Page 14 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

My stomach growls at the thought. That could be hours from now, though. I don’t have hours. I glance back at the black Chevelle once more.

Within seconds, the man exits the club, carrying a black pouch, like a bank deposit bag. As he makes his way to the driver’s side door, I step toward him.

“Hey.”

He pauses, tucking the pouch under his arm, and smiles. “Can I help you?”

Christ, how the hell … do I ask him if he wants a blowjob? A quick hand job? I try to remember my mother’s method, but it seems men always flocked to her. Maybe I look too innocent. Like there’s no possible way a young thing like me would be out selling herself.

“Got a cigarette?”

The guy looks like a poster child for wholesome living, but when he digs into his pocket and pulls a pack of smokes and a light, I’m slightly disappointed that I might actually have to smoke the damn thing. He hands me one and I slip it between my lips. I’ve only tried a cigarette on one occasion when I stole it from Randy’s hidden stash. Gagged on it and never tried another.

He flicks a lighter and I lean forward, allowing him to light the end of it. One puff and the burn invades my lungs, robbing me of breath. I bend forward, coughing up the plume of half-inhaled smoke. Heat flushes my cheeks when I straighten to a stand, catching his smile.

“You’re not looking for a cigarette, are you girl?” The way he asks the question puts me on edge. Damn, what if he’s an undercover cop. Ever consider that, Dylan? Fucking amateur.

I shake my head at the same time he reaches down to take the cigarette out of my fingers.

Lifting it to his mouth, his right eye squints as he inhales, then turns his head to the side to blow it away. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing out so late?”

“Just looking for some company.”

“Want to go for a ride?”

I look to his car and back. Of course we wouldn’t do this right out in the open, that’d be stupid. My mother always chose back alleys and sometimes gas station bathrooms—all places she could find something to separate herself from me. “I don’t want to go far.”

“Just up the street there’s an empty lot. Some privacy.”

Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.

“I’m not cheap. Just so you know.”

“Hundred bucks if I can get some back door action.”

My stomach gurgles. The idea of this older man mounting me from behind makes me want to vomit, but a hundred bucks would mean I’d go back to Charlie and Layla and not have to turn another trick for the night. I’d intended something more along the lines of a blowjob, versus having the man inside of me, but if it means some food and a warm bed in a relatively safe place, I’ll suffer the pain of whatever comes with backdoor action. “How far up the street?” My hands are trembling and my knees suddenly feel like jelly. Not sure if it’s hunger or anxiety that has me light-headed when I open the car door.

“A block or so. No one will see us.”

I don’t know why I glance back at the muscle car one more time. Can this guy be worse than a drug dealer? He looks like a man who sits behind a desk all day while his wife cooks him three square meals and his kids float on college dreams. It sickens me to think I could very well be as old as his kids, if he has any.

I give a nod and climb inside the passenger seat.

Please, God. Don’t put me in the hands of a psychopath.

5

Ripley

Fuck. I hate complications.

Through the windshield, I watch the girl climb into the passenger seat of Frank Caruso’s car, probably lured by the unsuspecting silver and model of the vehicle that makes the asshole look like a legit tax accountant instead of one of the more dangerous men in the Marchetti syndicate.

His ride is far less intimidating than my Chevelle SS with black tinted windows, I guess. Although, from the looks of it, she almost considered me. Maybe she thought I was a drug dealer or some shit, instead of a killer on a mission.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Frank doesn’t spare me a glance. Asshole rarely gets out of his office, only sent on the occasional errand to collect debts owed. Nothing more than a bagman, but it’s his spreadsheet that makes him a threat. If a man’s name shows up in the red, the shithead will find himself swallowing a gun barrel by day’s end.

Bastard and his attraction to young girls.