Page 12 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

“I doubt that. As long as you don’t harm me, I can deal with hurt. Nothing scarring. No acid or anything cruel like that.”

“And you’ll give yourself to me. Completely.”

“For six thousand dollars and my freedom. Yes.” For Charlie. “I won’t try to escape.”

Head tipped, he strokes his chin. “How badly do you want that money?”

“Why? What’s the catch?”

The bulging muscles of his biceps catch my attention as he crosses his arms. “You’re mine. For two months. Ten grand a month.”

Twenty thousand in two months? Holy shit, I don’t know anyone personally who’s ever made that much. I have to admit, it’s tempting, but, “I don’t have two months.”

“You got somewhere to be, Bandit?”

“Two weeks. Six grand is all I need. Whatever you want.” In that time, maybe I can convince him to spring my dog from prison. It’s better than walking out of here with nothing. I doubt he’d let me keep her here. Maybe the kennel will hold her for a few more days if I can promise to pay the fees by a certain time. She’ll be moved to a shelter soon, if she hasn’t already.

“Two months. Twenty grand.”

Jesus, the man is relentless. I’m afraid to find out what happens when he really gets down to negotiating. “You don’t strike me as a guy who likes company for very long.”

“You don’t strike me as a girl who has much else going on to say no.” He rubs his jaw, studying me. “Two months is my offer. Take it or leave it.”

Aside from my dog and possibly finding Layla, he’s right. I don’t have a plan. “Fine. You win. Two months. At the end, we part ways. No ties. Just sex.”

“I’m very practiced in walking away from a woman. The question is, are you able to walk away as easily?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. No expectations. No strings. Birth control?”

“Yep.” I jerk my head toward my arm where my implant sits beneath my skin—a creepy request of Randy’s about a year back. “Lucky you. No periods either, thanks to the implant. Messed up my cycle. Won’t have to make a tampon run.”

“Lucky me.” Arms still crossed, he paces beside the bed and comes to a stop, those devilish eyes on me as he strokes his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip. “How afraid are you right now?”

“Fear is a luxury. I don’t have a choice. It’s you or the streets, but either way, I’m fucked.”

His lips slowly stretch into a razor edge smile, like he knows something I don’t. “Two months. Your ass is mine. I’m not some gentleman lover, either, Dylan. So we’re clear, I fuck as mercilessly as I kill. Think you’re up for that?”

I don’t say anything in response because the truth is he’s not the first to hurt me. But with that money, he’ll be the last, so I nod.

He chews on his lip. “Then we have a deal, Bandit. You survive me, whatever I want, whenever I want it, for two months and the money is yours.”

“I’ll do more than survive you, Rip.”

A flicker of intrigue lifts the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remain shadowed.

Studying me.

From his hip, he tugs a long, gnarly blade. At first, I think he might tell me to fuck off and slit my throat. In the next breath, he cuts me loose—slicing through the rope cuffs, unchaining my arms, and the second the tight band relinquishes its grip, I sit on the bed, rubbing my non-IV wrist. Nabbing my arm, he removes the tape that holds down the IV tubing and cuts off the flow of saline. Gauze to the IV, he slowly dislodges it from my skin and tapes the cotton square in place. I catch a tiny black zigzagging above the IV insertion site and jerk my arm, but he tightens his grip.

“Wait. What … what was that?”

Without showing me, he secures another piece of tape at my arm. “Stitches,” he says casually.

“You … cut me? Why are there stitches on my arm?”

“I cut out your microchip.”