Page 33 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“You don’t believe me?” I hate the thin sound of my voice, waning with his overbearing stare. “I didn’t tell anyone about Emily. I’m telling you the truth.”

“The truth is all over your fucking lap. Do you know how many people would kill to find her? To find me?”

I’ve no idea what the hell is so special about her and couldn’t begin to answer that question. His words stab me right in the chest, and I do my best to hold myself together, to keep from letting the dam break inside of me.

“Of course you do.” A mirthless smile dances across his face. “That’s why you’re here. It was you fucking me all along.”

A wave of dark anger runs through me. As much as I’ve tried to make this man trust me, care for me, to have him turn around and shit on me just pisses me off. “Fuck you. Did you ever think that it might be your former psychotic fuckbuddy?”

“Who the hell are you talking about?”

“Gina! She’s had women fired at the club for taking an interest in you. Did you know that? She’s insane.”

“How do you know about Gina?”

“She was at the club the night you took me there. She all but warned me to stay away from you. The others told me about her.”

He paces beside me and comes to a stop, long enough for me to see his snarled lip. “She’s never been here. She’s never met Emily. You’re the only one who’s followed me around.”

“I didn’t follow you. And are all men so freakin’ stupid? She’s obsessed with you, Ripley. A woman scorned will find out where you live. Particularly one who’s jealous and crazy.”

Jaw clenched, his nostrils flare, and I know he’s contemplating the possibility. I can see the conflict burning in his eyes. He steps back, and when I crawl toward him, he raises the gun again. “You stay put. If it’s Gina, I’ll find out.”

“You’re leaving me here? Did it ever occur to you that if someone’s out to kill you, they might kill me?”

“Someone you’re in cahoots with, no doubt.”

“Do you really not trust me right now? Ripley, are you serious?”

His eyes are cold and devoid of emotion. “Dead fucking serious. I trust no one. Least of all, the woman who broke into my house and stole from me.”

“I told you why I broke into your house!” I can feel the tears making their way into my voice, and I clear my throat, keeping my chin up with what little dignity I have left. I couldn’t give a shit if it was anyone else, but the way he’s looking at me, with accusation in his eyes, stabs me right in the gut. “Ripley, I swear to you, I didn’t do this. Please believe me. I’d never betray you like that.”

In two strides he’s beside the bed, and his hands are at my throat before I can so much as blink. “I act on instinct alone, Dylan. Anyone else, and you’d have a bullet in your head already.” He yanks me to a stand and drags me behind him. I don’t fight him, as much as I want to. As much as I want to kick and punch him for being so stupid and callous, I let him lead me out into the night.

12

Ripley

I sit outside of Gina’s condo, staring up at the windows where the lights have been left on in her bedroom. I’ve only been here once—a night I wish I could forget. She’d gotten shitfaced drunk at Spades, trying to come on to me, and Dorian insisted that I escort her home. At the time, just about every guy in the club had fucked Gina once or twice, except for me, and she pined hard to complete her collection of dick trophies. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bed a sloppy drunk—I’m too much of a narcissist for that, but the woman was relentless in her pursuit of me. So I did, thinking once she scratched me off her list, she’d give up.

Should’ve known better.

I’m hoping Dylan’s suspicions about Gina are right, because it kills me not to trust her. Having to look her in the eye and accuse her was the closest I’ve come to feeling remorse in a long time.

Betrayal is unforgivable in my world. No one lives to apologize for that shit and if Dylan is working with someone, trying to get to me, I don’t even want to think about what I’ll be forced to do.

Part of this is my fault, for taking on these Chicago jobs, keeping myself so close to my roots. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve taken the job in Mexico and left Emily alone. Left everything as it was.

“Wait here,” I say to Dylan and slide out of the car, strolling up to the condo. One knock and the door clicks open. Red flag number one. I tug my Glock from the holster inside my jacket and step inside, locked and ready to fire at the first thing that moves.

What most at the club would never guess about the woman, is that she’s just about the neatest freak I’ve ever known. Her living room is immaculate, with modern white couches, tucked against gray, gradient-painted walls, decorated with abstract art pieces, set against gleaming hardwood floors. I make my way toward the kitchen where the white tiles damn near glow and the white cabinets and counters give off a sterile feel.

So when I catch site of mud by the sink, red flag number two flies up.

Gun still at the ready, I make my way up the stairs to her bedroom. Padding down the hallway brings me standing in front of her door, and I nudge it open with my knee, letting the barrel of my Glock lead the way.

The sound of running water draws me through the empty bedroom toward the adjacent bathroom.