Page 2 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

With my arms still bound, I turn to the faint musky scent on my skin and breathe in the clean aroma. He did bathe me.

He. Rip.

His name loops over and over inside my head in some desperate bid for my conscious half to hang on to it. As if I’d forget the name of the killer who tied me to a wall in his dark and dingy basement.

My mouth is bone dry and I push a swallow past the burn in my throat.

The single light that illuminates my surroundings is both a blessing and a curse, as I begin to see things in the wall of darkness that separates my little halo. Hallucinations? Maybe. The drugs still swimming through my body certainly don’t rule out that possibility. A pale white spectral figure dangling from the ceiling shakes my core, and I screw my eyes shut, hoping it’ll fade away. The withdrawals have settled over me, commandeering my mind, and have me seeing things that don’t make sense.

Like the terrors of my youth.

From the time I was little, I’ve always been afraid of basements. A therapist once told me many children are afraid of basements, that it was nothing to trouble myself over. I know better. It was the basement where I found my father hanging from the rafters when I was just eight years old. His blue face and bulging red eyes gave him the appearance of every monster I’ve ever created inside my head. Even now, I have to look away to keep from seeing him in the shadows. Even now, as I’m tethered to a madman’s dingy little mattress, awaiting my own death, I’m tormented by visuals I can’t shake.

The door creaks and my muscles twitch, clattering the chains.

Each step groans under the weight of him as he descends the stairs, until he’s standing at the foot of the bed—a tall and intimidating beast of a man. The blur that usually fogs my view gives way to the sharp clarity of my sober state. He stands shirtless, and my eyes can’t help but wander the landscape of his chiseled form.

I’ve never seen a man so perfectly proportioned and physically fit outside of magazines and TV. Tattoos adorn his chest, flawlessly symmetrical in shape. More ink trails up the side of his neck, his arms, and I can’t quite make out what appears to be a quote at his ribcage.

For a monster, he’s stunning.

Not handsome. Handsome is for billionaire CEOs and country club groupies. This man is pure masculinity—intense and virile in his fuck-me jeans.

His eyes roam me in a way that feels more like lethal want than an appetite to destroy, but perhaps for a man like him, they are one in the same.

“Six thousand. You tried to steal six grand from me.” There’s an edge of rage in his voice, held below a sandpaper surface that steels my muscles. “You’re quite the little fucking bandit, aren’t you? I have over two million in that safe, Dylan. Why only six thousand?”

He remembered my name.

I don’t answer him. I refuse to divulge anything to this asshole.

From his hip, he tugs his knife and plucks the sharp end of the blade. “I once flayed a man’s hand for stealing three hundred bucks from me.”

The guy is no joke. He’s a nightmare wrapped inside a woman’s greatest fear. Still, not even his threat can bring me to answer.

“I spared you. My gift to you. And how do you repay me?” He crouches in front of me, sending a cold spike of terror through my spine. “By stealing from me. Taking your piece.”

My words. The same thing I said to him at the factory.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“To do it. Yes, I’ve heard this before. Many times. You didn’t mean to do … what? Steal the money? You broke into my house, so that’s bullshit. You didn’t mean to … get caught? Hide from me? Disrupt my evening? What exactly didn’t you mean to do?”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

His eye twitches at the same time his tongue glides across his teeth.

One thing I’ve learned growing up with the psychopathic variety of assholes that my mother brought home, is how much they thrive on respect. They’re all narcissistic to some degree and diffusing them was often a matter of swallowing my stubborn pride. I learned that trick from my mother, who must’ve been the most manipulative bitch I’d ever met in my life.

“Do you respect me, Dylan? Or fear me?”

“Aren’t they one in the same for men like you?”

The corner of his lip twitches as if he wants to smile. “They certainly can be. Fear is good, though. It’s fear that gives you the courage to survive.” He rises up from his crouch and, hands clasped behind his back, paces beside me. “How did you find my home? Tell me you didn’t have the balls to follow me after I let you go.”

I look away to avoid answering the question—my lack of response seems to confirm his suspicions when he says, “Stay off the drugs, kids. Makes you do some really stupid shit.”

Internally flinching at his comment, I turn to face him again. “Are you a doctor or something? Why the IV? And what’s in the patch?”