Page 25 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless. A pathetic whore, just like my mother.

Yanking the top drawer back, I sit up in the chair and stare down at the yellow pills. Fuck him. If I’m going to survive this, it’s going to be on my terms. He can have my body, but no way the bastard is getting inside my head. The pills will shield me from all of that bullshit, all of the resistance. They’ll let me bend to whatever he wants, because goddamn it, I’m not leaving this house without that cash. I’m not going back to the streets broke and hopeless.

If that means being some psychopath’s giddy blow-up doll for the week, then so be it. His wish is my friggin’ command.

I pick out all of the scattered pills and collect them into a pile on the desk, ten in total. Ten would’ve lasted me three days. Maybe it’ll buy me enough time to find the key to that safe and get the hell out of here. Across the desk, I nab a Kleenex from a dispenser, split it into a single ply, and tear a small piece off, before setting it aside. Using the butt of the envelope opener, I crush two pills into a fine powder and dump it onto the small square of Kleenex before twisting the end of it.

“Just a couple,” I mutter, and pop the thing into my mouth.

8

Ripley

I stare down at the mahogany bar top, perched on the stool at Spades. I shouldn’t be here but I need some hard-hitting liquor to straighten me out.

Kicking back a shot of bourbon, I squint at the burn that slides down my throat and shake my head.

Still haven’t kicked Dylan out. With those pert tits and her round ass taunting me every morning, and particularly at night, I need to soon. Can’t fucking sleep, I’ve been so hard the last few days. In pain. Close my eyes and there she is—those heavy-lidded eyes and pouty lips, just begging to be devoured. Can’t stop thinking about her and it’s pissing me off. Giving in would be a sign of weakness, though, and I’ll be damned if this woman gives me one of those.

She’s consumed more of my attention than I’d like—a dangerous preoccupation in my line of work.

A body slumps onto the stool two down from me and the way it twists toward me, moving into my guarded personal space, has my blood thickening and my muscles tensing.

“You take care of Alasdair yet?” Enzo’s voice doesn’t have the refined smoothness of a future crime boss. The nasally squeak doesn’t match his bulky frame, sounds more like a wiseguy from the early 20’s.

I glance around the bar, and even though it’s still fairly empty, even though the place is owned by the Bertrands and filled with most of their allies, the question still irritates the shit out of me.

“Nope,” is all I say in response. Brother or not, I don’t owe the bastard any more of my time than I would a bold ass ant that happened upon my shoe.

“The fuck is taking you so long? You were ordered to take him out. It’s only a matter of time before they come sniffin’ around for Accardi and Matteo.”

“Accardi and Matteo were foot soldiers, not nephews. Perhaps you need to go back and study the hierarchy of organized crime.” Marchetti isn’t in a power seat because he’s stupid. As ruthless as the underbelly can be sometimes, there’s an undercurrent of criminal etiquette and strategy. Law of the streets. “Marchetti would’ve killed them himself for getting caught.”

“He’s looking for a fucking reason to start a war.” He moves deeper into my personal space, sending up warning signals that ball my hands into fists. “Dorian isn’t paying you to go fucking Gumshoe. He’s paying you to take out the man who shot my brother and nephew. Do your fucking job or I’ll take him out myself.”

My eye twitches at his words. “Tell me something, Enzo. Do you know what the difference is between a psychopath and a sociopath?” I don’t give him a chance to respond. “A psychopath is calculated, intelligent, target-oriented. And charming. Let’s not forget fucking charming. A sociopath, on the other hand, is loud, sloppy and jumps to fucking conclusions before he’s had time to assess the facts. For a man who carries a reputation of being a killer, I’m not surprised that your brother hasn’t put you on a hit. You’re a goddamn nuclear train wreck with fireworks.”

In the next second, he jumps out the seat, too damn close to my person, and I can feel his breath on the back of my ear. “Come on, pussy. I’ve been dying to add another scar to your face.” His finger only brushes my chin before I grab hold of his wrist.

A quick twist of his arm, and I jolt up from the chair, gripping the back of his skull that I slam into the bar top, as I hold his bent limb behind his back.

“Ah fuck!” He jerks in my grip, but I tighten my hold and lean into him.

“Next time you lay so much as a finger on me, I’ll hang you upside down, stab a tube into your gut with a funnel gag, and leave you to choke on your own fucking stomach acids. Consider that a premeditated murder.”

“Jörgen!” He shouts at the big guy sitting at the end of the bar, the one who stands seven feet tall and could crush a cantaloupe with his bare hands. Viking bastard that Dorian hired through the Agency as his personal bodyguard after Lucien was shot. “Get this fucker off of me. Now!”

I’ve known Jörgen a long time and for the sake of not blowing our cover, we keep our distance.

“I work only for Dorian. I take orders only from Dorian,” is all Jörgen says, before kicking back a shot and slamming it on the bar top. “I’m off shift.”

I smile at that, knowing Jörgen would rather shoot his own foot than lay a hand on me after I saved his life a while back. It wasn’t an intentional life saving. The two bullets meant for his skull happened to prefer my chest and arm, and left me with the scars as a reminder. Not sure if it’s his Icelandic heritage or his own personal beliefs, but he took it to heart and has vowed to be a loyal friend ever since.

“What’s going on here?” Dorian’s disembodied voice reaches my ear.

“Your brother seems to have a problem with my methods of handling shit.”

Dorian pats Enzo’s arm, and I release him, only just noticing the kid standing next to Dorian. His baby face and lack of facial hair puts him at fifteen years old tops, completely out of place at a bar.