Page 17 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

“Fuck you! Why the hell are you having me do this? So you can ask me how it feels?”

Ugh. Those words have become my personal vomit trigger.

“Will it make you feel less guilt if I’m nothing but a fucktoy?”

“I don’t feel guilt, Dylan. I push boundaries.”

“Well, then I’ll save you the intrigue and tell you it doesn’t feel good if that’s what you were hoping,” I snap back at him, my voice filled with the venom pulsing inside of me. “It’s cold and feels like a goddamn razor handle. I’m not going to get off on it, but if that’s what you want, I’ll pretend for you.” Irritation takes over and something dark bubbles up from my gut. For a second, it’s not Rip that I see in front of me, it’s Randy. And in my sober state, I want to punch him in the face. “I’ll moan and scream that it hurts so good, and you can get off on the thought every fucking time you shave. How’s that? Just know that it’ll be fake. Every bit of it.”

With deep, heaving breaths, muscles tight, I clamp my eyes shut, willing Randy out of my head. He doesn’t belong here.

Maybe Rip’s a new horrific chapter for me, but thoughts of Randy will only make it worse. I open my eyes again and take three more deep breaths, calming my nerves. Keep it together. This is a man who could very well feed off of my anger and use it against me.

“You’ve been hurt,” he says, matter-of-factly, and I recoil at his words.

Hurt? Fuck him. He’d probably get off on the thought, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of jerking off to my humiliation. “No,” I lie.

Something like a smile flickers across his face, and I swear, if I didn’t have some good sense, I’d make the horrid mistake of smacking him.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do it if that’s what you want. From now on, anything you want. That’s the deal we made.”

“Yes. It is.” Backing away from the shower, he retrieves the tossed razor from the floor and returns, fastening the pieces together. Palm open, he offers it to me once more.

“No boundaries.” I swipe the razor from his palm, wondering if my anger has changed the deal. If he’ll tell me it’s off before it’s even begun.

Before I can resume the razor play, from somewhere beyond the doorway of the shower, he reaches out and hands me a towel. “Get out and dry off.”

With a sharp nod, I step out onto the soft fluffy rug, taking the towel from him.

Two steps closer and he’s crowding my body against the shower door, eyes on me, shooting my pulse rate up, until his arm reaches beyond me and the water flips off.

I release a shaky breath, feeling like a kitten trapped by a lion.

He turns, striding out of the bathroom, and I dry off, dressing quickly in the clothes he’s set out for me. Or cloth, I should say. Nothing but a T-shirt. Slipping it over my head, the orange scent of whatever cologne he wears fills my head. For a sociopath, he smells delicious, and I lift the fabric to my nose one more time before exiting the bathroom.

The darkness in the bedroom swallows me as I enter with slow and hesitant steps. The bathroom lights cut out, stiffening my spine, and creating a darkness in the room that sets my nerves rattling. Air shifts around me as he glides past, a brush of skin caressing my arm.

I’ve not forgotten that he’s a killer—one who murdered a man in front of me and mutilated his body. One who could easily flip and change his mind, turning me into his next victim.

There’s no guarantee he won’t anyway, but I don’t have a choice. On the streets alone, I’ll die. If Randy, Rook, or some other sick prick finds me, I’ll die. At least I’m agreeing to this and so far, he hasn’t pushed me too far.

“On the bed,” he commands.

“Should I take my shirt off?”

“No.”

Through the dark, I stumble my way toward the bed, until my knees hit the edge of it. I pat around the wide mattress and climb onto the sheets, turning over onto my back where I lie still.

My eyes finally adjust and only his silhouette can be seen against the silvery beams of moonlight filtering through a skinny gap in the curtain.

My nerves are on edge, every hair on my body raised as I wait for what comes next. A flash of silver draws my attention downward where a cold smooth surface along my thigh gives way to the pointed tip of what must be a blade. My muscles twitch as he drags it up my body, and I wish I could say it scares me shitless, but having a knife held to me is nothing new.

“How many men have fucked you, Dylan?”

“A dozen,” I lie again, hoping the number equates to twenty grand worth of experience. By the end of this, I’ll probably qualify as a pathological liar.

“That so?” He teeters the tip of the blade at my stomach and all that comes to mind is the dude lying in the factory with his entrails scattered across the floor. “First time I ever killed a man, he asked how many I’d snuffed before him. I didn’t want him to think I was incapable, so I told him I’d killed five other men.” Through the T-shirt, the metal tip of the blade trails down the front of me, mirroring the horrific memory racing through my mind. “Bit of an exaggeration on my part, but it really didn’t matter. I killed him anyway.”