Page 31 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

My temper and frustration get the best of me and I scream as loud as I can into the tape, kicking the post until the first sting of pain hits my heel. Probably split it open on the corner.

I want to die. Oh God, please be merciful and let me die.

Something warm hits my arm and I jerk into the post, knocking my head against the wood. Seconds later, my hands are free. Trembling, but free.

I hate him. I fucking hate him for doing this to me. For taking my pills and watching me suffer for his sick amusement.

The belt at my throat loosens, the leather slipping across my neck, and I suck in a sharp breath while the tape is removed from my mouth. When the blindfold is torn away from my eyes, it takes a moment for the blur to sharpen.

The moment he comes into view, I strike out and hit Ripley square in the jaw.

Hands grip my wrist and I draw back for another punch that lands on his chest—like hitting a damn wall. “Fucking asshole!” My fists go autopilot and I swing out, flailing my arms, hoping for one good crack against the bastard’s nose. Something I can break on him for stringing me up all night, making me suffer his torment and now the withdrawals. He dodges every attempt to hit him, pulling me in just enough to wrangle my arms together—a strategy that sends me into a wild frenzy of kicking and wriggling against him.

For a good minute, I squirm like a worm on a hook, caught in his steel embrace, from which there’s obviously no escape. This asshole’s put me through misery for the sake of his amusement.

“Fight me all you want, Bandit. I’m happy to wear you down.” He hasn’t even moved to keep me locked against him. Like trying to push a stack of iron across the bed.

Another minute passes and I’m weakened by the effort. “Please,” I snivel. “I just need one … that’s all I need and I’ll be good. Just to take the pain away.”

Warmth engulfs me as he wraps me in a blanket and pulls me onto the bed beside him.

The blanket is a barrier between the two of us, and I pull my arms in tight, shivering, my face buried in the heat.

“I’m ... so … cold.” My teeth chatter, my jaw stiff and breaths shallow. “P-p-please. Just one pill.”

“No. This shit ends tonight.”

“Please! I’ll … do anything. I’ll suck you off. Fuck … you. Whatever you want. The pain! It w-w-won’t go away!”

I hear him sniff and when he pulls the blanket away from me, a rush of panic washes through me, until his body presses against mine. The heat intensifies. Victory warms my soul, and for a moment, I think he’s taking me up on the sex, until his arms settle around me. Skin against skin. The contact with him tamps down the crawling sensation and morphs into the strength of his muscles holding me, sending currents of calm down into my bones. Both heaven and hell.

“Why do you do this, Dylan? Huh? Why do you use this shit?”

“Because … it … I don’t feel. Anything. You don’t know what it’s like …” The stiff clip of my jaw lessens as the heat of his body penetrates my skin. “Fades all the bad … everything else blurs. All the things … everything I touch. It disappears. I can’t touch it. I don’t need to anymore. I don’t need anything.”

“What can’t you touch?”

“Everything. You.” I’m on the verge of a sob, just like a child. It’s the culmination of pain and relief all at once, turning me into an emotional, blubbering mess. “That’s what you said.”

“Then touch me.”

“What?”

His shoulder muscles flex, and his arm tightens around me. “I’m right here. So touch me.”

Tipping my head back, I lift my hand, hesitate only a second, and press my fingers against the edge of his jaw. A day’s worth of stubble scratches against my fingertips as I draw an invisible line down along his neck to his chest, feeling his muscles harden as I cross over his skin. Touching him is heaven, a distraction from the pain churning inside of me. Sliding my head forward, I rest my cheek against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat in my ear. Soothing. Rhythmic.

“I’m not doing this shit again, understand? You touch the drugs, and you’re out on your own.” His deep voice rumbles in my ear and I nod, slipping my arm beneath his, pressing my body into him.

I feel safe. I feel warm. And if it’s a dream, I don’t want to wake.

10

Ripley

I take a long drag of my cigarette as I stroll up to the front of The Old Chicago Inn, and flick the butt onto the gravel. The setting sun sits low in the sky, and if all goes well, I won’t have to set fire to the place or bash any skulls. I personally hate dramatic exits.

Ahead is the line of motel rooms, rented by the hour, and I smooth my glove over my hand, making sure every bit of my skin is covered by black leather. Place looks like any other joint on the Loop, with its neon lights and free cable, but to those who know about it, there’s a pretty seedy strip club on the lower level, called Bordellos. The kind of place where it’s not unusual to walk past strippers bouncing on some guy’s cock right out in the open.