Page 5 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

Still damp from my shower, I unravel the towel from my hair, letting it fall to the hardwood floor, and crawl into his bed. I don’t know why, except some twisted, masochistic corner of my soul yearns to feel more of his pain. To slip beneath his skin and understand his enigmatic personality.

At the top of the stack beside me is a book by William Shakespeare, titled Titus Andronicus. I’ve not heard of that one. I lift it to see The Cask of Amontillado beneath. I know all books by Poe, and reading them always made me feel like less of a freak somehow. Wonder if that’s why Ripley reads them.

As simple as his room is, there’s a sadness that speaks to me. Loneliness. Isolation.

Ripley.

Falling back onto his mattress, I glance up at my naked reflection staring down at me. Above the bed is a mirrored ceiling, nothing more than about four squares that make up the length and width, encased in a coved ceiling with elaborate etchings at the border. I imagine him lying on this bed, in these sheets, with his scarred body reflecting down, and if I had to guess, the mirror isn’t a fantasy for him. It’s a truth. A punishment.

A reminder that he may take life as a god, but he sleeps as a man. Cold and vulnerable.

Holding Ripley’s T-shirt to my face, I let the musky sandalwood invade my mind and spread my thighs apart, staring at my healed skin against his gray sheet. Ripley’s scent overwhelms me as dark images play behind my shuttered eyes.

I want to touch his scars, to feel them beneath my fingertips that travel his hot skin. I want to dig my fingers into those broad shoulders that taper down to his muscled thighs, while his powerful body rocks into mine. I want to hear my name as a whisper from those lips.

That voice. His voice.

In the last week, my body has become wired to the sound—that deep, rich timber that penetrates my mind. He’s spoken so few words to me over the last week, and I’ve ached to hear it again.

I hate that the very thing that made my spine crawl is now a conditioned response for me, as if he intentionally made me this way. My heart pounds a little faster around him. I don’t want this feeling, this anticipation he ignites in me, but the things I hated him for in the beginning don’t even seem rational now.

That I could yearn for such a savage man like Ripley, tells me I’m far more fucked up than even I had originally thought. And in my transition from the pills, I’ve developed an insatiable craving—one that scares the shit out of me.

Closing my eyes, I imagine the metal cross in my room, the one that stands ominously off to the side. In my mind, I’m strung up like the night he tied me to the post, with his hungry eyes devouring my body. He pulls the knife, holding it against my throat.

The truth smacks me in the face as my fantasies take hold again and he brings me to climax with the cold steel scratching my skin—threatening to take my life as he breathes new life into me.

My belly tightens as the orgasm slams through my muscles, casting pulse after pulse of pleasure through my veins.

Tipping my head back, I let my fantasies of the man crash over me, and scream his name.

4

Ripley

My head is swimming as I climb the concrete stairs to the front door of the house. I’d met with Father James, who gave the green light to go after Marchetti if Dorian puts the hit on him. The girl’s father, the one who hired me, had offered double the amount to take him out, and though I’m certain Marchetti has no awareness that his people are operating behind his back, I’ll perform my job without much thought—get in, kill him, and get out.

That’s how the Agency works.

We don’t get a choice of whether or not we want to kill. We do it without question. To stay alive. The Agency ensures that we follow our objective or we become the hunted.

There are no second chances.

Every city has a contact, a liaison for the Agency, and Father James has been in this gig since the beginning. He’s the one who took me in and made me the cold and reprehensible bastard that I am today. It’s through the liaison that the Agency is contracted by some of the criminals in the city, like the Bertrands, and Father James has an entire book of ruthless contacts, so the man’s no saint.

I’ve already envisioned the confrontation with Marchetti who, without fail, will be dead within hours of my dispatch or I’ll be a hunted man.

I’ve interrogated Dorian’s most trusted men and come up empty for answers—not only for who sold the girl to Marchetti, but for who killed Lucien’s son, Adrian. Perhaps going after Marchetti will lead me to more concrete answers.

The sound of running water interrupts my thoughts as I enter the foyer. Strange having another human being inhabit my living space. I’ve rarely brought women back to my home as a general rule, but those who’ve entertained me, even most of the night, end up blindfolded and back where they came from before the next day.

Stalking down the hall, I find Dylan standing at the kitchen sink with her back to me, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, as she washes dishes in the sink. Beside her, the dishwasher stands useless to the small pile of plates stacked on a towel spread across the counter.

The sight of her is too much. All the tension from the night, with Father James and Marchetti, comes to a head and my body responds with a sudden urge to fuck her. It’s been nearly a week since she last popped those pills, and I’ve not so much as touched her in that time. I wanted her to get sober, see if she’d screw up again.

Now I just want her.

She doesn’t bother to turn around, as I set down a brown paper bag, a six-pack of beer, and keys onto the table, and keep on toward her. Years of trailing after prey have made me quiet as a goddamn church mouse when it comes to taking someone by surprise.