Page 26 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

“Enzo, you’ve got enough on your plate. I suggest you focus on more important issues, like cleaning up the shithole you call an office. Pigs are less slobs.” Dorian’s eyebrow wings up and I let out a chuckle at that.

Enzo stands up, straightens his shirt, and rubs along his jaw that’d been knocked into the bar. “I was just inquiring why our skilled assassin hasn’t taken out Alasdair yet.”

“Look, you leave Alasdair to Rip. He’s been doing this a long time, and I trust him. You wanna look for something? Look for a goddamn pen under all the shit piled on your desk. But stay out of Ripley’s way and get your ass back to work.”

“I’m watching you, fucker.” Enzo prods a finger toward me that I could snap clean off his hand. “Next time you take a piss, I’ll know.”

I raise a brow and reach for my belt buckle. “If you wanted a peek at my dick so bad, all you had to do was ask.”

He lurches toward me at the same time Dorian’s arm swings out across his chest to stop him. “Watch yourself,” is all Enzo says before backing away.

I want to flash the little prick a smug grin as he storms off like a toddler, but I’m still baffled as to why the hell a young kid is standing in the middle of a strip club, smiling up at me like he just shit his diaper. The expression on my face must give my thoughts away because Dorian pats my shoulder and gestures toward him.

“Someone wanted to meet you, Rip.” He nudges the teen toward me and rests a hand on his shoulder. “This is Pyro. He’s a big fan of yours.”

“Fan?”

“Ah, don’t be modest, Rip. Your reputation precedes you! I brought Pyro on last week to work for me and he seems quite eager to learn. He eventually wants to work his way up to contract killing. Like yourself.”

“S’up, Ripley.” The kid holds out a spindly arm, offering to shake my hand, which I do with some hesitance and catch a flash of something at his wrist. Turning it over, I notice the Monarch tattoo and my eyes skate back to Dorian.

“He came to you?” I ask, releasing the kid’s arm.

“Fresh off the streets!” Dorian’s lips stretch to a smile before he shoves a cigar into his mouth. “Thought you could take him out sometime. Show him how it’s done.”

I shake my head at that. “I don’t invite spectators. This ain’t PG shit.”

The kids brows dip as if disappointed, but tightening his lips, he gives a sharp nod. “S’okay. I get it. You work alone. I respect that.”

Another pat on the back and Dorian leans in. “He’s not much now, Rip. Just a kid who has a knack for getting in trouble with the cops. Setting shit on fire. You know how kids are. But I’m going to train him. Get ‘em started young and they turn out to be legendary like yourself.”

“I’m no legend.”

“You’re not at the moment, Rip. When you kill Alasdair, though. You will be.” He squeezes my shoulder and walks away.

9

Dylan

I’m lying in bed, staring at the large wooden armoire across from me. In all of my searching, I’ve not found a means to open the damn thing. No keyhole. No button. No freaking evidence that it’s anything more than a big bulky piece of furniture sitting in the corner of his room.

I must be bored because the curiosity is maddening. He’s got to have something important stored inside of it. Something valuable.

Of course, valuable to a psycho freak like him could be a collection of body parts in formaldehyde.

My head feels light from the pills, my muscles relaxed. I took the dose hours ago, and the lucidity settling over me tells me I’ll need another pill. Soon.

What the hell am I doing here? When did things get so bad, I’d shack up with a serial killer for a few weeks just to make some cash to pay some asshole Animal Control clerk to get my dog back? The dog that was stolen during one of my mom’s prostitution gigs, no less.

Ridiculous.

A door slams somewhere on the first level and my nerves kick in, creating a mishmash of sensations that swirl inside my stomach. The man makes me anxious, but I can’t deny a rush of excitement stirring deep in my gut—somewhere down in the blackest parts of my soul that probably explain all the questions I asked myself just moments ago.

Something about Ripley turns me on. I don’t know if it’s his rugged persona and scarred face, paired ever so perfectly with his roughcast muscles and tattoos or the crazy glint behind those multi-colored eyes, but something about him draws me like a numb hand across a raging flame. It might not hurt so much now, but I know damn well my attraction to him will ultimately leave me with irreparable damage.

His boots thump against the floor to the same rhythm of my rapid heartbeat, as he approaches the bedroom. When he reaches the door, my eyes widen at the way he fills the frame. From the darkness of the room, all I can make out is his silhouette—broad shoulders that taper down into a V. He enters the room, fumbling with his watch that he sets out on the dresser, and places his phone beside it. Without skipping a beat, he slips out of his leather jacket, unbuttons the sharp black button-down to reveal a stark white wife beater beneath. When he pulls the shirt off his shoulders, I have to choke back a gulp. I’ve seen the man before without his shirt, but standing with the thin tank and the ink that peeks through the neck and shoulders of it could land him on just about any billboard in the city, if not for that scarred face of his. Even that gives him a rugged, edgy look, though.

In four long strides, he’s standing beside the bed, and before I can so much as twitch, his rough hands are sliding me to the edge. I don’t protest when he drops my legs at either side of him and grabs the front of my T-shirt, yanking me to a sitting position. After all, I’m his to do with as he wishes. In one swift move, the shirt is on the bed beside me and my breasts are on full display for him.