Refrain (Beautiful Monsters Book 2)

by Lana Sky

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere safe.” Noting my confusion, he explains, “She wasn’t put into the trade, Ksei.”

  My lungs flood with so much air at once that I nearly choke. Is this relief? Or terror? “Then…then where?”

  “My father and his wife at the time had a young child who died. They took her.” He could be referring to a doll for all the emotion his voice holds. “They raised her, but my father has his own enemies who attacked their compound and killed his wife, so he put the girl into hiding. I offered to bring her to America for safekeeping, so to speak. It upsets you to learn this,” Piotr says almost as if in awe of the gauntlet of emotions a normal human can feel in the face of grief. He takes a step toward me, and I nearly blow a hole through Espi’s jacket in my haste to draw the gun.

  My eyes throb, my vision nonexistent. But I aim the gun in his direction anyway. I won’t miss. I can’t. “You’re lying.” Maybe Ivan was right after all. I’d rather face the fact that my sister is dead than have her memory used as a pawn to trap me again. “Tell me where she is or I’m gone.”

  “I will,” he promises, and the thud of footsteps trails off. “But you must earn your present from me.”

  His voice drips like liquid honey, the same way it used to whenever I did something or someone well enough to please him. My perfect little Ksei.

  In his world, a “present” equated to a test. A tough client to win over or an impressive amount of drugs to imbibe, snort, or inject. Anything to make him happy. Anything to make him smile.

  Fearless Chloe Parker should demand that he elaborate, but I…I can’t. I just wait, and he mulls the silence left in my wake like a wolf savoring the bloody trail of its prey.

  “I promise you will enjoy it…but I do not have it ready, and frankly, I was not expecting you to arrive so soon.” He frowns, and my heart lurches. Piotr is predictable when caught off guard.

  I wait for my punishment. Hands or fists? However, he doesn’t move. For now.

  “Come back tomorrow night,” he tells me. “Apparently, seven days is too long a wait—”

  “Like hell, I will.” I trail the gun over his forehead. Do it, I tell myself. “Tell me where my sister is, or I’ll kill you.” My wrist throbs with tension, but my finger won’t pull the trigger.

  “When you return,” he tells me. “And you will. Like hell, it is inevitable. But I promise that you will regain your lovely smile again.”

  My mouth flattens in spite. He’s lying. “I won’t come back.”

  “Until then, Ksei.” He turns back to whatever business I distracted him from.

  I don’t know how long I stand here with the gun trained on the back of his head. Minutes. Hours. I feel numb when I finally turn away without firing a single bullet.

  It’s a silent walk back the way I came. The bouncer grunts in acknowledgment when I leave. By the time I make it to the lobby without a knife in my back, I realize he’s really letting me leave unscathed for the second time within twenty-four hours.

  I came back to him for the second time…

  It’s a thought I can’t bear to face alone. Not sober. Not painfully, achingly clean. A million lines of cocaine couldn’t give me the hit I need though.

  I dig my nails into my palms. Hard…harder. I’m desperate enough to do anything and everything to escape the pressure building within my skull when I finally remember.

  “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  But he isn’t in Mulligan’s when I finally slip through the front door. Francisco is manning the bar alone.

  “Thanks for fucking bailing, kid!” he shouts above the din of music and drunken laughter. He must not be able to see the blood. “Where’s your little friend?”

  “I…I think she’s gone.” I watch my fingers fidget with the frayed edge of my sleeve. “Ran off with a boyfriend or something.”

  “Hmph.” Francisco eyes the counter with what could be deemed a disappointed frown. “I needed the fucking help. Anyway, if you’re looking for Espi, he’s gone. Arno’s closing the bar down for business, so Darcy took him out.”

  Is it that late already? I glance over my shoulder and spot the dark sky visible beyond the windows. I didn’t even notice night falling during my trek across town. I’m that desperate. That needy.

  “Where?”

  If he’s surprised that I’m curious, he doesn’t mention it. “Davey’s. It’s on Fourth. Not far from here. I guess someone else can take your spot tonight.”

  I nod and then exit onto the street. It takes me an hour to track the club down, which is tucked between a warehouse and an alleyway. The pulse of the music is audible a block down, and when I finally approach the battered door serving as an entrance, the bouncer doesn’t even bother asking me for ID.

  Apparently, this isn’t the kind of establishment that gives a damn about the legality of their clientele. Inside is a mismatched cross between what appears to be a makeshift bar at one end and a full-blown club at the other. It’s packed, filled wall to wall with sweating bodies gyrating to the deafening bass.

  It doesn’t take me long to find Darcy. She sways wildly to the beat, catching eyes from even the drunkest spectator. Surprisingly, she isn’t approached. It’s as if even the sleaziest pervert can sense the watchful blue eyes on her from a corner. I catch glimpses of him at first through breaks in the crowd and the sparse illumination of pulsing strobe lights. He’s red one instant. In shadow the next. It’s a haunting transformation that has him shifting from demon to angel with every step I take. He’s a demon when I push past a man in a wife-beater, grinding against a half-naked blonde. He’s an angel again when I’m just beyond his reach. The next moment, he’s the devil.

  I feel him before I register reaching for him. His hand, scorching hot. His fingers greedily lacing with mine. His startled breath on my throat as I step in closer. Closer than he’s comfortable with. More distance than I need.

  “Hey…” His voice sounds rougher against my ear, loud to combat the noise around us.

  I can sense the questions he doesn’t bother to ask. He can feel the gun still tucked inside my pocket—but he doesn’t move. Not until I take his hand and lead him deeper into the center of the dance floor.

  I’ve never danced away from a stage. I’ve never willingly danced with someone. Not like this. He takes the place of the pole, his hands on my waist when I move them there, his body like an anchor. I stop thinking. I stop feeling. I just move, breathing in time with the pulsing beat. I let him set the pace. I let him inhale me. With every dose of me he takes, I steal double the amount from him.

  I know that this won’t last. That it can’t. The fear only drives me faster. I grind on him. I know that it’s more than he can stand. More than he can take. Maybe I want him to push me off.

  He doesn’t. He lets me touch him as I slide my hands down his chest. I glance up and find him already staring down at me, his eyes unfocused but still so damn piercing. I don’t know who initiates it, but the kiss is deeper than the others. Harsher. More desperate.

  My fingers are in his hair. His claw at me through the fabric of my clothing, touching, owning. I need to be owned. He doesn’t resist when I pull back and drag him through the crowd. I need to be somewhere—anywhere—away from the people, and the noise, and the watchful eyes. I just need him.

  We barge into a bathroom. Men’s or women’s? I’m not sure which. It’s cramped and filthy with toilet paper wadded on the floor in dubious puddles. He tenses when he follows me inside, and something I can’t even decipher tears from my throat. Maybe I beg him. Plead. Moan. Either way, he reacts by backing me into a corner by the sinks. I flail for leverage and haul myself up onto the rim of one.

  My heart thunders when he steps between my legs, his eyes on mine. We share a revelation without words—This can go however far he wants it to.

  I have to grit my teeth against any sound when his hands go for my sweatpants. He peels them down almost reverently before sliding hi
s hand between my legs. With every brush of his fingers, he sends me on a slow, gradual high.

  But it’s not enough.

  The moment I see him reach for his jeans, I lunge forward and help him tear them open. His boxers next. My knees clamp over his hips to drive him closer—drive him in—and when he does, I don’t give a damn who might hear me.

  It doesn’t last long. I’m too wet. He’s too raw. Too perfect. Too wound up. The first few thrusts slam me back against the streaked mirror, drawing sounds from me I’ve never heard myself make. He goes slower after that, savoring the connection rather than striving for friction. It’s so damn considerate that I can’t take it. I come with only the grinding of his pelvis against my clit for stimulation, dragging him down with me.

  I’m distantly aware of a door opening and a stumbling figure spotting us there. They shout something, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Espi to give a shit.

  His eyes seem so damn blue in this moment. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I’ve never seen anything more dangerous.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that. Maybe it’s only a minute later that he finally pulls away. I wince as I slide from the sink. The faucet bit into my back, and I move woodenly to adjust my clothes. I’ve only managed to straighten the hem of my borrowed shirt before his hands are there to assist. He dresses me slowly, reverently. His touch alone can make rough cotton seem like silk, transporting me far beyond our filthy, reeking surroundings.

  My fingers shake as I help him adjust his pants in return. He won’t let me pull the zipper, but my rebellious fingers linger over his waistband as he leads the way back out into the club. We hunt aimlessly through the crowd for Darcy and spend the rest of the night watching her from the sidelines. He doesn’t touch me, and I don’t touch him. He doesn’t have to for his presence to resonate within my body anyway, more potent than any drug.

  We don’t make it back to the bar. Instead, I follow him to his house, where he doesn’t even bother to switch the lights on once we’re inside. With the prompting of one wordless plea, he strips me down right here in the middle of the kitchen, and we fuck on the floor. It’s sloppy. Messy. Our bodies don’t know how to meld, so we make them fit.

  I hook my knees around his waist, driving him into me, clawing at his back, moaning in his ear. There’s no fear as to what might happen if I orgasm too soon—or if I don’t. There’s just feeling, sensation, breathing. And then he’s spilling himself inside me, grunting with the force of it, and I come undone.

  We lie here afterward, a pile of sweating limbs, when we should redress and regroup. Reality lurks beyond the stained walls of his house, threatening to swallow us whole.

  But I’m weak. He’s tired. We sleep in bits and pieces, and then we fuck again, slower, harder. It’s only when his mouth latches onto my throat that I realize it’s not really fucking, at least not as I know it. He’s not shoving his cock into me, using my body as a hole to get himself off. With every touch, he’s making me… Making me feel. Making me moan. Cry out. Scream.

  In his own way, maybe he’s making something close to love. Making hate.

  My battered, bruised soul swells and shatters beneath his ministrations. I’m the bloated, grotesque remains of someone once living, and he showers that broken corpse with worshiping fingers, groaning at the feel of my skin. He does his best to come only when he knows I’ll follow.

  It’s too much.

  We lie side by side, catching our breath.

  We fuck again.

  Dawn is painting the sky with streaks of pink and red when I wake up, my head on his chest, his hands in my hair. I know he’s awake, but I’m not ready yet. Not ready to face the world. Not ready to remember the clock counting the hours down.

  He told me that he’d be there when I needed him. That promise woke something inside me that I only have one word to name. I need him. I slide my leg over his hip and straddle him in earnest. He’s hard already, nudging my inner thigh. A sigh escapes his mouth, ruffling strands of my hair loose. One of exhaustion? One of relief? The lazy smile that tugs on his lips gives me a clue.

  Holding his gaze, I reach between us and guide the head of him inside me. Three…four times and the sensation never changes. The pleasure never loses its potency. He fills me like nothing else. Perfectly. My body doesn’t strain to accept him. It swallows him, hungry for him in every goddamn way—and only like this can I fucking forget.

  I move on him slowly, letting him adjust to the feeling. Once he starts to thrust up into me, I arch my back, brace both hands on his chest, and swivel my hips, riding him deeper. His hands go to my waist, guiding my pace, letting me keep control. His surrender alone makes me come so hard that I see colors. Reds. Blues. Yellows. Greens.

  I keep moving until he groans out his own release and fills me up all over again. I flush with the realization that we haven’t used a condom one single time. And I don’t care. There’s no guilt on my part. Chloe Parker’s yearly exams reinforce the fact that I’m clean. And even if he’s not…

  There are worse ways to infect a person. Fates more damning than any disease. I’d take anything and everything he could possibly ever give me, just as long as it means I never have to go back.

  “Arno’s been calling me.”

  This is when I register the telltale buzz of a vibrating cell phone.

  “He’s the only one who would this fucking early.”

  With a sigh, I roll off him and onto the cold tile, but he doesn’t move. He just stares up at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful, his arms at his sides. He’s an angel contemplating the depth of his fall, the loss of his wings. The buzzing has trailed off by the time he finally hauls himself upright.

  He staggers down the hallway, still beautifully naked. The muscles in his thighs ripple as he stoops for his phone and brings it to his ear. When he finally hangs up and returns to the kitchen, his halo has disappeared. Shadows line his eyes again, feeding off every ounce of light in the room.

  “Jose found something out,” he says while he hunts for something on the floor. When his gaze lands over his sweatshirt, he lunges for it and pulls it over his head. “I’ve got to go—”

  “I’ll come with you.” I’m already on my feet before he can argue, if he even would.

  He watches me fish my panties from the floor, his expression unreadable. Once we’re both fully dressed, however, he holds his hand out to me. I take it, gripping it tighter than necessary. Tighter than I should.

  He lets me cling to him as he heads for the door. Beside him, the daylight isn’t harsh and revealing. It’s cold. It’s calm. It paints our skin in shades of yellow and gray, and I have never felt more human.

  Chapter 26

  Espi

  “Where the hell have you been?” Arno snarls the moment we enter Mulligan’s.

  Shit. The set of his shoulders alone backs up the nerves I sensed in him over the phone. He’s awake before dawn, without a bottle to show for it, too. Either the bar’s entire stash of liquor disappeared overnight, or something’s got him riled so badly that even beer can’t fix it.

  I don’t spot Francisco behind the bar, either—another bad sign. Arno only leaves him out of shit when he doesn’t want to be put on a leash.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Well, you would know if you answered your damn phone. I’ve been calling you for five fucking—” He breaks off once he notices the woman in my shadow and his expression falls flat. “Never mind. I can guess what the fuck you were doing.”

  He’s gone before I can muster up a comeback, marching toward the center of the bar. Then I realize why he’s so edgy—We have company. I spot the guest of honor seated on one of the stools near the end of the counter. The next second, Arno shoves me back before I even register taking a step.

  “Relax,” he grunts while I catch myself against the end of a pool table. “He’s just here to talk. I told you that he found something out.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think
you’d invite him over for goddamn tea.”

  Jose put his big-boy clothes on today—a leather jacket and jeans.

  “Hola, mi amigo,” he says. He brought a knife along to play with—Arno wouldn’t dare let him bring a gun. Knowing damn well that I’m watching, the bastard twirls it between his fingers, his eyes reflecting hints of silver. “It’s been a long time since our last chat—”

  “Don’t,” Arno growls to me. “Don’t give this fucker any bait to help him get off at night.” He cocks his head the same way most men would a gun. His eyes narrow, and my nerves spark, painfully alert. I haven’t seen this version of Arno in a very, very long time. His eyes aren’t even bloodshot, and there isn’t an open beer can lying around. It’s as close to stone-cold sober as he can get. “You came here to talk,” he says to Jose. “So open your fucking mouth.”

  “Watch yourself, Arno… ” Jose drags his thumb along the edge of his blade, leaving a reddish streak along the metal—a warning. “There are a lot more important things that I could be doing with my fucking mouth, ese.” When he looks up, the mocking humor from his expression is gone. Good old Jose is just as pissed as Arno. “It seems our new friends are using tactics similar to the Italians—”

  “You mean the shot-back-to-hell Italians?” Arno interjects. “The same fucking Italians that scattered like roaches when their queen, Stacatto, met his goddamn maker?”

  “One Italian in particular,” Jose goes on as if never interrupted. “That man had close dealings with the Russians, but you see… I don’t particularly favor the Russians—”

  “You don’t trust them,” Arno says, cutting him off. “Cut to the fucking chase.”

  “Hmph. Cut.” Chuckling, Jose tilts his knife so that it catches the light. While holding Arno’s gaze, he leans forward and flicks his tongue along the edge to capture any wet droplets of blood.

  To his credit, Arno doesn’t even flinch.