instead, I smother the guilt with a lit cigarette and inhale so hard that my throat hitches and I wind up coughing. Not many people crowd the streets this time of night, but those who do shoot me sideways glances. It’s the med kit drawing their attention, mainly the blood glittering on the side of it.
I wipe off what I can on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and then toss the clothing into the trash, walking the rest of the way wearing only a shirt. I stick to the alleys, weaving in and out of the puddles of light cast by street lamps. This part of the city has a gritty atmosphere that is impossible to ignore. You’re in hell without having to glance at a street sign to know it. Half-naked women huddle on the corners, showcasing gaunt limbs for the cars that cruise by. One of them, in particular, leans against a dumpster just beyond the next block I cross.
Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and then she sinks into the shadows, crooking her finger for me to follow. The moment I draw even with her, she blows out a breath tainted with vodka and only god knows what else.
“You’re late,” she says. Her words run together, exaggerating her Russian accent, as blue eyes accusingly meet mine. “They don’t like that, you know. It makes them nervous.”
“I got held up,” I say, lifting my med kit. “I’m here now. Tell me what’s up. But first things first.” I take a few bills from my pocket and press them against her palm.
Instantly, the tense line of her jaw relaxes a little. She almost looks her age—too damn young to be wearing the skimpy, black dress displaying a swath of pale skin. Ratty, brown hair brushes her shoulders but doesn’t offer much cover on its own.
After a wary glance behind her, she leans in. “Piotr’s gone. You’ll meet with Vlad tonight. He thinks you’re an easy mark, so he’ll try to win you over with dances, maybe a girl or two.” She shrugs like it’s normal to equate people with currency. “But there’s something else. I don’t know why, but the guards have been edgier than usual tonight. Like they’re expecting something. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I notice anything strange. Though I did see a truck circle this way a little bit ago. The cops think we don’t notice when they drive normal cars.”
“Huh.” I pocket the information for later. Antsy Russians are a bad sign. So are the police, but for the moment, they’re the least of my problems. “Hide this for me, will ya?” I hand over my med kit.
“Still playing doctor?” Her tone is more amused than judgmental as she accepts the plastic case and tucks it behind the dumpster. “One of these days, you’ll be the one who needs stitches.” Her smile fades. “Especially if you keep coming here.”
I muster a half smile of my own. “How else am I going to save up enough to get you out of here?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Right now, I need to get back before they come looking for me. There are four guards tonight, all armed,” she adds. “They shouldn’t bother you, but just in case.”
I accept the information with a nod. “I’ll keep my eye on the exit. Stay safe tonight. And, Domi?”
She pauses on her way to the street.
“You know I’m not joking about getting you out of this place, right?”
She shrugs. “You’re insane. Though, if you weren’t, I would have ratted you out a long time ago.”
She’s gone before I can laugh at the joke. Alone, however, it doesn’t sound so funny. In a world where someone can virtually own another, few things are.
I’m definitely not laughing as I return to the main street and head for my destination—a club named Moe’s. It lurks in a brick building a few blocks up. Two bouncers guard the door while scores of women walk the strip. Domi’s one of them, lurking out of sight. The money I gave her is enough to help her make her quota tonight. Helping her tomorrow solely depends on if another gangbanger can get himself shot—and happens to be desperate enough to seek out someone like me to patch him up. Funny. I used to consider myself an artist, finding refuge in colors and paint. Now, my art extends to the medical jargon I read in a book, and a whole lot of trial and error.
Admittedly, that’s the most dignified of the ways I make my money. Another? It’s not so pretty. Some might call it downright shady.
Setting my sights on the wooden door leading into the club, I pick my way through the women posted on the street and approach one of the bouncers. He frowns as he looks me over and then jerks his chin to the door.
“He’s waiting for you,�
�� he grunts, making the statement sound more like a warning. “Go on in.” He shoves the door open, and I step through it.
My soul may have a price tag, but at least I still have one. In a place like this, that’s a rare thing to find.
Cold eyes greet me as I enter the front of the club—a narrow office where another bouncer guards a second door. I’m already dreading what waits beyond. Chaos, for one. Piotr, the man who runs this branch of the syndicate, keeps his club brimming with drugs, sex, and booze. Enough vice so the twisted fucks who come here forget that the girls prancing around in risqué costumes aren’t here by choice.
Domi’s lucky to be outside tonight. At least she can hide. That isn’t the case in here. Piotr’s trained thugs don’t miss so much as a trembling shot glass. Any girl who doesn’t play her part is given a shove and a pointed look. The smart ones don’t screw up twice.
“He’s waiting for you.”
I smother any reaction as a hulking bodyguard appears at my side, his voice deeper than the pulsing music. He inclines his head and starts toward the center of the club, where a balding man in a black suit is watching a parade of women strip naked on the stage that spans the length of the room.
“My friend!” The man rises to his feet as I approach and offers a meaty hand for me to shake.
The gesture is for show—a way for him to draw attention to his scarred knuckles should I forget the danger he represents. Not that I can. Even the dumbest gangbanger knows who Vladimir Olshenkov is. There is a reason his nickname is The Butcher.
“You’re late,” he says, narrowing his beady eyes over my face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt some other business.”
I shrug off the subtle threat lurking in his tone and plaster on an expression that I hope passes for a smile. “Nothing important.”
Satisfied, Vlad lowers himself back onto a leather couch positioned near the stage and pats the space beside him. “Sit.”
I do, angling my face toward him—not that it helps much. In my peripheral vision, a girl takes off the thin strip of fabric serving as her top and my jaw clenches. “Arno’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” I say. Not that he ever planned to come anyway.
“Do this for me,” he begged. “Act like I want to make an offer—not that I ever would go into business with those fucks. I just need eyes on the inside.”
For what? He never told me.
I never asked.
“Arno,” Vlad says, nodding. “He is busy. I understand. You are busy yourself.” He nods to my hands as if they convey more than I realize. Maybe they do. The left sports five fingers, like most people’s do. The right…doesn’t. “It’s why I don’t mind that your boss sends you in his place,” Vlad adds, laughing deeply. “He must depend on you a lot, what with your brother being gone.”
I swallow hard, keeping every muscle in my face as still as I can. I’ve met with him three times this month alone, but this is the first meeting that he’s brought up Dante.
“We manage,” I say tightly.
Vlad’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would hope you do. Here.” A girl slinks past, carrying a tray of shot glasses. He grabs two and offers one to me. Vodka, probably. “A toast. To new business.”
Not if I have any say in it. But there’s the rub—a truth that stings even as I contort my hand to slam my glass against Vlad’s. Arno does business with whoever he wants.
Like always, I’m just along for the fucking ride.
Chapter 2
Chloe
The real Devil sets up shop in a brick building downtown, where a flashing neon sign above the door reads Moe’s. He doesn’t require fire or brimstone to keep his captured souls in line, either.
Just money. A lot of it.
Workers and patrons alike congregate near the entrance to the club, and I squint to tally up what little features I can decipher. Dark hair, not red. Thin, but not petite. One question lingers no matter how many details I hunt for. After all this time, will I even recognize her?
The engine of the truck cuts off with a death rattle–like hiss, mercifully drowning out the thought. “Take it all in,” my partner, Grey, warns as he rolls down his window and spits onto the pavement. “This is what you volunteered for rather than taking that nice, cushy desk job.”
“Very funny,” I counter, making my voice snappy on purpose. After less than a month of working with him, I’ve learned that he doesn’t tolerate fear from anyone. “Are you going to suggest I wear kid gloves, too?”
“Fair enough,” he says. “But this isn’t like our usual beat. And it certainly isn’t like that Podunk town in Montana you transferred from. Welcome to the goddamn strip.”
He doesn’t know of my past. The horror unfolding in my gaze could be a result of my so-called innocence as far as he’s concerned.
Not painful recognition.
Seven years later, the rundown block looks untouched, as if the past few years only affected me.
“Parker?” Grey snaps his fingers beneath my nose.
“Huh? Oh.” Parker. That’s right. I’m not Ksenia anymore, the urchin who escaped to the west. It’s Chloe Parker now, someone supposedly stronger. Harder. Braver?
“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out,” Grey adds. “Though I wouldn’t blame you.” With twenty years of experience on the force, he doesn’t miss my nervous swallow. His eyes narrow. “Remember, it’s straightforward, but let’s go over the basics. You are here because…”
“Because I’m the only one who could fit into a size two.”
“Smart ass,” Grey mutters. “For real, kid. Why are you here?”
Because I’m stupid. Because I’m an idiot for returning to this damn city. Because I’m desperate enough to chase a ghost.
“Because I spent two years in special victims,” I say out loud, “even if it was in a ‘Podunk’ town in Montana. I’m trained to carry a weapon, as well as consult on sex crimes, and I transferred here to make a difference—”
“And you’re our cover if any of the press find out about this fucking suicide mission and whine about how we’re taking advantage of a bunch of hookers.”
“Or that,” I say. He always did have a way of getting to the heart of the matter.
“Let’s cut to the chase. You mingle. You see if you hear anything interesting. Piotr’s been busy these days. Word on the street is that he’s cutting a deal with Arno Mackenzie, the gun runner. Not to mention his dealings with the Cartel. See what you can learn, but then you leave. Don’t speak to anyone for too long. They may seem like harmless little girls, but don’t buy the act. They’d sell your ass out in a heartbeat.”
He’s referring to the women gathered along the sidewalk with even less patience than me and my so-called humble roots. So many haunted, battered faces. Hope and dread mingle into a painful mixture that lumps in my throat. No red hair or blue eyes. Maybe I don’t want to find her after all. Not like this.
“I’ll let you off here,” Grey announces. “And for god’s sake, stop fidgeting. You never wear a dress before? I could blend in better than you.” He scoffs at the black fabric clinging to me like a second skin, and I let my hand fall from the plunging neckline. “Don’t forget. You’re the one who volunteered for this. Though, if you’ve changed your mind, I could get us another assignment before the end of the shift—”
“No.” I push the door on my end open and climb out without giving him the chance to reach for his radio. “I can do this.”
I adjust the red wig shielding my natural hair and spot my destination. Memories taint the air, as tangible as the cigarette smoke and polka music seeping through the walls of the nearby club—a repulsive enough combination to deter even the drunkest local. If not, the burly bouncers stationed on either side of the entrance do the trick.
They stare right through me as I pick my way across the street. Either luck is on my side, or something else consumes their attention. Keeping my head down, I don’t question. In and out. Information. That’s all I need.
>
Red hair. Blue eyes. Petite.
“The fuck are you?” Someone nudges my hip the moment I mount the curb. Not a redhead, but a lanky brunette with a thick Russian accent. The remnants of a healing bruise circle her left eye, and she hasn’t even bothered to hide her mark—the indigo tattoo at the nape of her neck that proclaims her name and her number. 23.
I ignore her, pushing through the thick of the crowd, but her breath remains hot on the back of my neck.
“This street is Piotr’s territory,” she hisses. “He doesn’t like competition.”
I stop cold. That name shouldn’t affect me the way it does. Not now.
“I’ve never seen you before,” the girl adds, continuing to follow me the moment I remember how to move. “Most girls usually don’t look so…clean.”
She’s right. Everyone here is sporting some bruise or another. Each injury serves as a painful incentive to fight for the next car that slows before the curb. A panting blonde wins this round and claims the passenger’s seat of some creep’s Volvo, slamming the door behind her.
I stare long after the car has turned the corner. Once upon a time, I was that girl.
Not anymore. The night air sinks into my lungs, acting as an anchor against the memories, and I blink, focusing on the club once again. The bouncers guarding the doors are alert tonight, but it’s not the girls they’re watching. The road has their sole attention. They don’t even trade a joke like they would have in the old days. It’s as if they’re waiting for someone.
Or something.
“They’ll beat your ass if they know you don’t belong here,” my newfound shadow snarls into my ear, following my gaze. “I suggest you leave, or—”
“Have you seen this girl?”
The change of subject throws her off, and she steps back.