Page 5 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Futile.

Eyes on me, he’s unaffected by my cries. “Give me a half hour. I’ll be there.”

Hope blossoms at that. He’s leaving, which means a chance for escape. I’ll wait. And when he leaves, I’ll put every ounce of effort into breaking these fucking chains.

From a shelf, he grabs something that gives off a shine in the shadowed recesses where he fidgets with it in his hands. He stretches it out and bites down on it, tearing off a piece of what must be duct tape.

My pulse hastens again as he strides over and crouches beside me.

In a laughable attempt to inflict pain, I snap my jaws at his hand, and when my teeth connect with his flesh, his palm kisses my throat, capturing my next breath, reminding me who has the upper hand …literally.

“Did I mention that I snap necks for a living?” At my scowl, those multi-colored eyes burn into me. “Don’t push me, tough girl. One twitch of my hand will break your neck without killing you and you’ll be left an invalid.” Still gripping my throat, he smooths the tape over my mouth. “Keep in mind, it was you who broke into my house. Consider yourself lucky that you’re still breathing. Anyone else, and I’d have snapped your neck the second I saw you under my desk.” His knuckle brushes my cheek. “My fascination is the only thing keeping you alive right now, so don’t piss me off.”

My head feels as if it might explode as anger takes over and I clamp my teeth together, tears trickling out of the corner of my eye.

“Such a beautiful little butterfly.” A long stare distracts me from the churning in my stomach and my muscles jerk when he nabs hold of my wrist, rubbing his thumb across the butterfly tattoo. “Try not to throw up. Doesn’t taste good the second time around.”

Fuck you.

2

Ripley

I kick back the liquor, letting it numb my head to the urges burning throughout my body. Something new and different.

Eighteen. She’s only eighteen but her fearless little attitude and the shit she flings back at me makes her seem wiser, more experienced than most women I know. Or dumber. I haven’t decided yet. So far, she’s the reigning champion of my attention and holds the record for prolonging my curiosity.

The girl spikes my blood—a dangerous talent, as far as I’m concerned.

I have no good reason for keeping her, aside from the fact that she broke into my house and has kept me painfully hard ever since. If she didn’t happen to know where I sleep at night, I’d probably just let her go. I’m not a man who tortures women unless they’re into that shit, and I’ve surely fucked a few of those. But as much of a bastard as I can be, I have no plans to kill her.

Unfortunately for her, I can’t just let her walk. Besides the fact that she knows far more about me than I’d like, she’d probably be back on the Oxy train within hours and do something stupid like offer herself up to some limp dick on the streets, and that’d just piss me off.

I will find out how she tracked me down, though, how she knew where to find my stash of cash. Getting someone to talk is my specialty, and if it takes longer than usual with her, that suits me just fine. I’m in no hurry to send her packing yet. She’s seen what I’ve done. She knows what I’m capable of. Keeping her in the basement wasn’t my first choice, but I’ve come to learn a little fear goes a long way, and is itself, sobering.

In the meantime, I like having her here to distract my mind and keep me from the self-mutilating thoughts that have occupied my headspace lately.

Her spunk and grit is a welcomed contrast to the eager dick jockeys who’ve fallen into my lap lately. Ones who’d fuck a tree stump if it paid enough.

Dylan’s different. Hardened yet soft, wicked but innocent at the same time.

She’s one of those rare finds that you stumble upon, covered in dirt and grime that, when you scrub away the tarnish, is actually a stunning piece of art.

When bathed, the matted, dirty blonde of her hair becomes a soft and silky honey brown. Her cognac eyes pop against the pale, caramel of her skin, and it surely doesn’t help that they’re naturally heavy-lidded, even without the drugs, giving her an iconic pinup face, like Marilyn Monroe. The precise angle of her jaw leaves me wondering what it’d feel like wedged between my teeth. I got to believe she’s somewhere in the neighborhood of five-nine with those long legs of hers, her body perfectly proportioned from her pert tits down to her sculpted calves that I’d love slung over my shoulders.

She’s too young and innocent for a man like me. Or maybe it’s the gravity of what I’ve seen and done that makes me feel so much older.

I should let her go, but I won’t. At least not until she’s beyond the point of doing something stupid.

The things I want from her are vile and depraved, but who the fuck cares? Someone ditched this woman, somewhere in the course of her life. Left her to fend for herself.

Lucky for her, I have the patience of a goddamn saint, and I happen to enjoy the slow burning torment that she inflicts every time I watch her tied and helpless, fighting to get loose.

I lift the unmarked bottle and dump the contents into my palm. A dozen yellow pills stamped with the trademark OC sit piled in my hand. Oxycontin. How the fuck the girl managed to get her hands on it is a mystery, considering she looks like she’s been living on the streets for a while, broke and hungry. But then again, she managed to break into my house and nab six grand. She’s crafty.

I lean forward, clicking the security app on my cellphone that shows her lying tied to the bed in the basement in real time. Cameras cover most of the house, wired to my cell, but the only view I’m interested in at the moment is the one I’m staring at onscreen.

Her body twists and writhes on the bed as the drugs continue to exit her system, while the craving intensifies.