Page 3 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

My screams are captured, trapped in Winters’s palm while the scent of bleach tickles my brain with dizziness.

“We wouldn’t want his dirty touch all over you, would we, Dylan?”

“Stop!” Tears stream down my face, my body weak from fighting.

“Insolence won’t be tolerated.” Kestral holds the scouring brush in front of me, turning it where red stains the bristles. “Neither will tattling.”

3

Dylan

Present day …

I wipe the steam from the mirror with a towel and stare at my reflection. A soft glow clings to my cheeks, which have begun to fill out. I’ve not touched a pill in a week, and the color’s returned to my skin. The shadow of a junkie slips from behind my eyes with each passing day.

Ripley still hasn’t touched me since the night in his bed. I could beat myself up over the whys but what I’ve learned of the man is that everything he does serves a purpose. He’s methodical, calculating, and he likes to test me at every turn. So for now, I’ll assume he has his reasons and just remain grateful he hasn’t kicked me out yet.

For the first time, I feel clean. Really clean. He’s prepared meals that he’s left for me every day, healthy stuff, with so many fruits and vegetables I’ve never tried before, which isn’t saying much for a girl who grew up in a house where Fruit Loops were considered a daily serving. Chanel never cooked, and when she did, it typically came from a can or a box.

My body’s growing stronger. The urge is still there, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to pop a pill and feel good again, but I’m five weeks away from that cash so I’ve no intentions of screwing it up now.

I should hate Rip for who he is and what he does, that he’s willing to take advantage of me, but I don’t. Maybe that makes me a horrible person. The truth is, he’s transformed me in the last three weeks, and it’s beginning to show in the softer lines where the bones no longer protrude from my skin like a warning of death.

Once I get out of here, I’m going to see about a place to live. Maybe getting a job somewhere and finishing up my classes at school. I can still pursue math. It’ll be a tough road, but I’ve lived through worse, and at least something good waits for me this time.

“Five weeks and I can do what I want,” I whisper.

The scent of sandalwood and oranges penetrate my senses, and I glance down to see Rip’s cologne beside his other toiletries. I lift it to my nose, inhaling deeply, the scent pervading every corner of my mind. Like walking through an orange grove. Everything about him, even his cologne, makes him deliciously fuckable. Mouth watering, I lick my lips, spritz a bit on my T-shirt, and lift the fabric to my nose, as I make my way to the other side of the bathroom, where I stop in front of the plain white door, the adjoining entrance that leads to his bedroom.

The one he specifically forbade me to enter.

I tell myself it’s simply my rebellious nature that has me twisting the knob, but I know the truth. It’s curiosity. I want to know more about this man. A flip of the lights has me looking around his bedroom in confusion.

The walls are a simple gray, edged in white molding. Long gray drapes hang from the ceiling across from me, shielding out most of the light. The room holds nothing more than a mattress on the floor and piles of books stacked beside it, adjacent to a chair where a guitar sits propped in the corner.

No bed. No blankets. If not for the scent of him clinging to the air, I’d never know Ripley actually slept in here.

I’d expected to find the same opulence as the thick comforter that I’ve slept beneath every night, the satin sheets and plush pillows. I expected his room to be far more grandiose and rich with comfort, and instead, it lacks everything he’s made me believe about him.

My bedroom was something of a sanctuary when I lived with Chanel and Randy. The only place I could find solace in my day. As I look around, I don’t know what this is to him.

The room somehow feels like punishment.

I cross the hardwood where I kneel in front of the guitar, and pluck the strings, wondering if he plays at night. Surely I’d have heard it if he did. I push to my feet, abandoning my play to explore the small but intriguing space. Opening the closet to the left of me reveals rows of suits and shirts, perfectly pressed, most of which are black. Shelves smack in the middle of the suits hold folded jeans and four rows of shoes—all black—alongside a pair of Nikes. Weights for lifting sit on the floor below the clothes—everything perfectly in place.

At the top shelf, I catch the silver, square edges of an attaché. Pushing up to my tiptoes, my fingers only just graze the front of it—enough to grab the handle and pray it isn’t heavy enough to smack me in the face when I pull it down. Slowly, I slide it off the shelf and onto the floor. The buttons on either side of the tumbler locks fail to pop as I press into them, and I glance around the room, looking for something to unlock it. I’ve broken into a number of briefcases while my mom fucked businessmen in the next room, in the time it takes for a quickie. Patting around the shelves, my fingers glide over an object behind a pair of black dress shoes, and I pull out a pocketknife. My pocketknife, to be exact—the one he confiscated from me.

Flipping it open, I return to the case and wedge it beneath the locking mechanism, popping both at either side of the handle. Documents fill the inside—manila envelopes and folders, and at the top of the stack is a cellphone alongside a powered-down tablet.

My heart leaps at the sight of it. I’ve attempted to snag Ripley’s cell in the last week, but sneaking anything from the man is impossible and no way would he let me make a call without some suspicion. I’m guessing this is a burner, tucked away in a briefcase like this. I’m no expert at smartphones, have only touched one on a few occasions when Randy left his lying around, but I manage to find the Google app and pull up the number for Animal Control.

A rush of urgency washes over me as I dial the number with hasty fingers. The familiar voice of the clerk I’d talked to before answers.

“Hi, my name is Dylan. I was in there a couple weeks back, asking about my Dogo? She was picked up—”

“From the Conservatory, yes I remember you,” he cuts me off in the same snarky tone as the day I inquired about Charlie.

“I’m … out of town at the moment, but I’ll be returning soon to settle the fees.”