Page 14 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“Do you plan to?”

“No.”

By his short answers, it’s obvious he doesn’t intend to tell me anything more. “The scar at your throat. Someone tried to kill you?”

“Yes. When I was sixteen, I went after the man I believed killed my mother.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Of course. It was her husband. Daniel Ripley.”

“You … murdered … your father?”

Spinning the bottle around on the table, he kicks back the last of it. “He wasn’t a father to me. Bastard was nuts. When my mom died, I was sent to live with him. Darkest fucking days of my life. He was a psychopath.”

“Why would they send you to live with the man who killed your mother? That doesn’t make sense.”

“He was never implicated. No evidence. First rule the asshole taught me—make it clean or hire a cleaner. Never leave a trace behind. Not a single fucking fiber.” Ripley opens another beer and tips it back, guzzling it until it’s half-drank. “Man practiced what he preached and got away with the shit.”

“He taught you how to kill?”

“He taught me how to hide the evidence. Killing came natural to me. I never had the urge to do it, though, until I was sent to live with him.”

“He hurt you.” It’s not a question, and I don’t like that it sparks a twinge of anger inside me.

He stares off at something beyond me, and his jaw tightens. “Every time I kill someone, it’s his face I see looking back at me.”

I frown at that, letting the weight of his words settle over me—the idea that this intimidating man was once someone else’s victim. “Killing … is it like a rush for you?”

“Something like that. I typically want to fuck something after.” His devilish eyes fall on me and his lips kick up to a grin. “S’why I like having you around.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. “So that’s why you kill. For the thrill?”

When he shakes his head, I’m momentarily confused. “It’s a job. I’ve found a way to survive in what I do, and I just happen to be good at it.” He licks his lips, eyes still riveted on me in his dangerously charming way. “Tell me, Dylan. How does it make you feel knowing that I kill men, viciously and violently, but I haven’t killed you?”

I can’t answer that because the truth is sickening. It turns me on. The fact that he’s skilled and possesses the power to bring death swiftly and efficiently or slow and painful—however he sees fit—is intriguing in some primitive biological way I can’t begin to explain.

“Do you want to kill me?”

He shakes his head and takes another sip of beer.

“Did you at first?”

“No.”

“But you’re essentially a psychopath. How do you not have a craving to kill me right now?”

“The same way a lesbian doesn’t try to fuck you just because you’re a chick.”

“Am I not enticing enough or something?”

What the hell am I saying?

“You’re asking me to consider you a victim?” The frown on his face makes it a laughable question.

“No, absolutely not. I’m just teasing out your twisted mind, is all. What makes me so different?”

His cheeks puff before he blows out a forced exhale. “Well, for one, I want to fuck you again later and I don’t do the necrophilia shit. And two, I’d feel like hell getting blood all over the only T-shirt I have left.”