Page 24 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

I hate that I’m anticipating his touch at night. It doesn’t make sense to me. Instead, he comes in decked out in a sharp suit like he’s been at the office all day, showers a second time, feeds me dinner, and disappears inside his room. Doesn’t touch or talk to me, except on the occasion I get out of bed to pee and he has the gun racked and pointed at me before I reach the bathroom.

He doesn’t trust, nor does he look at me as a guest in his house. I’m still a potential threat, one he’d have no problem eliminating.

I don’t think he sleeps much either. I can hear him through the walls sometimes at night, moving about the creaky wooden floors, muttering words I can’t make out.

Days are the hardest, though, when I’m here alone. I wish I had a phone to find out what’s going on with Charlie, but Ripley doesn’t leave his lying around, and probably wouldn’t let me make a call anyway.

Not going to school means I’m wandering his home, which is open for the most part, except for his office that remains off limits and locked, and of course, the bedroom he’s forbidden me to enter.

For whatever reason, I want to respect his rules, I want him to trust me, but the relentless curiosity of what’s inside those rooms leaves me desperate for distraction.

Or perhaps it’s not curiosity. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

I want my pills. The pain is gone, but the craving is still there. Like something in my day is missing. Nothing tastes good. Nothing feels good. I try to stave it off with long, hot showers and sleep, but it won’t go away. I’m restless and sleepless.

I bury my nose into Ripley’s pillow and suck in his sandalwood and orange scent.

What’s happening to me?

I’d like to think it’s guilt, because the man is paying me for my time, time he hasn’t really taken advantage of in the last few days, and I can’t stop tormenting myself with thoughts that I’m not good enough. That I don’t have my mother’s talent with men and that Ripley is probably second-guessing the deal. He gave me two orgasms the first night, and I had to inflict pain to give him one in return.

Between the withdrawals from my pills and the memory of that first night, though, I’m craving something.

Danger? Another orgasm? I don’t know, but it’s got my head scrambled into thinking I want the man’s attention—even if it’s the bad kind.

An hour passes before my stomach rumbles a foghorn warning that it’s going to start eating itself if I don’t get my ass out of bed. I’m not used to being so lazy. My life before Ripley was a constant state of moving. Even on the streets, staying in one place too long was dangerous and every day was riddled with finding food, finding shelter, keeping Charlie and Layla safe.

Charlie.

Perhaps that’s what’s missing. I desperately want to see my dog again. Keep with it. Earn the money. I’ll see her again.

And Layla. The worst part of being sober is facing all the people you fucked over, and my conscience is having a field day. I failed her. I failed them both, and if something happens to either one of them, that’s a failure that’s going to ride me all the way into the grave.

I push out of bed and make my way downstairs, pausing at the bottom of the staircase where the crack in the door to Ripley’s office tickles my curiosity.

In three days, he’s not left the door unlocked. Not once.

Ripley doesn’t strike me as careless or forgetful. Yet, I’m staring at the cracked door of his office where I know he keeps millions.

To hell with him. He’s a killer. A psychopath. The guy could very easily toss me into a vat of acid at the end of two months.

Charlie could be euthanized by week’s end. Layla could end up killed. A lot of shit could go down that happens to be more important than some asshole’s loyalty.

I’ve already padded across the hall and convinced myself that taking the cash and bolting is far less risky than staying with him. Stepping inside the office, I’m hit with a curtain of rich scents—leather and cigars and that delicious orange cologne. I don’t dare close the door behind me this time. Through the darkness, I make my way to his desk and the second my hand hits the knob of his desk drawer, I pause.

Guilt. Goddamn dream-crushing guilt that now has me feeling like shit.

Why? Why do I do this to myself? I owe him nothing. Nothing! The man kept me tied to a dingy mattress in his basement—the absolute mother of all nightmares.

I have no good reason to trust him, and there’s nothing exceptionally kind he’s done for me, besides the two orgasms, but not even that’s good enough when twenty grand is on the table.

Flipping on the desk lamp, I slide open the drawer and four yellow pills jostle with the movement. My pills. Keeping my eyes on them, I reach back to pat around for the key. Gone.

Damn it! I open other drawers, patting across papers, perfectly lined pencils, files, nothing. No key. No way to get into that safe. No freedom. Lifting an envelope opener from the drawer, I eye the pointed end. I could hold it to his throat and force him to tell me where to find the key.

Dropping the object back into the drawer, I slump in his chair.

He’d probably gut me before that damn thing reached his neck. I’m stuck here with him, a crazy psychopath, for the next two months.