Page 10 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Nobody, that’s who. And nobody gives a shit either.

Smell of musty, stale water. Legs spread. Cold metal against my skin. Randy holding his phone between my knees. Clothespins clamped to nipples. Arms tied. Panties gagging my throat.

I screw my eyes shut at the flashes of memory zipping through my head like a horror movie. Funny what the silence and lack of movement can do to a person. I’ve spent the last two days battling vomit-worthy flashbacks, I’m guessing, the punishment of being sober.

Tamping them down is futile. My brain seems amused by the torment, sending brief snapshots of things I’m only vaguely aware happened. Things that, if I’d been sober at the time, would’ve probably destroyed me forever, as they’re tearing me down now. The shame gnaws at me, but those images are so detached, it’s like I’m watching it happen to someone else.

The bite of hunger tears at my stomach as if my insides are hollowed out, the need for food overpowering my thoughts. I’m weak. Exhausted from struggle. Nauseated from fear and starvation.

Perhaps that’s his plan. To torture by refusing me food and pills. He’ll watch me waste away, and no one will find me because when I do, he’ll throw me into a vat of acid and nothing will remain. I’ll have never existed.

I’ve grown so listless, I can’t even summon a tremble at the thought.

The door creaks open and light bleeds in once more. Each thump of his boots against the staircase beats down my nerve.

The savory scent of meat hits the back of my throat, though, and my mouth waters behind the tape, wanting to devour whatever it is he’s bringing.

Jesus, what if it’s the other woman?

He sits down at the end of the bed, a plate piled high of fried chicken resting atop his lap.

My stomach gives up all hope when it’s clear what the bastard has come to do. Torture.

He lifts the chicken to his face and tears off a bite, the grease adding a shine to his lips. It smells delicious, invading every other sense, until an animalistic urge beats through me. There’s no pride in hunger. I’d eat the ass end of a rat as hungry as I am right now.

His tongue glides across his lips in a mesmerizing taunt. “Want some?”

I want to tell him no and to go fuck himself, but I’ve no intentions of starving to death. My dog is relying on me and I refuse to go out that easy, so I nod at the risk of him teasing me.

With a chicken leg in his hand, he rises up from the chair and crouches beside the bed.

What will he make me do for this? Will he hold it out of my reach and stab me with his blade?

Fire streaks across my skin as he rips the tape off my face, my eye flinching at the sting.

“Open your mouth.”

Eyes on the food, I lick my lips and open my mouth as he commands. My stomach dances in victory when he places the chicken to my lips and I bite into it before he can pull it away. He holds it to my face, allowing me to take another bite. And another. The delicious chicken fills my cheeks and I rush to chew it and swallow before gnawing another bite. He spins the drumstick to fresh meat and within minutes, I polish it off like some kind of animal.

“So hungry.” His thumb slices across my lips, wiping the grease from my mouth, before he shoves it between my teeth.

Mouth parted, I hesitate at first, the stubborn brat inside of me wishing to rebel against his dominance and bite his fucking finger off.

Sex is power.

I close my lips around his finger, and the salt of his skin mingles with the grease as I suck it off, eyes on him all the while.

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down at me, and my tongue circles the tip of his thumb, slow and taunting while I lick the last of the grease. His lips part, eyes riveted on my mouth, and it’s then I recognize one fleeting moment of weakness, quickly doused by the return of his dominating scowl. His thumb slides out of my mouth and I swallow once more, noticing my throat has suddenly gone dry.

“Tell me, Dylan. Why six thousand?”

“I need the money.”

“For what?”

I’ve found not many people are sympathetic toward animals and would probably consider me crazy for having broken into a killer’s house over a dog—and my pills—but mostly my dog. “My father is dying,” I lie. “I need to pay for his hospital stay.”

“How noble.” There’s a sliver of sarcasm in his voice that tells me he doesn’t believe me, confirmed when he says, “You’re lying, Bandit. You’ve been living on the streets too long to belong anywhere and for your father’s health to take priority over your own survival. My guess? Old man’s already dead.”