Page 38 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“It does smell like pussy, doesn’t it? You on a date?”

“Tell you what, Enzo, I’ll give you a head start. You make it down the block? I’ll leave your spleen intact. You don’t? I take your spine as a souvenir.”

“You don’t scare me, asshole. You might have everyone else fooled into thinking you’re some big badass killer with a big knife. But even killers gotta sleep. And when you do, that’s when I’ll strike.”

“Why wait?” I pull my blade and set it on the table.

His gaze falls from mine a split second and then trails to the right again, presumably looking to see if anyone noticed. “You’re still under contract with my brother.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “It’d be a shame to kill you before you take out Marchetti. All that money down the drain. We’ll pick this up after.”

“Get the fuck out of my face before I slice it off with my blade.”

15

Dylan

Staring down at the bullet casing in my palm, I tell myself to calm down. That the panic washing over me isn’t real, but I know it is. That’s the shitty thing about sobriety, all the pain I thought was nothing but a nightmare, an illusion trapped inside my fucked up head, is my reality.

Rip’s question from earlier echoes inside my skull. “And you’ve no idea what Rook wants from you.”

The truth is, I know exactly what he wants from me.

Clips of memory flash through my mind, and not even the ting of the bullet casing hitting the porcelain sink as I drop it can keep my mind from succumbing to them.

January winds beat against my face, as I trek back toward the apartment. I don’t want to go home, not after the fight with Randy and the bruises he left on my arms and legs that have turned to a smearing of yellow and brown across my skin. I need another fix, one strong enough to make me black out so he’ll leave me alone for a while, but he told Chanel to hold back my pills as punishment. I’d sneak them, but I have no idea where the bitch stashed them.

The air is so cold that my skin burns with the sting.

In my periphery, a black object moves slow and deliberate, like a shark cutting through the water and I turn my head to the black Camaro pacing me. My stomach sinks at the realization of who’s behind the steering wheel.

“Where you goin, baby girl?” Rook’s elbow pokes out of the window as his car idles along beside me.

“Fuck off.” I keep my gaze ahead, doing my best to ignore him.

“Why you gotta be so mean? I’m just trying offer you a ride. It’s fuckin’ cold.”

“Ya think?” Snaking my hands farther up the sleeve of my coat, I keep on toward the apartment. “I don’t need a ride. Thanks.”

“I know what you need, girl.” In my periphery he shakes something, and I turn to see a bag of those beautiful yellow pills bouncing like a dream come true. For the first time, I notice a passenger beside him. A young kid, slightly younger than me with a vacant smile on his face. Clearly high as shit. “Got my nephew along for the ride. He’s all toked up.” A laugh kicks his head back and he lightly punches the kid in the arm. “Whyn’t you come hang with us? It’ll be fun.”

I stop walking, contemplating my choices. Go home to Randy, or get high with Rook. The kid beside him looks okay, like he just got picked up from school or something in a navy blue blazer with khakis. Can’t be any worse than dealing with Randy and Chanel.

“C’mon, baby. I know you want these pills. I can see it in your glazed over eyes.” He laughs and dangles the pills one more time.

When I reach for them, he swipes them back inside the car and jabs a finger toward the back seat.

“Get in. I’ll take care of you. Maybe we’ll order a pizza or some shit.”

Blowing a frustrated breath, I clamber into the back seat.

* * *

An incessant screaming penetrates the nothingness, and I open my eyes, wondering if it’s a dream or real. The room shrouds me in a cloak of darkness, as I stare at the white glow of peeling paint on the walls, while the stench of stale water and mold—a bitter tang—hits the back of my throat.

Where the hell …

I sit up, realizing I’ve passed out on a couch, and hear the scream again. The room is trashed with a pizza box sitting empty on the coffee table, cans of Red Bull scattered across the floor, and a bottle of whiskey beside three shot glasses on the end table.

A clamor inside my head forces me to grip my skull and I push to my feet, stumbling once. The room blurs like a sun flare exploding at the back of my head, and I lose my balance, slamming my shoulder into the wall.